Cullin Mitch - The Post-War Dream

Even as Hollis loitered by the front entrance of the Greyhound depot the sidewalk was beginning to brighten around him. On the other side of the street an angle of golden light suddenly sliced against a brownstone and voided the blinking green neon of a motel sign. Down the sidewalk ahead of him the shapes of taller buildings loomed in places where just moments before black space had been visible. But there were no other people to be seen, although he had unconsciously expected the downtown section of Oakland to be active. Nonetheless, a blue sky would soon awaken the city, and, as well, he didn't feel inclined to sit alone inside the depot for two hours until his bus departed. Yet he was unfamiliar with the downtown, unsure of how exactly to kill the meantime; however, his restless state of mind wouldn't let him stand there for too long. He scanned the buildings across the street for somewhere to go, but now that he was at last a free man nothing readily presented itself to him; the stores were still closed, the sidewalks remained deserted.

Then for the first time in months, Hollis began walking without direction or purpose, the cane tapping beside him as he limped on. All at once two trucks and a cab and a bus came rumbling past on the street, but along the sidewalk — where the darkness was rising inch by inch — no one else moved except himself. His shoes were glossy with a coat of polish and in the quiet morning he could hear his soles squeaking against the pavement. He kept walking — crossing a street, turning a corner, crossing another street — as if attempting to escape the sound of his own footsteps, and at one point a vivid sensation of having previously wandered those downtown Oakland sidewalks came to him: not as a memory of a similar experience, but, rather, it was that very same moment in time being somehow revisited by him now. Naturally, he understood that he had never before walked there; yet, for a while, the heightened paramnesia pressed at his consciousness, and he found himself recalling that morning with a kind of hindsight even as it was still unfolding around him.

But only with the actual hindsight of forty-nine years would Hollis decide it was pure chance and not a form of pre-destiny which had sent him in the right direction — taking him several blocks away from the Greyhound depot, off the main thoroughfare and into a narrow alley-like avenue, bringing him to the massive driftwood-made entry of the Zombie Cantina. Even at that early hour an open for business placard had been hung crookedly on the cantina's door near a large wooden effigy of an Easter Island deity; ukulele music could be heard playing inside, enticing him to step gingerly beyond the entrance — and then standing just inside the murky doorway, letting his eyes adjust before limping forward, he saw a tropical oasis faded in through the opaqueness. Exotic orchids covered the ceiling rafters, drooping directly above a red-carpeted path lined on either side by small palm trees, marantas, calatheas, and dozens of colorful anthuriums.

Drawn toward the music, Hollis followed the winding red carpet, passing themed dining sections — Malayan, South Seas, African — and yet encountered no one until reaching the grog bar at the end of the path. A Seeburg jukebox pulsated against a wall of bamboo, and stacking glasses behind a bar decorated with miniature Japanese fishing boats, carved wooden tribal masks, native spears and shields was a tall, thin elderly man sporting a gray handlebar mustache, wearing a Panama hat and a white duck suit, looking more befitting to a yacht than a cocktail lounge; his nimble fingers were in constant motion — straightening various bottles of rum so that the labels showed, wiping the counter at the same time — seemingly oblivious to the only patron in the establishment, but finally speaking when Hollis took a seat at the bar, saying with his back turned, “Can't serve you anything good until six, unless you're wanting java or a cup of water. If it's something stronger, you'll have to wait about ten minutes. So what'll it be then?”

“Not sure,” Hollis said, setting the cane on an adjacent stool. “What do you recommend?”

The old man dropped from sight, stooping below the bar. “I'll tell you in ten minutes,” he said, his voice mingling with the clanking of silverware. “Sit tight.”

At six o'clock sharp the cocktails began to materialize as if borne of liquid alchemy, strange and beautiful concoctions Hollis had never previously tasted, one coming right after the other — measured, shaken, poured, and conjured by the cordial barkeeper — landing in front of him in tiki-shaped glasses, garnished with tiny blue or orange Japanese parasols, presented to him with names as unique as the drinks themselves: Pagan Love, South Sea Cooler, Planter's Punch, Dead Man's Delight. Once the alcohol had kicked in, making Hollis more effusive than he had been in ages, it was another name which rolled proudly out of the old man's mouth, revealing himself to be Skipper Ken, the Zombie Cantina's owner, explaining, too, that he was also a foremost authority on rum drinks and had visited practically all the islands of the West Indies. Everything which adorned the bar, he told Hollis, had been collected on his many travels — except, of course, the jukebox and much of the furniture.

“It's a pleasure to meet you, Skipper Ken,” Hollis said, reaching over the bar to grasp the old man's hand.

“The pleasure is mine, son. Now, what should you try next?” Skipper Ken pivoted, facing the shelves of backlit bottles, hands placed on hips while contemplating the next selection. “Let's see — ”

One day, Hollis thought, I'll have me a joint like this — make my own little private cantina somewhere, won't leave it for a minute. One day I'll be Captain Hollis, old and dignified and happy, sailing my very own landlocked ship.

“I'm figuring a Hunchback's Nipple might do the trick. Or maybe a Rusty Hook is what you're needing.”

And soon the final round was poured, and, shortly thereafter, Hollis managed to find his way back to the depot, pouring himself onto a Greyhound bus bound for Minnesota. But he wouldn't remember exiting the Zombie Cantina that morning — forgetting the cane at the bar, staggering along sidewalks which had gained foot traffic since dawn — nor would he recall buying a ticket or taking up two seats as he slumbered for hours on a Silversides coach. Well before noon he was snoring gently with the vibrations of the bus, consumed by a liberating sleep which carried him from the West Coast and far across the desert. Outside the flat midday light dimmed to darker hues, and in the distance storm clouds canvassed mesas, producing sheets of black rain which appeared like vertical streaks of lead rubbed upon paper.

Debra sat in silence, keeping perfectly still while Hollis talked. It was the first she had heard of the Zombie Cantina, although the story didn't surprise her. In the past, he had mentioned his intense need to get drunk after being discharged, yet he mostly avoided the specifics, hardly addressing the consequences of his brief drinking spree even when she had asked him to elaborate. He had, in fact, always shrugged off the alcohol abuse as simply a transitional bump on the return road to civilian life, a fleeting misstep of his youth which wasn't worth dissection. But sitting there beside her at the kitchen table, his voice trembled as he spoke of those days, recounting what she already knew while, without actually elaborating, also shedding some light on the confusion and lack of understanding he maintained for the actions of his younger incarnation; then that which he had always told her was trivial or no longer relevant began, instead, hinting at a man who couldn't help but look back on his life with apprehension, often discovering a stranger occupying the pockets of his memory where fragments of his previous self should have resided.