The Extraordinary Adventures of Alfred Kropp Read Free

a little luck and the right mindset.
    But he didn’t do that. Instead he ordered me into the car and we drove downtown.
    â€œWhere are we going?” I asked.
    â€œI’m taking you on a magical journey, Alfred.”
    â€œA magical journey? Where to?”
    â€œThe future.”
    We crossed a bridge and I could see a huge glass building towering over everything around it. The glass was dark tinted, and against the night sky it looked like a fat, glittering black thumb pointing up.
    â€œDo you know what that is?” Uncle Farrell asked. “That’s where I work, Alfred, Samson Towers. Thirty-three stories high and three city blocks wide. Take a good look at it, Alfred.”
    â€œUncle Farrell, I’ve seen big buildings before.”
    He didn’t say anything. There was an angry expression on his thin face. Uncle Farrell was forty and as small and scrawny as I was big and meaty, though he had a large head like me. When he put on his security guard uniform, he reminded me of Barney Fife from that old Andy Griffith Show, or rather of a Pez dispenser of Barney Fife, because of the oversized head and skinny body. It made me feel guilty thinking of him as a goofy screwup like Barney Fife, but I couldn’t help it. He even had those wet, flappy lips like Barney.
    He pulled into the entrance of the underground parking lot and slid a plastic card into a machine. The gate opened and he drove slowly into the nearly empty lot.
    â€œWho owns Samson Towers, Alfred?” he asked.
    â€œA guy named Samson?” I guessed.
    â€œA guy named Bernard Samson,” he said. “You don’t know anything about him, but let me tell you. Bernard Samson is a self-made millionaire many times over, Alfred. Came to Knoxville at the age of sixteen with nothing in his pockets and now he’s one of the richest men in America. You want to know how he got there?”
    â€œHe invented the iPod?”
    â€œHe worked hard, Alfred. Hard work and something you are sorely lacking in: fortitude, guts, vision, passion. Because let me tell you something, the world doesn’t belong to the smartest or the most talented. There are plenty of smart, talented losers in this world. You wanna know who the world belongs to, Alfred?”
    â€œMicrosoft?”
    â€œThat’s it, smarty-pants, make jokes. No. The world belongs to people who don’t give up. Who get knocked down and keep coming back for more.”
    â€œOkay, Uncle Farrell,” I said. “I get your point. But what about the future?”
    â€œThat’s right,” he said. “The future! Come on, Alfred. You won’t find the future in this garage.”
    We took the elevator to the lobby. Uncle Farrell led me to his horseshoe-shaped desk that faced the two-story atrium. About halfway between the security desk and the front doors was a waterfall that fell over these huge rocks that Uncle Farrell told me had been hauled down at great expense from the Pigeon River in the Smokies.
    â€œFunny thing about life is you never know where it’s going to take you,” Uncle Farrell told me. “I’m working at the auto body shop when in strolls Bernard Samson. He strikes up a conversation, and next thing I know here I am making double what I pulled in at the shop. And for sitting—for nothing! Double for nothing , just because the richest man in Knoxville decides to give me a job!”
    Mounted on the desktop were dozens of closed-circuit monitors set up to survey every nook and cranny of Samson Towers.
    â€œThis system is state-of-the-art, Alfred. I mean, this place is tighter than Fort Knox. Laser sensors, sound detectors, you name it.”
    â€œThat’s pretty cool, Uncle Farrell.”
    â€œPretty cool,” he echoed. “You betcha. And this is where I sit, eight hours a day, six nights a week, in front of these monitors, staring. Watching. What do you think I’m watching,