Girl in a Fishbowl (Crowbar Book 1)

by Thomas A. Gilly

  “I didn’t think anyone was allowed to drive anymore,” Conrad said, his heart pounding hard in his chest.

  “I’ll tell you, it wasn’t easy. I mean, the tests weren’t too bad, I had to get so many track hours and simulator hours, and then hours on the road with a professional trainer. It took a couple of years. I had to give up piano, didn’t have time to do both. I mean, piano or driving, right? What are you going to choose?”

  The Bergs loomed close above them. Everest Tunnel was approaching.

  “But there was a shit-load of red-tape. It’s not like they give out driver’s licenses to anyone.”

  When they entered the tunnel the roar of the engine echoed off the walls and made a sound like they were surrounded by a hurricane. They didn’t speak the entire distance of the tunnel, perhaps because of the noise, perhaps to recover their respective wits from the near crash with the scooter.

  They emerged in the forest. This startled Conrad, he had forgotten about the park on the other side of the Bergs.

  “Hey Conrad, I’m going to confide something with you. Alright? It’s about Nat. I mean, we’ve already covered the fact that she’s still somewhat of a bitch. But Terri loves her as a sister and that counts for a lot. So I don’t want you to judge Nat too harshly. You see, you are kind of unique, you know? I mean, I looked you up and there was practically nothing on you. Zilch, nada.”

  “Yeah,” Conrad said.

  “Well, Nat is always looking at the angles. I mean, I’m sure she wants to help you out. I’m sure she wants to help you with your father. I’m sure she wants you and Terri to hang out and be friends again. I’m sure she wants things to turn out right for everyone. Now, this is kind of hard to explain, but it’s the way Nat’s mind works. I’d appreciate if you didn’t mention that I’m telling you this, but it’s almost like the only way she can justify doing something good for other people is if it looks like she’s getting something out of it. Now, I know that sounds weird, but in a strange way it’s kind of noble. I think it’s like if she does something purely altruistic then she thinks that other people are thinking that she’s doing it just to look good, that it isn’t real, that it isn’t from the heart. Does that make sense? It is kind of convoluted once you start to think about it and put it into words. But if she did something with no selfish component, then she would think that she’s being a ‘holier than thou’ bitch, instead of, you know, just a normal bitch, which is okay. So she has to be getting something out of it—other than, of course, being seen as a generous, giving person—which she really is in a way, but she doesn’t want to be seen rubbing that into people’s faces. Does that make sense?”

  “I guess,” Conrad said uncertainly.

  “So, her angle with you is that you’re unique. You’re a mystery. Like I said, she’s always looking at the angles, and she figures there’s some angle to be gained by knowing someone who’s such a blank slate. That’s it. She wants to get something out of your unique online status. So please don’t tell her I told you. She’s going to help you out with your father, we can be sure of that. And of course she wants to help, and she will. But there will be some angle in there. And my advice to you is, don’t make her any promises. Okay? If she asks you for something and you don’t quite feel comfortable, all you have to do is say, ‘I’ll think about it.’ That’s it. Just don’t let her scare you, she comes on strong—but Terri can handle it, so it’s not impossible.”

  “Okay,” Conrad said.

  “And here we are!” Sergei said, turning into a gravel parking lot that crunched under their tires. They parked in line with some other cars, most far more modern, but all of them expensive. Sergei opened his door and stepped out onto the gravel. Conrad unhooked his seatbelt and felt at his door, looking for a touch panel. There was no response.

  “Door, open,” Conrad whispered, a little panicked at looking stupid. He thought about how Sergei had reached over to open the door originally. It definitely required physical contact.

  Sergei crouched and poked his head through the driver side door. “You pull that handle there and push open the door.”

  “Wait, what—I pull and push? At the same time?”

  “You pull at the handle; wait for the click, and then push.”

  Conrad reached for the chrome handle (he had originally thought it was some sort of decorative element) with his thumb and forefinger extended, gingerly gripped and pulled, heard the click, let go, and then pushed at the door with his palm. It still wouldn’t open.

