March 1, 1941

Two hundred and eighty-two days before the attack.

First Impressions

Colin Stratford POV

I had sat down at the local bar in downtown Honolulu with my grandfather's old suitcase next to the barstool, when I noticed the clock. Thirty-two minutes past four. Not bad, I thought. I have a lot of time till I have to head to the base. This wasn't my first rodeo with first jobs, in fact moving and changing location was something I had gotten used to. The only thing that remained a constant was my girlfriend, my love of liquor, and this old suitcase that followed me throughout constant moving. I had worked at multiple military bases before Pearl Harbor, but every new job came with new people, new coworkers, and of course, a new roommate. I wasn't the best at first impressions, nor was I someone to look up to if my new roommate was a first-time stationed sailor looking for advice from an experienced sailor.

I looked around me at the people at the bar. It wasn't too surprising to see only a handful of people here; not many people went out drinking at this time of day. To my left, sat a young man and his girlfriend, and on my right sat a few old geezers chatting about the old days with raspy voices. The bartender, who looked in his fifties, was cleaning some dishes with a dishcloth in one hand when he slowly walked towards me.

"May I help you, sir?" he asked politely, setting the glass down next to the sink.

I shook my head and replied, "I'm not ready yet".

He nodded in reply and went back to drying the dishes. Of course I could order the usual, but I didn't want to rush into drinking. Couldn't afford to be drunk on the first day at the new shipyard. As I debated on whether or not to have a drink, a young man walked in hastily with his suitcase, looking frantic; not something you'd see everyday in a bar. He immediately struck me as bad business. He sat a chair away from me, which seemed strange considering the entire open row of seats at the counter. He looked no older than twenty, but he looked as out of breath as the old geezers across the room hacking through the smoke of their cancer sticks.

He glanced at the clock hanging from the wall next to the cabinets and then pulled a slip of paper from his pocket. I pretended not to stare as he glanced back and forth between the clock and the paper. He narrowed his eyes like he couldn't read it correctly. He crammed the paper back in his coat pocket and turned towards me.

"Um...excuse me, do you know what time it is?"

I stared at him with an incredulous stare, and he continued.

"I don't really know how to read that kind-of clock," he said nervously.

I had a hard time believing that, considering that they should have taught them that at school, but seeing as he played with his hands nervously, I complied.

"Four thirty-seven."

"Thanks," he sighed in relief. "Sorry about that."

"Yeah," I shrugged it off and motioned to the bartender. He walked over, and I placed my order. In a flash he whipped out the bottle of rum and citrus juice from behind the counter. I noticed that the man eyed the bartender making the drink but looked away when the bartender gave him a stern glare.

I felt a tug at my sleeve. "Um, sorry to bother you again. What kind of drink do you recommend?"

I looked at him skeptically again. Is this his first time at a bar? Has he never drunk before? He did look quite young. Underage, maybe? "Um, it depends," I replied truthfully. I didn't want to start chatting with the youngster, but he seemed really keen on an answer. "There are cocktails, and then there is the real stuff. Like rum and vodka."

"Okay," he replied as the bartender set my drink down. He stared at it for a while, as if studying the content of the thing. "But what do you prefer?"

He seemed very persistent which kind-of irked me, but I didn't want to start a fight here. It would look bad on me if the cop cars showed up. Getting myself into trouble was how I transferred from shipyard to shipyard. "Well, this here's a cocktail. Where I'm from it's called a Hurricane. Pretty popular where I'm from. It's not fully rum, so it isn't as strong."

"What's in it?" he questioned and it took me everything I had not to slug him there.

"Rum. And some fruit juices." I said, taking a sip from the glass. I stared at the rim of the cup to distract myself. The cold drink tasting sweet downs my parched throat.

"Oh," he replied and then waved over to the bartender. "I'll take an Old Fashioned." I stared at my drink and wondered why he had even asked.

Figuring I'd probably never see him ever again, I took it upon myself to ask. "What made you decide on that drink?"

He glanced at me for a second with distant eyes and blinked a few times, seemingly lost in thought. "Excuse me?"

