in the loop

info waves collapsed into whizzing particles

The Chool Bus (ch18)

CHAPTER 18: The Forks crash through dense Oregon forests dodging Sasquatch and Mother Nature.

As the research tour meandered through Pacific Northwest territory, the Forks made their way to scheduled stops from Seattle to Tacoma, from Portland to Eugene, and Oregon’s Lane Community College…a last stop before taking some time to visit Jack’s cousin in Coquille. The pace was frenetic as Portland’s traffic congestion affected the itinerary in ways not accurately factored by Jack and Billie. And though she was able to stay calm, Billie was hard pressed to hit all planned destinations on time. The stretch from Corvallis to Eugene was a welcomed respite…the gang was ready to let their hair down and enjoy some down-time in Coquille. 

From Eugene, they made their way to Florence and though running late, they decided to push on down the 101 Coastal Highway to Coos Bay where they could settle at the local 24-hour fitness club. Again, the gang was running late. The sun slowly disappeared, a soupy fog/biblical downpour rolled in, visibility inched ever closer to nil, and Billie was obliged to nudge the Chool Bus through this leg of the trip slowly, hazard flashers blazing. It was a white knuckle stretch for Billie but Jack was snoozing in his sleeping berth, Buck was in the passenger seat providing moral support, and Professor T was anxiously staring out the window hypnotized by the downpour, the claustrophobia-inducing tree walls persisting for miles and miles.

In this somewhat nightmarish crawl through the sodden darkness, Professor T’s thoughts ran wild with replays of conversations involving Abigail’s attorneys and the court-appointed mediator. On one hand, Professor T understood the #metoo movement was a necessary seismic correction in gender relations. It wasn’t just about high-profile takedowns… it was a fundamental demand for dignity and the right to exist in professional and private spaces without the threat of predatory behavior. It forced long-overdue conversations about consent, power dynamics, and the invisible labor women have historically carried. 

On the other hand, the rise of the “Manosphere”…the world of Alpha-grindset podcasts and “bro” influencers…seemed a bit more than a random backlash to Mork Thompson. More like a symptom of deep-seated identity metamorphosis. Professor T recognized traditional roles (provider, protector) were becoming less tied to economic reality. Where many were feeling disempowered at best, their very existence increasingly viewed as inherently problematic at worse. He felt his fellows were looking for a script that could provide purpose, strength, or at least, a sense of belonging.

He considered himself savvy to this dynamic and viewed himself sympathetic to the plight of women. He recalled John Lennon’s song, Woman is the Ni***r of the World. Professor T’s take was that, due to their willingness to sign up for nature’s demands in the process of proliferating the species, they should be more accurately be considered heroes of the world. Not to mention the monthly pain of simply existing. In short, Professor T considered himself in league with the ladies. 

Abigail surely knew this about him, so all things considered, Professor T concluded Abigail’s campaign was a setup. He suspected she was caught up in a nefarious plan hatched by the ethically challenged duo, Scheizer and Bok. In the beginning he experienced self-doubt, he truly wondered if his outlook had been so out of whack that her case was legit, but then he recalled an encounter with the shysters where they appeared to be provoking him. Scheizer, with his fragile and bony constitution always ended up standing behind Bok, pasty, bloated, and shabbily dressed.

It seemed they were trying to provoke Professor T to assault one of them. He even thought he heard Scheizer say something to the effect of, “Does this inquiry anger you? Perhaps you would like to give my partner a shove, or maybe a poke in the jaw?” 

Of course, Professor T could only look on with astonishment. In his thinking, members of the professional class, doctors, teachers, lawyers, etc. were always well intended and professional in their day to day interactions. When it appeared someone with the privilege of representing clients in a court of law was exhibiting grasping and corrupt behavior, he experienced a shock of cognitive dissonance. Always wary of falling into a trap of fundamental attribution error, Professor T’s response, when encountering corruption, was quick to explain it away by acknowledging everyone has their share of battles, telling himself he must be misinterpreting motives of those who appear to be behaving in less than ethical ways. 

