The bar was very quiet. That was a fact.
There were not many people in this nameless little town either. The young people had all gone elsewhere to make a living, leaving behind only a few old folks barely scraping by.
So everyone who came to the bar was a local, and everyone knew each other.
Most of the time, Old John was busy with other things. Customers who came in would help themselves to a glass and pour their own drinks; sometimes they would just grab a can of beer and find an opener themselves. Then they would toss the money into the cash basket on the counter.
That was also why Old John could run a bar by himself. He did not stop people from helping themselves. Of course, he would still curse at them a few times.
If someone wanted a proper meal, there was another restaurant in town. Old John did not compete with them for business. He focused only on selling alcohol, along with a few simple bar snacks.
The old folks in town were old-fashioned too, so most of them only came to the bar for a small gathering at night. They would not come in broad daylight to drink themselves senseless unless something especially good had happened.
They drank with restraint as well. Usually, one can of beer or a similar amount of alcohol was enough.
If someone looked like they were determined to drink themselves to death, and they were alone, there was no need to ask. Everyone could guess that something sad had happened at home.
If two or more people were drinking wildly, then something happy had happened.
With a little more asking around, anyone who needed help and could be helped would naturally receive it. If there was nothing anyone could do, everyone would tacitly give them space to be alone.
Everyone was already well past their youth. They were no longer depressed teenagers who wanted to kill themselves whenever they felt sad. A little time to adjust was all they needed.
If it was something worth celebrating, there was no need to ask. They would naturally want someone to share it with.
One thing, however, changed Henry's prejudice that white people did not understand the art of insulting others.
In truth, that stereotype was wrong.
Perhaps American teenagers heavily influenced by Black culture had become more impatient. Rather than talking trash with their mouths, they preferred to pull out guns to communicate.
But white people from redneck culture had an equally rich repertoire of insults. At the very least, in a country where stand-up comedy flourished, claiming they did not know how to mock people would be a bit self-deceptive.
Henry had heard things like this more than once:
"You finally showed up looking like a human being again instead of hiding somewhere else. I was starting to think the bar counter was my home, you lowdown, shameless bastard."
"Yeah, I'm surprised you can still come in front of me and say that shit. I thought you'd already been planted six feet under. Oh, that's what I hoped would happen, not what actually happened to you. Since you're through my door, fucking speak like a human instead of mumbling like a nigger."
"Forget it. Get me a beer."
"Ten Dao."
"What, ten Dao?! Jesus Christ, Old John, what are you, half Jewish or something? You keep raising the damn price."
"A can of beer has cost ten Dao for ten years already. You stubborn Scottish son of a bitch, if you've got amnesia, you should see a doctor."
"Yeah, keep the change. You'll need it for your doctor bills later."
"I'll take your money and donate it to the church, ask the priest to save you a plot in the cemetery."
This sort of mutual mockery played out in the bar all the time, twenty or thirty times a day. It had practically become Old John and the others' way of greeting each other.
In the United States of the nineties, although all sorts of political correctness were beginning to awaken, it had not yet reached the point of pushing back against white traditions. So Black jokes and racial jokes came one after another from these people's mouths. No one spared anyone else.
Admittedly, people from different cultural backgrounds might not understand what was funny about some of those remarks. That could not be denied.
Even though these things would no longer be acceptable to say in public a few decades later, that did not stop Henry from learning how to fit into this old-fashioned society, to live like a white American rather than some Black street thug.
No matter what, his appearance had already boxed him into a certain category. Was there any benefit to making his words and behavior resemble those of Black people?
As for holding himself up as someone from a land of etiquette, like in his previous life, while actually living timidly and groveling everywhere, that would only earn him contempt in this world.
The old white men in town would not think the boy was refined, gentle, humble, and polite; they would only think he was a pussy!
The old white ladies in town were even worse. They directly treated this big young man as a masculine-looking woman with a fragile heart.
Being seen as a pussy was one thing. That fit his principle of playing dumb and slacking through life. But being seen as effeminate was unbearable, especially being seen as effeminate in the eyes of slash fangirls. Wouldn't that make him the bottom?
Though the term "slash fangirl" probably had not appeared yet in this era, that did not mean such people did not exist!
But to say it for the third time, the bar was truly very quiet. So most of the time, Henry passed the time watching an old CRT television sitting on the counter.
Old John had not subscribed to any paid channels, so apart from free news channels, there were only television stations that endlessly replayed old movies and old soap operas.
It was clearly a color television, yet it played black-and-white movies. Even so, Henry watched them with complete fascination.
He did not watch those old movies to learn English or anything. He was simply bored out of his mind.
He had been locked in a sunless research facility by the Russians for nearly twenty years. Forget entertainment—he had not even had the most basic human interaction.
For someone who had already grown used to loneliness in his previous life, having no one to talk to was not much. But having not even the slightest entertainment really could drive a person to death from boredom.
Now that he had finally seen daylight again and been taken in by Old John, Henry naturally did not expect a life of bright lights and luxury.
Even if he wanted one, this nameless little town did not have the conditions for it. So the outdated channels on that broken old television became the only salvation for this hidden otaku.
If he could have all the Otaku happy water he wanted, that would truly be wonderful. Unfortunately, Old John had already been merciful enough to provide plenty of food.
These things were like compensation for past deficits, constantly being absorbed by his body.
Had anyone ever seen someone who only ate and never defecated, only drank and never urinated? That was Henry's situation now.
The moment food entered his mouth, his body converted it with one hundred percent efficiency. Not a trace of feces or urine was produced, so naturally he never had to shit or piss.
At the same time, his thin, scrawny body kept changing. He grew stronger and more powerfully built by the day.
His entire body was like an inflating balloon, changing almost every day. Anyone attentive enough could see it.
As for Old John's mindset, Henry could more or less sense it. You could not bring anything with you when you were born, and you could not take anything with you when you died. So if someone could use what he had, he did not mind at all.
After all, in a shitty place like Alaska, no amount of saving would turn him into a millionaire. No matter how much he lost, he would not be driven into bankruptcy.
So when it came to a boy who needed help, he did not hesitate to lend a hand.
It had nothing to do with whether the boy was Black or white. The future belonged to the young, not old men like him with one foot already in the coffin.
Before you continue