  “You reach your fingers around the handle,” Sergei said patiently, obviously having had to explain this before. “Then as you pull the handle, you push the door with your elbow.”

  After taking a few moments to get his hand properly positioned, Conrad did as he was told and the door opened. He stepped out onto the parking lot and swung the door closed. “That could be dangerous if you had to get out in a hurry,” he said, giving an embarrassed laugh.

  “It becomes second nature after doing it a few hundred times,” Sergei said, and led him away from the car.

  There were several buildings around the parking lot, nestled in the trees. They all looked like large old farmhouses and nothing like any restaurant Conrad was familiar with. There were no signs or any indications that these were anything but private residences, or at least what private residences used to look like before the Great Urban Suck. They went onto a wooden front porch, complete with rocking chairs, and Sergei opened up the creaky screen door, leading them inside.

  Hey, Conrad thought. He’s going in there with a black sports coat. I could have worn my dad’s black sports coat. Dafuq?

  The wooden planks on the floor looked like they had been pulled out of some ancient ships—wooden pillars interspersed at random locations looked like they had been the masts of those ships. Surrounding a central bar were small tables, most of them set up for couples. They were all full. The larger tables were on the sides. Several fireplaces were visible. The lighting was dim, orange, and flickery.

  Not a single person was wearing smart glasses. Conrad guessed they must all be wearing smart contacts. He suddenly felt self-conscious. He took his own glasses off and put them in his front pocket.

  “I’ll buy you a drink while we wait for the girls,” Sergei said, moving toward the bar. There were no empty stools but there was a free space at one of the corners. Sergei leaned an elbow on the bar and asked Conrad, “What do you drink?”

  “Beer, I guess.”

  “They brew their own here. They make a great stout. Want the stout?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Sergei motioned to the bartender. When he came over Sergei said, “Two Lake Wren Stouts please.”

  Conrad looked around the room. Above them was a seeming tangle of wooden beams that left the ceiling in darkness. Small chandeliers hung on metal chains with lights that looked very much like candles, complete with melted wax.

  Sergei passed a pint glass to Conrad. The beer was darker than coffee. The thickness and bitterness of Conrad’s first taste surprised him and he almost coughed it out of his nose.

  “Good eh?” Sergei said.

  Conrad nodded.

  They stood, sipping their beer for a minute.

  Sergei said, “Hey, I don’t know if anyone informed you, but we’re not ordering our dinner tonight. Nat wanted Sabu to plan the meal for us.”

  Conrad looked at him blankly.

  “Sabu is the head chef. Personally I’d be happy just ordering the prime rib, it’s great here, but I guess Sabu knows his shit. Don’t worry, it should be good.”

  Conrad wouldn’t mind having a taste of prime rib to discover what all the fuss was about.

  Sergei poked Conrad with his elbow and nodded to a couple sitting not far from the bar.

  “Check her out. She doesn’t know who the fuck you are.”

  The woman was typing furiously onto the table in front of her and glanced up at Conrad, turning quickly away when she saw him looking back.

>   “You see?” Sergei said. “You’re causing quite a buzz.” Sergei motioned in front of him like he was turning pages. “Your face is popping up all over on Analytics. Check it out.”

  “I’m not wearing smart contacts,” Conrad said.

  “Oh yeah, that’s right, you were wearing glasses, yeah.”

  There were a couple of awkward seconds, until Sergei poked Conrad again and said, “The girls are here.”

  Chapter 11

  Natalya entered as Terri held the door for her. They were both wearing what Svet would have thought of as classic rustic chic, if the binary clacking of Svet’s AI could be considered ‘thought’. They were both wearing white blouses and peasant skirts, although Terri’s skirt was a robin’s egg blue while Natalya’s was quilted with a floral pattern that looked like it had been created in the last decades of the lives of a half-dozen Civil War veteran’s widows during their Sunday teas. Both of them had braided hair, Terri’s a simple braid down the back, Natalya’s a Gordian knot—a topologist’s nightmare. Natalya was also wearing plaid suspenders, each curving around the outsides of her breasts, accentuating them and making Conrad notice that she also had a couple more buttons undone on the blouse than Terri.