***

Breaking Professor T’s reverie, a thunder crash rattled the cabinets. Billie confessed later it gave her a good jump scare. But just before the crash, in that instant of bright illumination, Professor T could have sworn he saw a lumbering, hairy figure in the trees. And for the rest of the stretch to Coos Bay, he scanned the fog and rain obscured dense tree belt for more evidence of forest dwelling wookies. Of course nothing more would appear in the good professor’s visual field. He decided to keep this sighting to himself as it would never do to have a respected academic confessing belief in the Sasquatch mythology. It was difficult to hold his tongue, but he was traveling with friends so he resolved to make a joke about the sighting over dinner once the Chool Bus was parked for the night…a trial balloon to check his traveling companions’ reaction.

NEXT WEEK:
The White-Knuckle Storm Crawl Continues… Tales of Ghosts, Toxic Waste Contamination, and GOLD in Coquille.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch17)

CHAPTER 17: Professor T explains the rationale for his research.

Professor T has some well defined opinions about the nation’s fibrillating heart. Indeed. But also, he tries to keep personal opinions to himself when discussing research as a general rule. After all, it’s about the study’s participants and data, not the researcher. That said, he’s fairly open with the Forks and Buck, especially after a couple of margaritas. Something about returning to his grunge-metal roots in Seattle filled him with a blustering swagger that can only be interpreted as flow state channeling.

To set the scene: It was the gang’s last night in Seattle. As a fitting sendoff, they chose a place frequented by their favorite artists, the Central Saloon. 

“Woohoo, air-fried vittles and libations!” Jack was hungry and the gang was stoked to commune with their favorite grunge ghosts. This was the place. In the 1970s the Central Saloon helped introduce live blues and rock to the neighborhood. In the 1980s it played a role in the rise of Grunge, hosting shows by the genre’s leading lights. 

“Yup… that sounds like a solid plan,” said Mork T.

Now, when Professor T gets all liquered up…deep into one of those no-holds-barred-rages…he starts grumbling about the Great Flyover. He’s been known to echo the likes of HL Mencken, lamenting how sectors of the rural South and Midwest are vast, Dollar General wastelands where intelligence is a mark of shame and systemic prejudice clings like barnacles on the ship of culture.

“We are what we think and the American media is currently a swamp of rot and resentment,” said Professor T. “The national heart isn’t just skipping beats… it’s in a full-blown, fibrillating code-blue emergency.” According to the Professor, a glowing ember of white resentment turned into a goddamn inferno the moment an intelligent, scandal-free black man ascended to the White House without an Anglo-Saxon overseer holding the leash. This sent the small-town bourgeois…those without skills to join the laptop/air travel class or too proud to mount the struggle bus…into a total psychological aneurysm. “Many find themselves lifetime members of the doomed underclass… they know it and somebody has to pay. This paves an express-lane for demagogues promising retribution.” Mork T was approaching a tequila-fueled angry flow state.

Through the din of house music (a bit too loud) and the compensating murmur of the bar patrons, Professor T, fueled by top-shelf blue agave continued, “Let’s get down to brass tacks. This tooth-gnashing fury, in part, can be traced to the degradation of an indispensable social asset…whiteness…it’s a bank account that’s fast approaching zero.” Practically yelling over the din, and channeling Mencken, he referred to the phenomena as anthropoids reacting to civilized humanity… a primal, beastly shriek to reestablish an hierarchy nature was busy flushing down the toilet. “I actually feel a twisted sort of compassion for their apprehension. Imagine the sheer, bone-chilling terror of realizing a person from a traditionally marginalized demographic was actually the smartest person in the room, especially if that person is a woman, and you’re standing there with nothing but fading ethnic/gender privilege and a bad attitude for consolation.”

“And that’s just one pole of oscillation,” Jack was familiar with Professor T’s 19th Century Wildian musings regarding the attractive and repellent forces of science and religion.

“Right! Religion, the opiate of the masses,” Professor T extended the segue. “You have that end times doctrine… the ultimate supernatural shell game. It’s a beautiful grift, really. The apocalypse has a 100% failure rate, but hustlers never run out of marks,” said Professor T.

