The Tree of Knowledge, Daniel Miller [unputdownable books txt] 📗

Turner pulled the car in between two large pickup trucks sitting on even larger wheels, and Ying popped up to the edge of the back middle seat and began nodding her head.

“Yes! This is amazing. We’re going to a good old-fashioned country roadhouse right now. Where’s Patrick Swayze when you need him?”

Ying’s enthusiasm was matched by Albert’s apprehension. “Professor Turner, why exactly are we stopping here?”

“Well, we need directions to get to my friend’s farm, and since we can’t use any electronic device, I thought we’d do it the old-fashioned way and just ask someone.”

Albert frowned. “OK, but isn’t the creepy roadhouse on the side of the road the worst possible place to stop? How about a gas station or motel? It just doesn’t seem like a very safe place to pull over.”

Turner opened the car door and leaned back through the open window to talk to Puddles.

“Albert, shame on you. These are just people. Yes, they may not be academics, but I’m sure they’ll be more than happy to help y—”

Just as Turner was about to finish his sentence, he was interrupted by Ying shouting, “Whoa!” and pointing out the windshield.

Turner rotated his head to find two large men stumbling from the bar amid what looked like a full-blown brawl. The bigger man, who sported a beard reminiscent of ZZ Top, quickly gained the advantage and pounced on the smaller man as a crowd spilled out of the bar to root for their favorites.

Albert let out a loud snort and sat back in the front seat, crossing his arms like a toddler refusing to eat his broccoli.

Turner leaned his head back in the window and with a sheepish grin continued, “OK, I may have soft-pedaled the demeanor of the esteemed patrons of Tim’s Toolbox, but trust me, we’ll be just fine. I assure you we won’t be on the premises for more than five minutes. We’ll walk in, I’ll find someone who can give us directions, and we’ll walk out. No harm done. Ms. Koh, wouldn’t you like a little adventure in your life?”

Ying and Albert exchanged a long glance with each other and against their better judgment exited the car. As the group approached the entrance of the bar, the crowd around the two pugilists let out a loud cheer and clanked glasses in celebration of the bearded victor.

Turner, Ying, and Albert followed the elated mob into the establishment and sidled up to the bar. Upon entering Tim’s Toolbox, Albert realized that he had found the one place on earth that was everything he wasn’t. Tim’s Toolbox was loud, dirty, intimidating, smelly, disorganized, rugged, and raw. He sat at the bar and understood the meaning of the word “alienation.” If there had been an operating jukebox in the establishment, it would have stopped upon Albert Puddles’s arrival. Fortunately, Tim’s jukebox had been out of order since late 1987.

Ying plopped down next to Albert at the bar while Turner went to the other side to inquire for directions.

The bartender, a small, weaselly looking older gentleman, stared at the two new customers as though a pair of Martians had just sat down at his pub. His face held deep lines that told the story of a lifetime of smoking and scowling. Yet somehow with each moment that his gaze held Albert’s and Ying’s, those lines seemed to grow deeper.

As was her typical fashion, Ying remained unfazed by the bartender’s hostile stare and proceeded to smile and make the obligatory half wave of a person trying to get a server’s attention without seeming overbearing. Albert had always found it amazing how Ying could operate in some type of parallel universe, oblivious of social signals and norms, yet always charming everyone in her path. She could visit a death row inmate and have him smiling and playing a game of checkers within an hour.

After a few minutes of concerted effort on Ying’s part, the bartender made his way over to Ying and Albert and disdainfully spun two napkins at them.

“What can I get you folks?” he growled with a rasp that continued long after the words had left his throat.

Attempting to avoid further irritating the bartender, Albert demurred. “Nothing for me.”

This was clearly a miscalculation. Puddles could see the bartender cursing these two outsiders who were taking up space in his establishment, and weren’t ordering anything to boot.

Ying’s order compounded the error. “Could I have a vodka cranberry,” she said, eagerly bouncing on the creaking barstool.

“We don’t have cranberry juice,” barked the bartender.

“Oh, well, OK, whatever you have that’s close to that. And he’ll have a beer.”

The old man snarled and walked away.

“We should get the hell out of here,” said Albert, looking over his right shoulder and noticing three men eyeing Ying like hyenas at dusk. “Where is Turner?”

Ying just laughed. “Oh, Professor. Stop being so paranoid. I think this bar has a certain gritty charm. Sure, the bartender’s grumpy, but that’s part of the whole vibe. You can’t have a chipper bartender in a roadhouse bar. It just wouldn’t fit. Have a beer and try to enjoy yourself. We’re on an adventure.”

Once again, Albert felt the familiar pit in his stomach. Adventure. He had always craved it, but now he wanted absolutely nothing to do with it. As soon as his beer arrived, he grabbed it and drank it down, hoping that the cold liquid would extinguish his sense of dread.

“What do we have here?” asked Ying as the bartender brought her drink. “A vodka Sprite?”

“A vodka vodka. Enjoy.”

Ying looked puzzled and then took a sip of her drink, coughing as the pure vodka went down her throat.

Just then, two of the three hyenas that had been staring at Ying approached. One of them leaned in over her right shoulder, while the other one stood in between Ying and Albert, pushing him out of the way. The smell of alcohol was overwhelming, and Albert could see the eyes of the one on the right swimming in booze.

“Well, hello, little lady,