The Tree of Knowledge

by Daniel G. Miller

  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, I’m Darrell,” said the dark-haired man on Ying’s right shoulder as he scratched his unshaven chin.

  “Hello,” said Ying, leaning back to create some space between the two.

  Albert could see Ying was trying to be friendly but that she wanted nothing to do with this man. He slid his seat forward and to the right and put his elbow on the bar to attempt to edge back between Ying and the man who was blocking him.

  Darrell continued to press. “I’d love to have a dance with you,” he said.

  Ying looked at Albert in confusion. There was no music playing in the bar. Albert shook his head at Ying as if to say, “Don’t get into the details with this guy.”

  “No, thanks,” said Ying politely and turned back to the bar, attempting to resume a conversation with Albert that they hadn’t been having.

  “Oh, c’mon now,” slurred Darrell, grabbing Ying’s arm.

  Seeing Ying wince, and without thinking, Albert pushed aside Darrell’s friend and put his hand on Darrell’s shoulder.

  “Sir, I don’t think she wants to dance with you. I’d appreciate it if you’d leave the two of us alone.”

  The activity of the joint came to a sudden stop. All conversation ceased as if a string had been cut. Albert heard Darrell cackle and with the man’s yellow, gap-toothed smile realized that he had fallen into his trap. This was exactly what the three hyenas had wanted. Ying wasn’t their prey; Albert was.

  In an instant, Darrell had Albert by the collar and up against the wall with his two friends holding back his arms. As he grabbed Albert by the throat, Darrell whispered into the side of his head. The whiskey-tinged breath burned in Albert’s ear like acid.

  “No, I’m not going to leave you alone, pretty boy. I’m gonna kick the living shit out of you, and then I’m gonna have my way with your little Chinese girlfriend. How’s that sou—”

  But before Darrell could finish his sentence, a wooden stick encircled his neck and ripped him backward. Albert looked on as Darrell took a blow to the knees and dropped to the floor, revealing Angus Turner behind him. The professor held his walking stick in both hands and rocked it up and down like a weapon.

  Albert knew that he would never forget the look the professor gave him in the instant that Darrell dropped to the floor. It was a look of absolute calm and focus . . . and then, to his amazement, the professor cracked a smile and winked. But as shocking as that expression was, what followed exceeded it tenfold.

  After pausing to understand what they had seen—an old man disabling their best friend with a stick—Darrell’s two friends immediately charged the aging professor. Turner dispatched them like two ants in the way of his boot. As the first man charged him, the professor slid out of his way and cracked him on the back of his neck, immediately dropping him to the floor unconscious.

  Next up was Darrell’s bearded friend, the same man who had triumphantly thumped his opponent outside of the bar to much acclaim. Aware of the danger in charging Turner, the bearded man chose to throw a long, powerful punch. Turner dodged the punch with the slightest head movement and then proceeded to hook the man’s leg. The giant tumbled down on his back like a pile of lumber, shaking the floor and walls of the bar.

  Without the slightest acknowledgment of what had just transpired, Turner pivoted toward Albert and Ying.

  “Friends, since we have our directions and seem to have made a bit of a mess, it is probably time for us to make our exit.”

  And with that, the old professor, with steady hands, took a ten-dollar bill from his wallet, placed it on the bar, and exited while holding the door for his two colleagues.

  As Ying and Albert scrambled to the car, Turner looked over to Ying, whose face stared directly at him, frozen in awe.

  The professor chuckled as he readjusted his tweed coat. “Ms. Koh, I bet you’re still wondering about that riddle we were working on in the car?”

  “Wha—?”

  “The logic puzzle. Well, I’ll tell you the answer. The man pushing his car up to the hotel and the hotel owner . . .”

  “Yeah?” said Ying, still trying to recover from what had just transpired.

  “They’re two gentlemen playing a game of Monopoly.”

  Chapter 5

  Eric Crabtree strolled confidently from the parking lot to the front entrance of Fix Industries. As he approached the crystal-clear glass entrance, he marveled at the steely projection of modernity and power that the corporate campus conveyed. Cristina Culebra herself had christened the brand-new headquarters of Fix Industries on the outskirts of Los Angeles the previous year. The local media and architecture enthusiasts roundly panned the new campus, which one critic described as a “soulless monument to steel, concrete, and glass.” But since the complex had been constructed on an abandoned Superfund si
te previously thought to be uninhabitable, Eric had always found it to be a symbol of man’s—or in this case, woman’s—ability to overcome any obstacle through ingenuity and technological prowess. In fact, it was one of the reasons he had been drawn to work for Cristina’s campaign for governor.