Jack was beginning to tap the flow. “It’s a perpetual motion machine of dread. Every time the world doesn’t end the year and month predicted they chalk it up to a clerical error by a god who apparently can’t read a Mayan Calendar, and the believers line up for more disappointment a couple years later.” Jack was yelling to be heard over the din just as one song was ending and before the next began. Of course nearby patrons heard the outburst and turned to look at the Forks’ table. Some snickers, some frowns, mostly disinterested staring. It was Jack’s second pint of Imperial IPA, so he was feeling particularly uninhibited. In response, he gave the gawkers a take a picture, it lasts longer countenance, sorta dancing in his chair to the next song’s groove.

“Why do they buy it?” asked Billie. 

Professor T put on a disinterested, deadpan countenance. “The outlook is grim. For one, Their Rapture represents a cosmic revenge for disenfranchisement. It lets the ‘pious’ picture their godless neighbors being slow-roasted in a lake of fire while they sit on a cloud playing their golden harp.” 

Billie snickered, “Good one,” she winked. She had always marveled at doomsday ravers’ ability to willingly suspend disbelief regardless of how many end times deadlines come and go.

“It’s a bitter-kiss theology of spite,“ Professor T chimed in. He had always found the whole thing absurd. “You’ve got people who swear the world is ending next Tuesday yet they’re fighting like cornered rats to control the local library board on Wednesday,” nods from the table. “It’s not about saving souls… it’s about will to power exercised with willful ignorance,” said Professor T.

“Right.” Jack was hanging in there. “The Evangelical Ethnonationalist is just a person who wants the Kingdom of Heaven because the Kingdom of Earth…with its books, its reason, and inconvenient facts…is too goddamn hard to navigate.”

Buck, attentively taking it in, offered his take. “It seems we’ve gone from bread and circuses to grievance and retribution, politics designed to keep the populace alarmed and clamoring for a leader to save us from an endless parade of imaginary threats. One day it’s a Black man in high office… tomorrow it’s holy war waged against a veritable parade of boogiemen.”

“The circus never leaves town because the customer never changes,” said Professor T. The former bourgeoisie still remembers when the world handed them all privileges at the front of every line. But now, they’re being asked to make room for formerly disenfranchised minorities. They fear the truth and revel in the freak show.” Professor T was fading.

As if a powerful amphetamine-laced turbo-hallucinogenic mind-jacking recreational street substance had suddenly taken hold in Billie’s brain, she gave the boys a look that can only be described as lucid, psychotic, reptilian predation. She addressed Jack first. “Were you going to let the good professor leave it at that? What about the war waged in kitchens and bedrooms everywhere, always. Have you forgotten about the fact that Western Civilization only granted women personal agency in the last century.” This made a significant impact. The room was still quite noisy so Billy had to up the volume several notches above her comfort level. But there was no indication of physical strain, and she didn’t appear rattled, but the boys knew, they were in for an ass-chewin’ like they haven’t experienced since their porch-monkey days.

“I’m sorry, Billie.” Jack knew there was only one logical response to this oversight, contrition.

“In fact, the rise of Feminism and the reactionary Manosphere are factored into the survey and focus-group methodology,” said Professor T. “We haven’t begun looking for patterns as we’ve only just launched the focus-group tour.” Professor T realized his explanation to Buck and Billie had not included this element, but he knew the advocates for Patriarchal dominance was playing a big role in the social/political disunion. 

“It seems to me, this may be the most impactful conflict right now,” Billie was on fire. “The idea of society digressing, shoving women back into subservient roles, turning the clock back on Women’s Suffrage, the feminist bra burning of the 1960s, and all those Rosey the Riveters getting a post-war taste of bringing home the bacon, enjoying the independence that comes with earning her own way.   

Buck was no stranger to the phenomenon of strong women, his mother’s sister was an architect. But not until an unfortunate scene in her first marriage convinced her to go back to university.