I frowned, taking another sip. "I asked why you ordered that drink." He was acting strange, considering he was so frantic just a few minutes ago. Now he seemed so laid-back, calm if you will. I just hoped he wasn't going to stay long. I didn't know how long I could take his strange behavior.

"Oh," he replied. He placed his forearm on the table and leaned over. "My uncle loved it. I decided to see what was so grand about it."

I shrugged it off again and looked at the clock again. Four forty-three. I took another gulp of the drink and watched through the glass as the old man placed the man's drink next to me. "Thanks, sir" he stopped short when both men seemed to recognize each other. The young male seemed to shrink back as the bartender's face contorted in rage. Why would he be mad? I thought. All he did was say thanks. Do they know each other? Rivals, maybe? Made his daughter into a bride?

"By my books," the crazed old geezer said dangerously, attracting attention from the other geezers and lovebirds. "You better scram on out of here you goddamn lounge lizard. I had enough of you fruit flies."

I didn't quite understand his lingo, but it didn't seem too nice. At the end of his sentence, the young male cringed and replied desperately. "I told you, it was a misunderstanding!" So he did know him. But it doesn't sound like he's talking about the geezer's daughter. I've heard of a fruity person before, but no one really explained it to me. Last time I had heard of that phrase was back in Orleans during training and it wasn't like the other lads had described it well. The poor young lad seemed like a true deer in the headlights.

"Like hell it was a misunderstanding!" The old man nearly screamed. The other men were laughing and whispering amongst themselves, but I had no idea why. I kind-of felt bad for him. I didn't know what was going on, but the poor man wanted a drink. "All you crazy, cock-eyed queers need to get lost!"

I nearly spewed my drink when it finally hit me. Queer. Queer. This man was queer. I didn't risk the chance of looking over towards him, but out of the corner of my eyes I saw him flinch, like he had been slugged. The other people at the bar started to give him strange glares, and even one of the old men stomped out of the building, knocking over a chair in the process.

A few seconds passed before the bartender continued his ragging. "Get lost before I give you a load of a good slugging," he spat.

For a while I thought the man would continue arguing but he just sat there, chickening out from his constant chastising. And suddenly he stood up he grabbed some change from his pocket and threw it on the table. There was a five-dollar bill and quite a bit of change. Well way over twice the average price for something like an Old Fashioned.

"It was a misunderstanding..." I barely heard him mutter before he said louder, "I'm very sorry to have bothered you sir." He didn't look the bartender in the eye, but he grabbed the suitcase and hastily ran out of the bar, not even one sip of the drink out of the whole ordeal.

It was only four fifty-two, but it seemed like such a long day. The old geezer of a bartender seemed to still be rolling with steam as he paced his workspace. I decided to try and calm him down, but to no avail. "He left you twice as much, just be grateful he actually paid."

"He should have paid me triple. I don't need any whackos in my bar, let alone ordering some drinks. The world doesn't need knuckleheads like him; being all flirty trying to make a move on my costumers, humph, what the hell was he thinking," he spat. He really did hate these people, I thought. Even I don't try to judge them terribly, for some reason people treat them like their diseased. Then again, I've never been around a lot of them wherever I go.

"Maybe it was just a misunderstanding. He said so himself," I tried to make him relax. He nearly shook the whole counter when he slammed his palms down in protest.

"I saw him! Two active duty men smooching in an alleyway! Looked exactly like him; I saw his face back there and now. Completely identical!" I gulped, trying not to show how much he had spooked me. "I can't believe what this world has come down to!"

I nodded nervously, not knowing what to do. "Well..."

"You know that man?" he suddenly said in a serious tone, leaning closer to my face. "You a queer man?"

I put my hands in a surrender gesture. "N-No, no. I'm not. I have a girlfriend. I don't know who he is. He just randomly sat next to me and asked for the time. And then asked what drink I recommended."

He stared at me with this austere expression for a few seconds as if he didn't quite believe me. And suddenly he was full of life, patting me on the back and grinning quite creepily. "Good. I don't know what would have happened if two queer men showed up in my place. It wouldn't have been good."

"No," I agreed and glanced at the clock. It was nearly five, so I grabbed my wallet to pay. He noticed and motioned with his hand to stop. "It's on me," he replied. "Sorry for causing so much trouble."

