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Speakeasy

Kaleb Mantela

__________

Half past nine, the sun has already set on the gridded streets of downtown San Diego. The ASA
Bakery is nestled within one of those five over one gentrification style complexes. On the other
corner, a derelict parking lot, and the tents of a few drug addicts. Adjacent is another
gentrification block in the process of construction next to a boarded-up warehouse.

The commotion of the streets is enough for a Saturday night. The bakery supports a little jazz
band that mellows out the setting. I walk inside to a gaggle of people surrounding the music. No
one is there for coffee.

A wooden paneled wall with pictures of people, events, and animals covers the far end of the
bakery. I press a handicap access panel welded into the wall. A few seconds pass. The camera
situated above my head reflects my face as I glance upwards.

The wooden wall swings open. A heavily pierced and tattooed concierge mans the desk. Her
black suit covers most of her alternative lifestyle.

“Reservation?” She whispers without looking up.

“Kaleb.”

She smiles, “Welcome. Johnson is waiting at the bar.” The curtains are pulled back. The theme is
dark wooden furnishings and vaulted ceilings with a Japanese twist. Tailored patrons sit in
groups of two around warm lights beneath circular tables. They all chat within worlds of their
own.

“Kaleb!” A portly man about five four steps out from the bar. He’s wearing a Mexican soccer
jersey, cargo shorts, a baseball cap, and crocs.

That night, I switched into a baggy UCLA shirt, accented with light baggy blue jeans and
comfortable white sneakers. No jewelry — didn’t want to try too hard. The style was meant to
emulate a young and casual New Yorker who just happened to throw something on and
happened to look good. It was all intentional.

“What’s up man!” I pull him in for a hug. I didn’t know Johnson until earlier today. An older
friend from Japan stopped by San Diego, and that’s how we met. We are both in the fraternity of
war.

Military service is a binding pact across all races and creeds. Normal doesn’t exist. An
overarching goal or problem takes precedence over perceived reality. It is within this gray reality
where military aged men and women exist.

The gray reality is a soup of terrible experiences that we all must wade through. Some pride
themselves on the amount of time they spend in this sludge, thinking others less than for their
non-tolerance. I’ve seen men barricade themselves with knives, genuinely lost in this madness. I
disagree with those who make a habit of living in the sludge.

Judge Holden would say, “War was always here. Before man was, war waited for him. The
ultimate trade awaiting its ultimate practitioner.”

I am a practitioner of war. Johnson, a mechanic, is less so. The Judge relishes the gray reality.
Normal, decent men and women step out of it. Still the gray binds us into a mutual understanding
of shared experiences; Johnson and I were no different.

I pull up a stool. The bar is generally crowded, but quiet enough for me and Johnson to speak at a
level tone.

“What’s going on with Garcia?” I asked. Garcia being the friend who visited San Diego.

“He went home early,” Johnson replied in a light, raspy voice.

“What the hell happened?”

He shrugs, “I don’t know!”

I retort, “It’s that woman that broke up with him. The dude showed me his phone. He still carries
a list of all the things she liked, icked out on, everything. It impressed me, but that’s not good.
She left him a year ago.”

Johnson gives me a look. Garcia also ballooned thirty pounds.

“As my Staff Sergeant would say, shake and bake. Move on to the next one!” We both chuckle
as the joke lands correctly.

I rub my ear, “That might be tough since Garcia’s banned from two dating apps.”

Johnson rolls his eyes, “I didn’t even know that. But that makes sense for him.” He pinches two
fingers in front of my eyes, “I was this close from letting him disappear from my life. All he
complains about is his nine to five. How has the world changed. Getting out of the rat race. He
doesn’t even reach out anymore.”

He holds his hands out, “Garcia makes six figures and works from home. You think moving to
Thailand will make him any happier?” Johnson asks.

“No.” I give him an honest reply. “Demons follow you no matter where you go.” Johnson stares
at me with curious eyes. He doesn’t know what to do with it.

I chuckle, “Going to swinger parties doesn’t strike me as healthy behavior either!” I throw a
smile.

Johnson gives me a strange look, “Yeah… Garcia’s got demons for sure.”

The conversation goes silent. I nervously look around the room as Johnson peers down to the
cocktail menu. I can’t get a good read on him, so I do the same. The bartender swings around.
He’s clean cut with large spectacles and a neck tattoo that drapes under his shirt.

“Good evening, Johnson. Same as usual?”

“Absolutely.” He grins.

The bartender looks at me. “For you, sir?”

I quickly flip through the pamphlet. All modestly priced, some I know won’t be worth my money
because they taste like cough syrup. I pick a colorful one.

“The uh, Tokyo Banna please?”

“Pussy.” Johnson taunts with a nudge from his elbow. I glare at him.

The bartender goes to work, and within minutes he brings them out. Johnson offers me a taste.
The cheese on the mini skewer smells like shit. I hate hard liquor.

I took a sip and coughed, “I like it! I’ll order it next time!”

“Right! It’s great stuff!”

Johnson pulls out his phone, “Look at that.” It’s a photo of a demure Japanese girl smiling from
ear to ear. Johnson sits next to her, hand around her shoulder in the very same Mexican jersey
and baseball cap. They’re wedged in some dive bar amid a crowd.

“Wow. That’s your girl?” I ask.

He puts his phone away, “Not really…”

Here it comes.

“We met at the SG club in Shibuya. Me and Garcia used to run that place.”

I am always appreciative of how people trust me with this information, but I can’t help but let
my mind wander. This habit harkens back to listening to my father, then regurgitating whatever
he wanted to hear back at him. His favorite topic was his ex-wife.