The scene went thusly:

HUSBAND (Jake): “If i wanted your opinion, i’d give it to you.”
AUNT JASMINE: “Excuse me?”
JAKE: “That’s right, look (he throws a pair of his jeans to the floor)…
I am the dictator and you are the subordinate. We’ll have sex when i say so, and you’ll serve up the sandwiches on command. This is a one-way monogamous relationship. You stay home, tend to parenting, my libido, my sandwiches, etc, and i’ll take care of whatever side action i please. Someday, when the world finally wakes up and takes the red pill, i’ll take multiple wives. And that’s how it is. You can contradict these dictates as soon as you can put on those pants… (he points to the jeans on the floor).”
AUNT JASMINE: “Thank god i’m not pregnant.” (she plans her escape)

“I wonder why she didn’t see that coming before the marriage?” said Jack.

“They need to include red flag training in high school,” said Professor T.

“We need to elect a woman in the White House,” said Billie.

“I’m sorry, Billie, i won’t forget the battle of the sexes ever again,” said Professor T.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks crash through the dense Oregon forests, dodging Sasquatch and coastal pirates.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch16)

CHAPTER 16: A different breed of preppers in Spokane, a visit to the Grand Cooley Dam, and a pilgrimage to the home of Grunge Metal’s birthplace.

The gang was stoked! Through all those years and hundreds of gigs, The Forks had never been to Seattle, the birthplace of their favorite music hotbed. And now just a couple more stops to make and they’d be poised at the very doorstep of Grunge Mecca.

First, Spokane… Jack wanted to visit a former colleague and her husband. She, former office manager now golf pro. And he, former hockey pro and veteran of the now turbulent software development business. His firm was grappling with the rise of large language artificial intelligence models (AI) transforming job prospects for code jockeys into something more akin to project management positions. AI was indeed usurping entry level programming jobs and code jockeys were either learning to better interface with people or find other lines of work. Fortunately, Jack’s friend was boardroom politics adept and still gainfully employed.

When the Chool Bus rolled past the address provided, surroundings resembled a Mad Max wasteland so Billie asked Jack to confirm. They could see what looked like a fairly nice house a quarter mile off the paved road. On a dirt road with the surrounding land littered with loose barbed wire, abandoned vehicles, rotting boats, and piles of garbage. 

“Is this it?” cried Billie. “I don’t want the Bus stuck in quicksand, brambles, or a drug deal gone bad.”

Jack put a call into his old friends, Mai and Brandon Wilson. “What gives, Girlfriend? We’re here, but the neighborhood doesn’t look altogether settled… are we in the right place?”

Brandon said he could see the bus from his living room window so, “Yeah, this is the place.”  

Jack introduced the Forks to his friends, former colleagues, hell mates. Mai was from Cambodia and Brandon was Canadian. They were a colorful couple. She was Asian through and through, and he was cracker as they come, she’d refer to him as Honkey from time to time and he affectionately called her Dragon Lady on occasion. The most interesting thing about this colorful couple: Their kids, a boy and a girl, were about as normal as their parents were eccentric. And all of them under a fortified, swanky, million dollar home, nestled in a grove of trees, at the lip of a gorge with a freshwater creek at its base, stocked with provisions, self-sufficient power generation, and weapons ready to survive a zombie apocalypse.

“Wow, this is a far cry from the suburban tract home you had back in the aughts,” said Jack. He was still puzzling over the area’s apparent desolation, and why these folks would choose it for their great Spokane redoubt. 

“Yeah, well apparently your sense of paranoia is contagious.” Mai was fairly snappy with the comebacks. 

“But why? Won’t this area get developed somewhere down the road?” Jack was a self-confessed paranoid, but not pathological, and not nearly enough to invest a million dollars for an opulent mansion plopped down in a rusty dusty junkyard.

“Hey, we’re only a fifteen minute drive from the nearest provision outlets. It’s not as isolated as it seems.” Mai was whipping up her famous sticky rice and spicy dipping sauces. She loves those traditional dishes but Brandon prefers pizza and beer, because, you know… honkey. So, whenever Jack comes around, Mai puts on the spread. It’s a spectacular introduction to Asian food for Professor T, Billie, and Buck. 