"No, no. It's alright, I'll pay." I frowned reaching for a one-dollar bill.

"No, no, I insist, I already caused you so much trouble. Plus, it looks like you've just got here." He pointed down at the suitcase.

Knowing I couldn't possibly continue on arguing with the man, I politely accepted his offer and got ready to leave. "Thanks," I said, and headed for the door.

Before I stepped out of the bar, he said out loud, "Don't let them get to you. Don't let them hit on you. Just throw a bible in their face and tell them to read it."

I picked up my suitcase and left the building.

I reached the Pearl Harbor base at around 5:20, which was pretty good timing. I had to be at the housing complex before dark, which was no problem, but I didn't want to show up, and my new roommate already there. It would probably leave a bad impression, even though I didn't really care. If I couldn't hold onto this job, there were plenty of other job offerings. I could always move again and find some other shipyard that needed sailors.

I checked the key the lady at the front desk had given to me. Room 66, the key said. I found the room on the edge of the building. I looked at the building complex. It seemed pretty small for there to be 66 individual rooms. From here all I could really count were about ten to fifteen. I couldn't tell if anyone was inside, so just to see, I tried the knob. Surprisingly it was open, which meant one; someone was definitely inside, probably my roommate, and two; that made me look like a lazy old geezer who didn't care about work (which is partially true) but a horrible first impression.

Trying to act cool and suave, I opened the door with my suitcase in one hand and walked in. I glanced around at the floor layout. Couch and table in the middle, what looked like a closet on the right and a kitchen and bathroom next to it. A suitcase was sprawled on the floor alongside some shiny black shoes, but no roommate in sight. I checked the key and before shutting the door I checked the sign outside. This was room 66, no mistake there.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't hear you," a voice startled me. A young man stepped out from the kitchen with a large wooden spoon.

"I was cooking some food. You my roommate?" It took me a while but after staring at him for a minute, I felt like I had seen him before. Training? Coincidence?

"Yep," I replied, still questioning myself. I had seen that short tannish hair before. The complexion seemed familiar as well, but from where? He seemed to study me as well, and suddenly turned away. I forgot my manners and stepped forward to introduce myself when he stepped back, almost instinctively. I reached my hand out, and he finally got the hint.

"I'm Colin. Colin Stratford" I greeted. Before he could shake my hand, he looked up, finally meeting my eyes, when it suddenly hit me. The queer young man. The one at the bar.

"Elliot..." He seemed to notice, looking down again and gluing his hand back to his side. "Elliot McGhee."

I tried not to make a big deal about it. It didn't really faze me back at the bar, but for some reason it did now. Maybe because you're about to live with him for who knows how long? I shook the thoughts away. Don't let what that old geezer said stick in your head. They can't be as twisted as what he says. They just like other people; it can't be that unusual right?

"Look," McGhee said shaking me out of my thoughts. He replied with an old and dense voice like he's gotten used to saying this. "I could ask the landlord to assign me to a different room. Or even to one of the barracks if it bothers you"

His sudden idea shocked me, I guess my façade fell, but did I really seem to hate him that much without a word? I recalled the ordeal at the bar when I remembered something. "I thought you said it was a misunderstanding at the bar."

He looked down. "I wasn't talking about me. It was obvious that I'm this way, I was talking about the...other guy."

"I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm not going to kick you out of this place when you just got here." I said as sternly and as seriously as possible and gestured to the bag.

"I've actually been on the island for a few weeks now," he muttered. "And besides, I can always just move in somewhere else. It's not a big deal"

I raised my eyebrows, wondering how dim-witted he could be. "What do you mean by 'this way' anyways? You make it sound like some sort-of disease," I said incredulously. It made him seem so susceptible to that old geezer's insults. I am lazy when it comes to work, but I hated weaklings who can't even stand up to old men like that. Not standing up for yourself wasn't manly where I'm from.

"You don't understand, do you?" He narrowed his eyes dangerously. "It is a disease, in a way. In some places they still treat people like me with the most unusual means, things like conversion camps, high doses of electricity and chemicals. They treat it like the terminally ill patients; finding anything to cure it as it's considered a sin."