  “Hi boys,” Natalya said, stopping in front of them.

  “Hi guys,” Terri said, looking at Conrad and smiling. He turned to her and smiled back.

  Natalya extended her hand to Conrad, bringing his attention back to her. “Good to see you again Conrad.”

  He shook her hand and said “Yeah, me too.”

  A man with slicked back black hair and a handle-bar mustache under a patrician nose slid up next to them. He was wearing a black tuxedo with a shiny purple vest and a matching purple bowtie. “Your table is ready,” he said solemnly. He motioned to the glasses of beer on the bar. “You may take your drinks.”

  “Thanks Charles,” Sergei said. Charles nodded back gratefully.

  They followed him to a cozy alcove, the walls made of unworked stone, a fireplace on the far end. The place settings were two to each side of a rectangular farmer’s table. Charles motioned Conrad to sit on one side and held the chair for Natalya to sit across from him. Charles then held the chair next to Natalya for Terri as Sergei sat across from her. Taking a long wooden dowel from a brass cup on the mantle, Charles lit the end from the fire in the fireplace and used it to light the candles in the silver chandelier above the table. Everyone sat quietly watching as he did so.

  Conrad suppressed the urge to exclaim Wow, those are real candles.

  Charles produced four small wine glasses with the flourish of a magician and took one orbit around the table, placed a glass in front of each of them. Returning to the head of the table he presented a green wine bottle to them.

  “Sabu and I have decided to start with a light, sweet wine to go with the first course. Clos Sainte Hune Riesling, Grand Cru, 2028.”

  He pulled out a corkscrew from his vest pocket and deftly removed the cork while holding the bottle. He nodded to Sergei and brought the bottle to pour into his glass.

  Everyone quietly watched. All this formality and seriousness over a mere meal was frustrating to Conrad, he found it difficult to believe that these people could take this pompous ritual of self-aggrandizing elitism seriously. Especially Charles. He felt a kinship with Charles, a working-class guy paid to serve at the whims the elite. While Conrad worked at a distance from these scions of society, Charles had to bow and scrape to them in person. He hoped they were paying this poor schmuck a lot of money to put up with all this crap.

  “Aren’t we supposed to smell the cork or something?” Conrad impulsively blurted out.

  The wine bottle froze as it hovered over Sergei’s empty glass.

  “Do you want to smell the cork?” Sergei asked. “You can smell the cork if you want. Charles?”

  Charles put the wine bottle down on the table and presented the cork to Conrad. Conrad grabbed it and brought it to his nose. He took a sniff, paused, took another sniff, and handed the cork back to Charles.

  “Adequate,” he said, and smirked.

  Everyone’s faces had become frozen masks. Everyone’s except for Charles, whose face had taken a sudden crimson hue, eyes bulging, lips pursed to the point of turning white. Apparently Charles does take this pompous shit seriously, Conrad thought. With superhuman control, Charles regained his disciplined reserve and poured a small taste of wine into Conrad’s glass. Conrad wondered why Charles wasn’t pouring any wine into anyone else’s glass, and then he guessed that he was supposed to taste it for the others, since he, as the cork-sniffer, was supposed to be the expert. He looked at Terri and she just looked back at him, retaining her frozen mask.

  Dafuq, Conrad thought.

  His underarms were starting to sweat. Charles was not giving him the look of comradeship he had half expected from a fellow working stiff. There was no feeling of the brotherhood of the proletariat between the two of them. Charles was giving him a look of barely hidden distain.

  Conrad drank the wine like a shot. “Yeah, that’s great, thanks,” he said quickly.

  Still more awkwardness. Conrad was simultaneously feeling embarrassed and angry at himself for being embarrassed. It’s just a meal people, get over it. He could handle pissing off Natalya and her brother, they were raised to be elitist twits, but Terri knew better. She was better than them and better than this, and yet she was looking down at her lap, obviously embarrassed.

