Gold and Glory

Chapter 1

Tadashi Yamashita waltzed into the El Rancho casino on a fine afternoon in the summer of '42. It was mid July, and the war had taken a lot from the men that sat in there with booze in their right hands and the rest of their "fortunes" in their left. One would think he was half mad walking into a place like this; hell, I thought he'd completely flipped his wig.

The men watched as he walked in, went up to the front desk, got his chips, and sat at the old slot machine in the corner. I knew something was going to happen. We had a building of men, drunk out of their senses, still hurt by the sacrifices of the ongoing war, and now along came fresh bait that was definitely going to be devoured. How on God's green Earth was the day going to carry on without a hitch? What was this man thinking?

The first challenger walked up behind Tadashi. He stumbled around a bit, getting out of his chair, and when he walked, he swayed to either side, taking a swig from his Hennessy every 2 steps. He finally reached him after what seemed like forever.

"Wha'right, 'ave you got coming in 'ere?"

The man had his hand on Tadashi's shoulder; it seemed like he wanted to simultaneously intimidate him and use him as an object to rest on. Tadashi stood, and the man took a few steps back, although it seemed like if he hadn't stepped back, he'd have tumbled and landed on his ass. Tadashi towered above the man, but he kept his head down, not to make eye contact with him but to show him respect.

"I understand you may not like me, but I am simply trying to enjoy my afternoon."

The rest of the men were riled up after this. How dare this man come in here, play our games, and now act like some type of victim? Who gave this man the balls? I wish I could say I was upset with him, but I knew I wasn't. Though I hadn't personally lost anything to the war, I knew people who did, and their loss felt very real to me, but who's to say this man knew anything about it? Hell, he could've been a displaced refugee, a traveller, or even just some random civilian. Tadashi had noticed the silence blend into disapproving grunts, and the men, who weren't already staring, all turned to watch the scene unfold.

"Enjoy yer af'ernoon," The man's voice had risen now, and it wasn't because of the booze anymore.

"Lis'en 'ere boy, I seen a whole lotta of yucks in my time, but you boy, you gotta the biggest fat head I ever saw."

Tadashi took a step back and bowed his head slightly. At the time, it hadn't occurred to me that he wouldn't challenge the old geezer; I definitely would've had something to say to him and his bald head. There wasn't much that Tadashi did say, though. He simply raised his head, and standing up straight, he scanned the room. I didn't know this at the time, but Tadashi had no intention of fighting this man. Of course, I had already begun to put my things together. God forbid a man of high standing such as myself be seen at a casino brawl. My father would have killed me.

"Sir,"

Tadashi began speaking, but he took a pause, as if to gather his thoughts. The drunken geezer he was addressing had to be straining his neck trying to look him in the eye.

"I understand how you must feel and I-"

"You don't understand nothing!"

The man fell to the floor after this, clearly too tired to remain intimidating. You wouldn't have heard it, but it was obvious he had broken down.

"Ma only son, ma lil' boy, he died on them godforsaken battle fields."

I remember this moment perfectly. I had never met a man with so much empathy and kindness. Tadashi sat on the floor next to him, crossing his legs, and listened to this man, his former adversary, tell his story.

"The damned gover'ment's been telling us to be proud of 'em, tellin' us they died heroes, but I couldn't give a rat's ass if he were a hero or not. I just want my boy back home."

The man had started crying now. The rest of the men in the hall had gone quiet; the anger over their losses had turned to pure sadness. Who's to say this young man hadn't experienced just as much sadness as the rest of them? While they were ready to grab their pitchforks the moment he walked in, he was ready to listen to their worries and their stories. It was as if, for the first time, they had all seen how beautiful a simple act of kindness was.

Tadashi didn't speak while the old man wept and told his tale between sobs. He sat there, quietly listening to each detail, like he had come in here wanting to hear that exact story.

"Y'know son, ma boy was about as tall as you are; damned casket cost me a fortune."

The man had stopped crying now, but his voice was still hoarse. Tadashi had scooted closer to him, and he had put down his bottle.

"Whadd'ya say you play a game of blackjack with me an' the guys over by table 28?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude-"

"Poppycock!"

The man turned to the men over at table 28, the table where I was sitting, my table 28.

"It wouldn't be no problem, right fellas?"

I watched as the men unanimously agreed to having him join our game; I really couldn't be against it. Don't get me wrong, I had nothing against this man, but I was afraid of another confrontation. As I stated earlier, my father would kill me.

Tadashi stood up, although the old man practically pulled him up, and was led by the now surprisingly steady man over to table 28. As they made their way over, I tried to think of an excuse to leave, but they'd sat down, and I was still sitting down as the cards were dealt. I know I said I was going to leave and that I wanted to avoid an incident, but one round of blackjack never hurt anybody; besides, I'd just take my winnings and be on my merry way. At least that's how I thought the game would play out.

We were 5 rounds in, and this man had won all 4 rounds before this one. Usually, I'd have congratulated him after the 3rd round, said my goodbyes, and left, but there was something about how nonchalant he was about winning and how he returned the chips to the players because he was playing for the fun of it. It was all so intriguing. He won the fifth round, and by now the rest of the men wanted to leave with their dignity. Mr. Drunk-and-Crying from earlier never actually gave us his name before he left. He said he'd had his fill and got up to leave after the second round, but it wasn't true. I knew that it was because, after Tadashi's second win, he'd cried out,

"That's my Georgie, alright!"

Tadashi knew as well, but he said nothing about it; he didn't even flinch.

It was just us two left at good ol' table 28, and courtesy demands a conversation in this situation, so I introduced myself, not because I actually wanted to get to know him; I just wanted to be courteous.

"I didn't quite catch your name earlier, old sport."

Old sport? Who still says "old sport"? God, Jonah, you're so stupid.

"My name's Tadashi, and yours?"

"Jonah,"

I blurted it out too quickly. I was too excited, and now the moment has passed, and he definitely thought I was insane.

"But, you know, my friends call me Joe."

He smiled so quickly and so softly that I could've missed it if I wasn't staring so intently at him.

"Pleasure to meet you, Jonah."

"Please, call me Joe."

"So we're friends now."

This was usually a question, but something about the way he said it felt like a statement-like right then and there, in that present moment, Tadashi and I were friends.