  Crabtree had joined the campaign right after working as an assistant speechwriter in the White House office of communications. In the president’s second term, Crabtree saw the writing on the wall and was looking for another horse to hitch his wagon to when he found Cristina Culebra. In Cristina, he saw the opportunity for power that he had only dreamed of in the White House, and he channeled this into the words he wrote for the candidate. His speeches, filled with soaring rhetoric and optimistic crusades against the established order, had left both the media and the public at large in awe of Cristina Culebra. Eric Crabtree was aware of that fact and had traveled to Fix Industries on this particular day to cash in on his success.

  As the speechwriter moved past security and into the long, tubelike glass hallway of Culebra headquarters, he attempted to steady himself. He had scheduled the meeting with the candidate under the auspices of reviewing her “closing argument”—the speech she would give at all her rallies in the final days of the campaign. However, this was merely a cover to secure a one-on-one meeting. What Eric really wanted to discuss was something much more personal and important.

  Riding up in the glass-lined elevator, the slim speechwriter inspected his outfit. His ensemble of khaki pants, striped shirt, and navy blazer reminded him of how long he had been underpaid and overworked. How he wrote words that moved millions but was paid money that could barely support one. Closer inspection of his shoes, covered in spilled cocktail stains, added to the perception. His snub-nosed face was boyish looking, with a short upper lip, big teeth, and a chin that just missed being weak. Nonetheless, as Eric brushed aside his sandy-brown hair and cleared the sleep from his eyes, he felt confident that today would be the beginning of the next stage of his career.

  Eric reached the top floor of the facility and exited the elevator to a sight he had always envied: an entire floor dedicated to one person. Cristina Culebra’s office on the thirty-third floor consisted of nothing more than an oversized waiting room with pure-white leather chairs and floor-to-ceiling windows displaying a glorious view of Long Beach harbor. Her icy blonde assistant, Claire, whom the speechwriter had hit on mercilessly to little effect, greeted him with a forced smile.

  “Hello, Eric. Cristina will see you now.”

  Eric smiled. He had carefully timed his exit from the car to arrive at Cristina’s office exactly on time. The candidate abhorred tardiness because it revealed a disorganized mind, which could not be tolerated. She had equal disdain for those who arrived early, as it raised questions concerning one’s ability to efficiently manage time. Crabtree buttoned his blazer, took one long breath, and entered the candidate’s office.

  “What do you have for me, Eric?” asked Cristina Culebra, not looking up from her computer screen.

  The speechwriter was reminded how his candidate could be so delightful and charming when campaigning but so staggeringly curt and dictatorial with her staff. Yet for some reason, like an emotionally abused spouse, it made him crave her approval even more.

  “I’ve got the latest draft of the closing argument for you.”

  “Good. Let’s have a look,” said Cristina, finally glancing up from her computer.

  “Before we do that, I’d like to discuss something else with you.”

  Cristina looked at Eric with a knowing smirk and positioned herself in her chair like a tiger settling in for a meal.

  “Oh really? What is it you’d like to discuss?” she said, placing the pad of her long, thin pointer finger on her lips.

  Eric carefully absorbed the look on his candidate’s face and in that instant knew that he had grossly underestimated his opponent in this negotiation. He had worked with presidents far less intimidating. But like a batter who has started his swing, he had come too far to stop.

  “I—I’d like to discuss the position that I’ll have in your administration when you are elected.”

  Cristina Culebra made one simple movement—taking her index finger from the tip of her lips to the side of her cheek. She said nothing.

  The silence in the massive office drove Eric forward, goading him into continuing like a palm in the back.

  “I think I’ve more than proven myself as a speechwriter and that it’s only appropriate for me to be awarded the position of head of communications in the new administration,” said Eric, now barely able to stifle pubescent cracks in his voice. “And if you don’t think that’s fair, then—”

  “Eric, let me stop you right there,” interjected the candidate, rising from her desk and looking out the windows of her magnificent office.