  Embarrassed by me.

  Charles poured wine into everyone else’s glasses, and then with a smooth swish of his body he quickly materialized four tiny plates which he placed in front of them. On each plate was a small blob of pink food.

  “Salmon tartar, with avocados and beluga caviar.” He then disappeared from the alcove.

  Natalya picked up her glass, looked at Conrad, and took a sip. “I take it you’re not a fan of sweet wines,” she said lightly. He could tell she was trying to diffuse the awkwardness. “Trust me, it will work perfectly with the salmon. Look at all those people out there,” she waved her glass out to the dining area, “I bet most of them don’t appreciate the culinary works of art that are right in front of them. They just come to see and be seen. It’s sad really. Sabu creates such sublime culinary experiences. His multi-course meals just build up, each flavor climbing on the foundation of the last, culminating into gastronomical nirvana.”

  Conrad scooped some of the pink food onto his fork and put it in his mouth. It tasted fishy. He took a sip of wine.

  “An interesting thing about flavor I read recently,” Natalya continued. “Compared to the other senses, our vocabulary for flavor just doesn’t do it justice. Think about all the words to describe what you see or what you hear, or what you touch. Think of all the words we have just to describe color—or texture, things feel gritty or smooth or silky or so many other things. But when it comes to describing taste we have a hard time capturing all of the subtle nuances. I mean, in Western cultures, for centuries they reduced taste to just sweet, salty, bitter, and sour. They didn’t even have a name for umami! Like it didn’t even exist to them! There’s a theory about that. Language allows us to experience the world—we need words for things to know that we are experiencing them. Did you know that there is no mention of the color blue in Homer? When describing the sea in the Iliad and the Odyssey, Homer often described it as the ‘wine dark sea’. And do you know why? Because they didn’t even have a name for the color blue in ancient Greek! No name for blue! But the Egyptians, they were the first people to name blue. And scientists think it was because they were the first people who could make things that were blue. They carved jewelry in lapis lazuli. So, the theory goes, humans don’t create words for colors until they can actually make things of that color themselves. And most humans don’t have sufficient control over making flavors to create a real vocabulary of flavor. But someone like Sabu, he has mastery over flavor. I bet he has his own language for flavors. And smells too, it’s the same thing for sme
lls. If you listen to perfume makers describing the smells of their creations it’s like they’re contorting the language, fighting with it, to try to explain smells to each other.”

  “So what you’re saying is that if we could control the smells we create,” Terri said, “like if we could consciously make our farts to smell like different things, we would have a more elaborate vocabulary for smells.”

  Sergei let out a loud guffaw. A brief frown flashed on Natalya’s face before she laughed good naturedly and said, “Yes I suppose we would.”

  There she is, Conrad thought. There’s my Terri.

  They exchanged glances and Conrad felt the same charge of happiness he would feel when they would get together, years ago. He was glad that he could still feel that happiness.

  Chapter 12

  Six Years Earlier

  Terri rode her bike along the unfamiliar street feeling a thrill of discovery. She was wearing her new smart glasses with active parental monitoring, otherwise her mother wouldn’t have allowed her to ride her bike this far from home on her own. She had no particular destination in mind, just riding down streets she had never ridden down before, hoping for some adventure.

  Her glasses told her that the current street was called Carney Street and it had enough of a dilapidated, boarded-up look to seem interesting to her. She imagined it would look scary at night. Of course she had to be home before dark, which she thought was silly, since with the parental monitoring on her glasses if any creepy guy with a criminal history even just approached her the feed could be sent to the police immediately, so it wasn’t like it was any more dangerous at night than it was in the day time.

  The street and sidewalk were deserted of traffic, both pedestrian and wheeled. It was easy to imagine that the world had been hit by some apocalyptic disaster and she was the last person on earth and hiding behind the boarded up doors were zombies or mutants or vampires—or zombie mutant vampires.