Before I could reply, he continued. "Even if you say you don't care, I can tell you don't want to be sharing this place with me. No one does. I get it, alright?"

"I'm telling you it's fine," I wanted to shout. "I don't care what you are, who you like, and what you do, I'm not going to treat you like that old geezer and tell you to get the hell out of here. I think you had enough of being told to scram."

I could tell even with his stoic expression that he was surprised at my outburst. Heck, even I was. I had never stood up for anyone in my life, even my own brother and sister. Even my girlfriend. But here I seemed to stand up for a queer man who was now my roommate. I wonder, what would happen if I had mentioned that to my mother and father. They were pretty conservative folk who believed marriage should be between a man and a woman.

He mumbled something incoherently afterwards, but I couldn't catch it. I opened my mouth to demand what it was but gave up. I didn't want to press the topic anymore. He seemed to make me feel guilty about it like I wasn't supposed to defend him at all when all I had tried to do was support him. There was no point in trying to cheer him up. But the voice in my head kept saying if everyone seems to turn a blind eye, who else would try and cheer him about the issue. But could you really call this an issue? I mean I didn't really have a problem with it, except for the fact that he doesn't seem to accept the fact that this is who he was.

After that ordeal, the rest of the afternoon was pretty edgy. There was a lot of tension in the air, almost to the point where I felt I could ladle it out like the stew Elliot was cooking. Truth be told, I couldn't really cook; my mother and pops had spoiled me rotten; As much as I hated to admit it, I never had to pick up a kitchen knife or a cutting board in my life. My sister was forced to at a young age, but my parents believed that the males of the household were the dominant force in the house and were to be treated like royalty. As much as I loved my sister, I didn't really care that she did most of the work in the house. And for some reason the warm taste of Elliot's beef stew seemed to linger on my taste buds and reminded me of my sister's delicious food. It was almost as if he had gotten the exact recipe of my sister's beef stew and mastered it to perfection. The beef and vegetables were delectable and seemed to melt in my mouth. The mixture of both said foods seemed to satisfy my hunger and my longing for my childhood home. Elliot obviously didn't come from a home like mine. He wasn't the king of the household, nor was he probably the dominant force that provided the house with money.

At the rate we were going, I'd probably never know where he came from. The obvious silence and annoyance in the air could attest to that. I was usually the laid-back and let-other-people-do-it kind of guy, but with my quiet and annoying roommate who seemed to not even want to converse with me, I felt like something had to be done. And I had a feeling Elliot wasn't gonna let up anytime soon, so I tried a subtle approach.

"So," I drew out. "Elliot?"'

In response he turned his head only about 45 degrees to the left as he stood in front of the kitchen sink. Well at least it's something, I told myself. I continued, "This is some really good stew."

And to that, silence; as expected from him. He turned back to cleaning the dishes in the sink, with his back still facing me. I rolled my eyes even though I know he wouldn't have noticed either way. "You know Elliot, most people say thanks when being praised on their cooking."

"...Thanks" I barely heard him say. He had momentarily stopped the cleaning to say it, and if it weren't for the dead silence in the place I wouldn't have even heard him. Well that was a start.

The clock turned to 10 at night when it finally dawned on me that we would have to decide on the sleeping arrangements. Apparently there was only one queen bed and a couch. Obviously this was going to start an interesting conversation – if you could even call it one. It would probably be me to do all the talking while Elliot would either nod or shake his head. Even if he did manage to converse with me, I would make sure I wasn't going to lose this struggle between a couch and a bed.

"I'll take the couch" Elliot said. "You can take the bed"

"No can do" I replied. I wasn't going to let him do all the housework and sleep on the couch. I wasn't that terrible. My parents had agreed that even though the males were to be treated like kings, the women in the household should also have a comfortable way of life. After all, they did deserve it. Not that I was trying to compare Elliot to a girl in that sense, but the fact that he did all that and will work alongside men to man the ships was something tremendous. The least I could do was let him sleep in an actual bed.

"You are not sleeping on the couch. I forbid it," I added.

"Forbid?"

"Yup," I replied, popping the p.

"I'm fine with sleeping on the couch. Just take the bed," he sighed and even sat on the couch for good measure.