“…but my pop’ told me otherwise. He said you had your time. Thank the lady, and if it was
meant to be you would still be together…”

I feign a smile. What a weird concept.

“It’s nice that you still talk to your dad.” I comment.

Johnson nods and trudges onward with his explanation. My mind regresses.

I want to remember my father for all the times he took his family camping. How he taught his
children the value of nature. The way he showed me patience and care for animals.

Alas, he took serious responsibilities at an age too young. Applied a template passed down for
generations. It failed him, so the world suddenly closed in when my mother filed for divorce. He
would be alone expect every other weekend. Bubbling in a cesspool of his own thoughts, he
would spew a reality of his own choosing; down the impressionable gullets of his children. And
for whatever reason, he saw a weakness in me that he loathed.

“… I still think about her. A lot. She was the one for me. I saw her, and I knew we had to meet…”

“Uh huh.” I reply.

I take a sip of my cocktail. It’s a strong and smooth sensation that makes my head feel light. It’s
the same sensation my father felt every time he drove us back to my mother’s house. As a matter
of fact, when we passed a Navy billboard on the highway, it was my father who suggested I join
the military, not me.

“…she spoke great English, great English! But it wasn’t because she got around a lot, which is
usually how girls in Japan learn quickly…”

“Yeah absolutely.” I remember when I got that big yellow packet of orders stamped for Japan.
Fresh from training, I took leave back home to say goodbye. That was the last time I spoke to
him.

I sat on the couch across from my father. He liked to rest his Coors Light on his gut. The finished
ones would be stacked into organized mountains in the basement for returns. His breath always
stunk of something sour. In his usual stupor he admitted, “You’re doing all the things I should
have done when I was your age. I never wanted to get married or have kids.”

With a puffy finger, he pointed to his chest. Tears welling around his eyes, “I wanted to join the
Army, but my father never let me. He said I had to be closer to God’s country.” He almost
looked disappointed, until he glanced at me with prideful yellow stained teeth, “Now you get to
do that for me.” He extended his arms out like he applied a warm hug, “I am going to live
vicariously through you.”

I sat silently and nodded my head. It was weird that he elevated me to the position of prodigal
son, when not so many years ago I was the child he described as, “The one I worry about the
most.”

My father’s favorite saying growing up was, “I’m going to hit you so hard you won’t be able to
think for a week.”

I blink slowly and fade back into Johnson’s monologue.

“… I saw her working as a bartender. She was so sweet how she’d serve up those drinks. I asked
for her name and she said Hina…”

I return to my thoughts.

One day my father brought home the last of his belongings from my mother’s house. My siblings
instinctually went hiding as he dragged in a rare non-alcoholic induced type of rage.

He rambled on about not having help; his sons not being raised right and growing up to be
pathetic. I still couldn’t understand what he was exactly upset about, but I did know he was mad
at me.

He stood at the top of the stairs and pointed to the floor like he was guiding a dog. He at least let
me know he was going to hit me as hard as he could when I got up there. Of course, as a twelve-
year-old I was terrified. Eventually I worked up the courage to walk up those stairs and face his
wrath.

The full force of his open palm on my head made my ears ring, and I stumbled down the railing
because my vision blurred. Thankfully, I only had to endure another blow, equally as hard, this
time knocking me to the ground, to which he called me a pussy for doing so. Then I was allowed
to do chores while my father medicated himself.

That same day as I washed dishes, he sauntered over to my station. His breath was already
wrought with alcohol. My body stiffened as I braced myself. Instead, he whispered, “If you won’t
love me, you will fear me.”

“… I loved Hina wholeheartedly. Our relationship wasn’t good for her.” Johnson shook his head,
“She deserved to be free, and my pops’ was right. I wouldn’t know what kind of person I would
be if my pops’ wasn’t in my life.”

I realize Johnson is still on the topic of his dad’s advice. At this moment in the conversation
formula, I am supposed to reply with a story of my own that either relates to the topic or changes
it.

I look at him and say the first thing that comes to my mind, “I wish my dad was dead.”
Johnson laughs at first and then goes silent from judging my face. The corner of his mouth is
slightly agape, and his brow turns to concern.

“Maybe I don’t.” I shrug. My eyes go distant, “Did you know he convinced me that my mom
was a prostitute? He laughed when I admitted that to him.”

I take a deep breath, “He is washing his heart medication down with alcohol as we speak. When
he dies, I’m not flying back to Michigan.” I take a sip of my cocktail, “I had enough of that
dude.”

Johnson and I sit there in silence. Time moves slowly. Silence isn’t what I think about.
Sentiments of fear and loathing begin to bubble up. Inadequacy baked into me from a young age
crawls in my head. I throw back the rest of my cocktail. With my gaunt eyes, I stare at an
unfathomable hole as deep and terrifying as an abyssal trench.

Johnson pats me on the back. “My mother habitually cheated on my dad. She never hung around
either. And guess what?”

“What?” I crack a smile.

“Good fucking riddance.”

I let out a deep laugh that takes me back to the present. The patrons around us glance over their
shoulders. For all my pseudo-therapy sessions and people pleasing behavior, I can never explain
why my father was so debilitated in his self-anguish.

Neither can I explain the unspoken magnetism between haunted people. Two negatives don’t
make a right, but in this speakeasy with kindred spirits, my soul discovers a kernel of sanity.

__________

Kaleb Mantela is a San Diego-based freelance writer who focuses on transportation and community issues across the United States.

__________

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