An old friend, a few hours south and I made the drive that day. The dirt roads near the end were muddied from a thousand sprinklers. The drive uphill was bumpy and uncomfortable; my back is too aged to handle that. I was already pissed when I arrived. I took a moment to relax and noticed the garden - it was beautiful. Once I'd recovered I walked up to the door. I knocked. I noticed the driveway. It was clear, washed recently. The garden and the lawn were recently cut, and smelled like early morning. It was pleasant. Hearing nothing, I knocked again and glanced at the bushes.
The door opened suddenly and loudly. He looked dishevelled: his clothes were dirty. I could tell he'd worn them to sleep, if he'd slept at all. His hair was messy, and a smell hit me when the door swung. He smiled and waved me in, stumbling to a living room chair, imprinted like he'd been there for days. He grunted at me to sit. I followed his order and sat in the chair across from him over a beer stained table covered in knocked over cans. I couldn't make out much of the kitchen from my view, but I could tell you that it was covered in bags and old takeaway. I guess there must have been bugs. I don't like bugs. I didn't go close to it. I was amazed how much of a shithole he lived in. He was one of the most impressive people I ever knew.
I almost asked him directly, but he shot first- "How's work?" He asked innocently, rehearsed, slurring his speech. I was again amazed. We hadn't spoken for almost a decade now. I'd known him much younger. We and a few other guys used to go down to the pub and drink every Sunday. He hated the food and drinks there, but never once complained; after all, cheap beer is cheap beer. He was the perfect guest. He always tipped well, and he dressed much nicer than anyone else would have. He was always clean shaven and well groomed. He always could tell you exactly what you wanted to hear. He asked me if anything was wrong and chuckled. Still smiling, he sipped his beer. It was a craft beer - he'd always loved them. I told him that work was fine and that the guys missed him. "You should come back sometime... maybe when you don't look like shit" I jabbed. He snickered, insisting he was fine.
I asked about his wife. It had been a long time since I'd seen her. It was last at my sister's funeral. They hadn't met, but as she stood by the open casket I felt peace. I felt the air thin around the two of them. It was a dimly lit graveyard. Not unlike where we'd lived. My sister spent her whole life for me. When I was too young, I took mine for granted. I was always out, spending or stealing money she brought home. I could tell she saw. But she never said a word. She liked it when I was happy. Later on she'd meet some guy I never got to know and he'd kill her. Drunk, and dirty. I only remember seeing it through the window. The police caught him quickly. Now he's doing life, I think. The only other memory I have of his wife was the beautiful birthday basket she'd prepared for my sister a few months after the funeral. It broke me.
(pause)
He asked if I was okay, and I hesitated to say yes. He called his wife sensitive. That sent me off. He took a sip of his beer. Then he smiled. He opened his mouth to speak, and instinctively, I stood, smacking the can out of his hand. As it poured out, we stared at each other. He was somewhere between confused and intoxicated and I gave him my goodbye. "Go to hell, you bastard." And walked out the door.