  She paused as if to decide what approach to take with the impudent challenger. “Oh, Eriiiic. In the back of my mind, I always knew this day would come, but a part of me hoped that you would be able to contain your ambition just a little bit longer.”

  The speechwriter looked around him as though a SWAT team were coming through the door. He interlocked his fingers, sliding them back and forth together.

  “Let me guess,” said Cristina, now turning to face her protégé. Her black eyes, made larger with a surrounding coat of black eyeliner, shone like an oil slick as she sized up the young visitor. “You were planning on using our final campaign speech as your bargaining chip to secure the communications job. If I didn’t give you the job, then you were going to withhold the speech. Is that about right?”

  The speechwriter continued to wriggle in his chair, but uttered not a word.

  “I thought so. See, the problem, Eric, is that you don’t understand one very simple truth about me. And that is that whatever you are plotting at any given moment, I’ve thought of, months and sometimes years in advance. You must remember, Eric . . . I grew up on a farm. And when you grow up on a farm, the seasons are everything. You plan for the winter, plan for the harvest, plan for the rain, and plan for the drought. Now, only God can create the weather, Eric . . . so if I can handle him, I can certainly handle you.”

  “No, no, I just wanted you to know I was interested in the job, ma’am. I had no intention of withholding the speech.”

  “You see, Eric, I knew you would try and weasel your way out of this. Just like I know you hit on my assistant multiple times, just like I know that you lied on your resume, and just like I know that in your weakest moments, you seek the companionship of older men because they flatter and spoil you.”

  Eric couldn’t move. His body was bolted to the chair in stark embarrassment and horror.

  The candidate glared at him with her wolf eyes and smiled, knowing that she had achieved her intended effect.

  “Now, why don’t you hand me the latest draft of the speech and we’ll forget about this whole incident.” The candidate held out her hand and summoned her politician’s smile.

  The speechwriter fumbled through his bag, stood, and with shaking hands, handed over the draft of the speech. Eyes locked on the floor, he then turned to leave the room; the exit seemed miles away, and his shoulders carried a newfound weight.

  “Oh . . . and, Eric. If your ambition ever creeps up into your head again, just understand one thing . . .”

  “Yes?” said the defeated speechwriter.

  “Politics is a team sport.”

  Chapter 6

  “What the hell was that?” shouted Albert as the car sliced through the rain-covered highway, spraying a steady mist around the tires.

  “Yeah, Professor Turner. That was ridiculous. You were like a ninja in there,” echoed Ying.

  The corners of Turner’s lips crept upward. “Ah, so now you admit that the old man may have a few tricks up his sleeve? I told you . . . the Tree of Knowledge is an incredibly powerful tool if yo
u are willing to believe in its potential and learn how to use it.”

  “I see what you mean now, Professor,” exclaimed Ying. “It looked like everything was moving in slow motion for you. Like you knew exactly what they were going to do.”

  “You mean to tell me that you got those moves from the game tree we’ve been talking about?” said Albert in disbelief.

  “Well, yes and no. It is one thing to know what you have to do, but quite another to execute. That is where our friends here in lovely Vermont come in.”

  “I’m not following,” said Albert.

  Turner adjusted in the driver’s seat and slid his hands across the leather steering wheel. The steady clatter of rain on the windshield sounded in the background. “As I mentioned, years ago, I realized that the Tree could be used for self-defense. As was my habit at that time, I ventured to test my hypothesis. So, on one Saturday morning, I strolled down to that quaint little martial arts dojo on Carlton Street.”

  “You mean House of Jiujitsu,” said Ying through a disbelieving smile.

  “Yes, fortunately, the instructor was in the dojo, but was not holding any classes. I remember him vividly to this day. Sensei Kojuki. He was a small, compact man, no less than forty years old, with a kind face. I explained to him that I was from the university, was conducting an experiment with a new self-defense technique, and was wondering if he would be willing to spar with me. Truthfully, he looked at me a little askance, but he eventually agreed to play along.

  “Now, at this time, I was not the doddering old man with a cane that I am today,” Turner said with a self-deprecating grin. “I was probably fifty then, but I was fit as a fiddle and quite strong. Armed with the knowledge of the Tree, I eyed the tiny man in front of me, and I must admit I fell victim to that most irrational of feelings: overconfidence.”