posted by Jesse on Jul 17
It’s around 10pm, and Lee, Greg, and I are looking for a bar. Not just any bar; we’re surrounded by bars, actually, with thumping music and flashing lights, and crowds of people who look and act like they just turned 21, whether they’re in their 20s, 30s, or 40s. We are in San Diego’s Gaslamp Quarter, and we are looking for Prohibition.
We pass a nondescript doorway wedged between two nightclubs. No sign, just an address. Lee squints at it. Is that the one? No. We keep walking, past a group of eight or ten young guys, all wearing polo shirts with the collars turned up, all walking unsteadily and staring off into space with the vacant look of someone so drunk they can’t hold a coherent thought.
Another doorway. It is also flanked by unpleasantly Gaslampy bars. The frosted glass window displays the name of a law firm. This is it, Lee says. We walk past a small gate, ring a doorbell, and wait.
The door opens a crack. Nobody comes out. Lee looks around the corner. There is a man in a suit.
“Can I help you?”

