Like a disease she had, Tommi caught all of owner Sheftel’s negative moodiness. Her cure: not hard liquor, but the cook’s famed pineapple upside down cake. Well, yes she admitted, the dessert was heavily laced with rum.
Here in the restaurant she looked up to see before her the amateur naval historian Jimmy Michener. In his hand he held a well filled notepad with scrap paper insertions, folded tabs and pencil scratchings. Tommi, seeing a man who could not be blamed for anything, cut him slack and voiced civility as a guest might deserve.
“Seems like now you have the makings of several good stories.” She usurped his opening line of inquiry, having watched him work the Red Tiki, squeezing out morsels of war stories. She actually admired talent. He was good at his work like an inquisitive Westbrook Pegler, the columnist, or a fact-digging Walter Winchell. Tommi nevertheless had been keeping her distance. Let the man write his war stories, just keep her out of them.
“I did not realize,” said Michener, casting his eyes to take in his surroundings, “that the Red Tiki Lounge was the fount of human experiences. I’m on my second notepad.”
Tommi agreed with her own insight. “What the Red Tiki is, after one absorbs a few drinks, is a confessional.” She swung her arm around the room, taking in the early evening’s patrons: the boisterous and the serious, the morose slobbery and the off -key vocalists, peanut shell shuckers, and even a few men receiving silent pats on backs, acknowledged the smiles of their new made friends, for they sat coping with new realities, using crutches in place of a missing leg, or with their only arm hoisting their always filled glass.
“This place, a confessional,” Michener mused. “Yes, I see that.”
She could see that as the recording observer, Michener allowed the hazy and raucous bar scene to burn into his mind, filing it away for future use.
Tommi enlarged on her own interpretation of what she saw.
“All these soldier and navy boys are heading home, to a world that has changed. They want to unload their worst memories, the bloody battles they survived, or embellish their service record if their tour of duty was boring. They don’t want to take back their horror, or their mortal insignificance to their loved ones. They want to find the courage or the lie to face a home front that might not fully appreciate them. From their perspective, they saved the world…what do they say, ‘Saved the World for Democracy’. The Red Tiki here is a temple for absolving sins, cleansing and uplifting spirits.”
“Very profound, Miss Chen. In talking to your Commander Hopewell, it seems like he came out of his foxhole still an agnostic, still dealing with his demons.” He gave her a gentle look.
She recalled the source of her muted anger. “He is not my Commander, but yes, there are some here who have not yet found salvation. Some who might never recover from their own personal hell.” Tommi began to think of Hunter Hopewell and his demons, even those she had helped to create.
Michener saw her contemplation, serious introspection caught unaware. He pounced.
“And how do you, Miss Chen, fit into this irreligious tabernacle? What is your war story? What circumstances of fate brought you to the Red Tiki that I might jot down? Even a sanitized version, or a lie that from your lips I am certain would be entertaining.”
Her guard went up instantly, behind a forced demure glance.
If only I did enter the confessional, she wondered, would it absolve my desire for revenge? No, I am not ready to dole out sacramental forgiveness.
Still, she laughed.
“Officer Jim, I am but a simple bookkeeper. My company does the books for the Red Tiki Lounge. Mr. Sheftel is grateful that I can balance his books and he most often listens to my business suggestions, and, to my benefit, occasionally the Lounge comps me a drink or as you see, dinner on the house. I am here to help,sometimes, if it suits me to smile and accept a drink from a lonely serviceman. But that’s seldom. Business is my focus, it’s my survival.”
“That could be a human interest story. Local makes good.”
“You should stay here longer and meet more of the Hawaiian people. Listen to the tales of their proud history. They deserve someone to tell their story. This war caused many Hawaiians to suffer as much as on your battlefields. I am unimportant.”
“Why do I get the feeling the high priestess of the Red Tiki is sitting next to me, very attractive I might add, but nevertheless the true proselytizer for this congregation.”
This time she gave no response to his comment but eased him on to talk about himself, his future plans, his dreams. He began an enthusiastic monologue. She was an adept listener. For the last five years of a World War in the Pacific, playing the quiet, barely noticed and seemingly helpless young woman gave her many opportunities, most taken advantage of, to the benefit of her pocket book, or better said, to her many bank accounts.
If only this Navy person, Jimmy Michener, heading stateside for processing out of the service, his head stuffed with war stories, if he only knew the truth behind this seemingly diminutive owner of J. Chen Bookkeeping Services, he could have written a best-seller.