"No. I refuse to accept that. Go sleep in the bed," I basically demanded. He didn't show any signs of getting up and even put his legs up on the couch to make it seem as if he owned it.

"I've been sleeping on a couch almost all my life. It's fine. Just take the bed," he said, motioning his hand in the direction of the bedroom and yawned. I wasn't planning on backing down on this issue anytime soon but knew that this wasn't going to end anytime soon. In the back of my mind, I couldn't help but think of what he meant by "almost all my life".

Before being able to refuse, he continued. "Besides, you should just let the lounge lizard lounge on the couch. I shouldn't be treated with higher importance anyway." He shrugged and turned on his side using the armrest as a pillow and closed his eyes as if he was going to sleep.

I nearly scoffed that he had actually made a joke, but the true meaning behind the words made me fill with rage. "You're going to let that old geezer's words to get to ya? You're actually going to believe him?"

He opened one eye and smirked. "Why not? Everyone else thinks the same damn thing."

My blood was boiling as fast as the stew had at his negative responses. How could he say these things about himself, and be okay with it? I couldn't help but asking him, "What is wrong with you?"

"Everything," he said under his breath as if he was saying it to himself, but I managed to catch it. "Now you get it. That is what you should be asking, not asking why I can't just tune their words out. If you were in my shoes – which I don't recommend at all, for the record – you would know that being this way is wrong. I don't know if it's just because you were sheltered all your life or you just were oblivious to it, but we aren't exactly normal. I shouldn't be this way because it's wrong. I am wrong. My entire existence is wrong."

He didn't move, flinch, shake or even cry about it. It was like he officially gave up feeling any emotion on the issue. He had no pity for himself, as if he absolutely, with all his heart believed them. It made me sick to think that this is what he felt. It was sick to see that this was the way the world treated people like that. I had no words to express the anger that was seething throughout me. I couldn't find the words to say to him.

By the time I had a response to refute his opinion, he had abruptly got up from the couch, and headed to the door, reaching for his black polished shoe and his keys.

"Whe-"

"Out," he said sharply and slammed the door on his way out without another word.

I sat on the couch he had been sitting before, still in shock. The words he had said earlier were unsettling; "My entire existence is wrong". In a matter of a few hours he seemed to really mature. At the bar he seemed like such a little kid, but at the end of the day he was much more mature, and it showed in the conversation. What had this kid gone through?

By the time Elliot returned, it was already past one in the morning. The door had clicked open, and I've never stood up faster in my life. It was quite embarrassing; here I was, waiting like a dog would wait for its master. His head was down, and his hair was a mess. He tossed his shoes aside haphazardly, and dropped his keys on the ground.

I stepped forward, trying to gauge if he was all right. I had worried where he had gone at this time of night. He didn't seem drunk, but he was definitely unsteady. As he turned his head, I spotted his right eye, swollen shut. A gruesome blend of dark purple, nearly as dark as an eggplant, decorated his high cheekbones and part of his temple. Immediately, my blood boiled like the stew we had for dinner. I approached him, reaching for his face to get a better view. As my hand rose, he flinched as if I had punched him. So many questions reeled through my mind. Why? Who could've done something like this? Where did he go?

"Who did-"

"Don't," he interrupted, "It's not as bad as it seems."

He walked over to the kitchen, ignoring my probing eyes, and pulled out an ice pack from the freezer. I stalked over to the kitchen. I needed answers.

"Where were you?" I looked him in the eye, expecting to see hurt, sadness or some emotion, but he was as stoic and as silent as ever.

"It doesn't matter, I'm going to bed," he pushed past me, but I grabbed a hold of his wrist.

"No, you're not. Let's go," I pulled him in the direction of the front door. I grabbed his shoes and handed it to him. I wasn't dealing with this any longer. I couldn't stand the distance he was putting in front of us.

"Where-"

"Out," I replied. "You deserve a drink. My treat"

"But it's like two am and we have work at eight. We should leave a good first impression on the first day," he complained, refusing to put his shoes on.

"Fuck first impressions," I held open the front door, gesturing for him to step outside. "Lighten up. Live a little, Elliot."