The Bittersweet Taste of Retsina

So this god walks into a bar…

I opened the door to the barroom and the sunlight kicked into the dimly lit room like a bill collector on the rampage.

“Is that you Helios?”

“Hermes, actually,” I replied to the burly figure sitting in the shadow squinting into the sunlight.

It was Hercules, of course.

I’d been looking for him for a while.

“Give me a moment,” he grunted, still squinting.

He was arm-wrestling with a pair of sturdy peasants, pitting one of them against his left arm and the other against his right.

They didn’t stand a chance.

Hercules snapped their arms like a pair of sun-brittle chicken wings.

“Another bottle of wine,” he called out to the bartender. “And you, messenger boy, close that damn door. The sun is in my eyes.”

I wasn’t offended by his rude manner. Hercules was always a little gruff, especially when he’d been drinking. Besides, I was a messenger. Not like that guy you see delivering flowers, and not like that other fellow delivering Valentines Day cards. I was more like the fellow that Don Corleone would send to deliver an offer that could not be refused.

I was the hatchet-man.

“You might want to enjoy the sunlight, Hercules, while you’re able to,” I replied. “There won’t be much in the way of sunshine where you’re going to be going.”

My name, like I mentioned, is Hermes.

Some folks call me Mercury, depending upon which side of the Adriatic you are standing on.

“You figure you can take me?” Hercules asked.

I wasn’t all that sure, to be honest.

Hercules was powerful. They still make movies, comic books, and stories about his deeds, which is partly where he gets his piss and vinegar from.

You see, that’s how gods work. We live so long as our stories are told. The only problem is most of our stories are told in Old Greek, which doesn’t offer the average god much in the way of a fan base.

Hercules was the exception.

“So you’re still working for the guy below?”

He meant Hades, the God of the Underworld.

I nodded.

“You know that Neil deGrasse Tyson said that Pluto wasn’t even a planet anymore, don’t you?”

Pluto was Hades second name. Folks used to call him Hades, but then he decided to name his realm Hades and folks kept confused over whether they were talking about Hades the god, or Hades the realm — so they came up with Pluto.

Me, I’m a traditionalist.

He’s still Hades in my book.

“Neil deGrasse Tyson is full of shit,” I replied.

“I thought Pluto was a dog.” Hercules shot back.

Our conversation was interrupted as the bartender showed up with a bottle of cheap plonk, and a pair of wine glasses.

“I didn’t ask for two glasses,” Hercules said.

“Thank you very much,” I interrupted, dropping a few silver drachma into the bartender’s palm.

Hercules snorted derisively.

“Do you want to know how much you just gave him?”

“Do you want to know how much I care?” I replied.

Hercules smiled, filled both glasses and handed it to me.

We drank.

“The best thing I can say about this crap is that it’s wet,” I said.

“Do you miss retsina as much as I do?” Hercules asked.

“They still sell retsina,” I said.

“They might call it retsina, but it doesn’t taste the same anymore.”

“I don’t know about that,” I said. “I always remember the damn stuff tasted like somebody had dropped a Christmas tree into the blender and hit frappe.”

“Ha-ha.” Hercules said. “No, it used to fill you. It used to leave you feel strong and cleansed. Now it just tastes bitter.”

“Now you’re just trying to change the subject,” I said. “You broke out of the Underworld. Now you have to go back.”

“That happened over five hundred years ago,” he pointed out.

I shrugged.

“Time flies when you’re having fun.”

“What about the other ones who escaped?” Hercules asked. “There must have been at least a thousand of them.”

I smiled coldly.

“There were exactly 5368 missing souls,” I said. “I’ve got them all back where they belong. You’re the last one left.”

“Lucky me,” he said. “But I’m still not going.”

“But you have to go.”

“I’m a god, remember? I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to.”

“I am a god too,” I reminded him. “I am the soul guide, the psychopomp, the one who holds for their Death. You have overstayed your time. I am here to help you cross over the River Styx.”

“Styx sucks,” he said. “I was always more of a Beatles man, myself.”

I reached into the pocket of my suit jacket.

“What?” he asked. “Are you going to pull a gun on me now?”

Only I wasn’t a gun that I was reaching for.

I drew out a bottle of retsina and set the bottle down upon the table.

“It is the good stuff,” I said. “I have saved you a bottle.”

I looked up towards the bar.

“Bartender,” I said. “Parakaló.”

For those who do not speak the language, parakaló is Greek for please.

He understood and brought us two clean glasses.

I poured while Hercules sat and watched in silence.

I raised my glass.

“To memory,” I said.

“To memory,” he replied, nodding his sadly.

I tilted my glass back completely.

When I lowered it again to the table he was gone.

I had sent him home, in the instant that it took to drain that single glass.

I hoped he would understand.

He refilled the glass slowly.

I took another sip.

Bittersweet…

With thanks to Zane Dickens and the latest writing prompt at Microcosm.