After a couple hours of visiting and cleaning up after the meal, the Forks remounted the Chool Bus. A ninety minute drive to the Grand Cooley Dam. They’d catch the 2:00pm guided tour, then push on to the outskirts of Seattle where they’d settle in for the night. In the morning, after enjoying some famous Rain City coffee and danish, the Forks would make their way to London Bridge Studio. This is where a who’s-who of Grunge bands recorded in the 1990s. The first four Alice in Chains recordings, Pearl Jam’s biggest seller, 10, Soundgarden’s major label debut, Louder than Love, Mother Love Bone, Temple of the Dog, and, the thing that Mork T wanted to see most, the vocal booth where Alice in Chains recorded, Man in the Box. 

Next, they’d make their way to Black Dog Forge, a famous practice place for Soundgarden and Pearl Jam to name just a couple. Some of the most classic grunge cuts were written in that basement rehearsal space. Unfortunately, they wouldn’t get inside. They were, however, able to visit room #207, the Sub Pop Suite at the Palladium Hotel, lots of Sub Pop memorabilia, especially the most famous Sub Pop recording, Nirvana’s Bleach. 

Then, of course, a visit to the Edgewater Hotel, a veritable blizzard of music memorabilia, starting with the ‘60s when the Beatles rented rooms after being rejected by other hotels in the area. After that, many other iconic acts stayed at the Edgewater, Led Zeppelin and many more. 

After this whirlwind jaunt through Grunge Mecca, the Forks stopped for a late lunch at the Sub Pop founder’s favorite spot, Pho Bac. Back in the day, Pho Bac had two menu items: small and large bowls of Vietnamese soup, considered medicinal in some circles. Mia and Jack’s favorite work lunch choice back when they were Spokane hell mates in the aughts. Billie shared the sentiment and insisted, “We GOTTA have lunch at Pho Bac!” When they got there they found the original location was closed, but a new one was established a few short yards away… 

Ummmm Pho… good music… good friends… good soup. 

NEXT WEEK:
Professor T explains the rationale for his research.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch15)

CHAPTER 15: Billie and MollyG enjoy the steamy Clearwater Mineral Pool and Coeur d’Alene turns out bland as any mid-sized white-bread college town.

The gang decided to go separate ways for recreation in the Missoula area, Jack and Buck teamed up on a mission to experience the local flavors, that is, the local brew-pub flavors. Experiencing the people was important too, but, according to Jack, “a man has to have priorities.” 

Professor T held the Chool Bus down as a substantial backlog of business had accumulated since departing on this leg of the trip. He wanted it all moved to the outbox before heading to Coeur d’Alene for the next round of focus group interviews. 

By the time Professor T finished his morning necessaries, Billie and MollyG were making their way to the Clearwater Forest in Molly’s Mini Cooper. The ladies had been an item back in the 90s when the Forks were in their heyday, and though their breakup was mostly amicable, Billie suspected Molly hadn’t doused that torch. But as they say… time and tide. MollyG moved on, married one of her favorite high school party pals, had a fulfilling career as a social media strategist, her husband turned out to be a decent human being, and their kids looked to be developing mostly stable. “No complaints. Life is good, though a little predictable and sometimes kind of boring.” Molly was unloading on her trusted confidant and former lover. 

“I’m glad we could reconnect,” said Billie as the ladies eased a’la natural into the healing steam of the Clearwater mineral pool. 

“I often wonder what our lives might have been like had we stayed together,” said Molly. 

“Well, it wouldn’t have been boring.” Billie had the matter settled. “I’ve given this a lot of thought and like you, i’m inclined to go with the normie flow. I don’t try to hide who i really am, but when i think about the challenge of raising children, it would stop being so much about me. I’d strive to give my kids a clean runway into the world. And besides, if there’s a ring on my finger, the town busybodies will have fewer handles to grab when looking for someone to ruin.” Molly turned to Billie with a puzzled squint. “I know that sounds a smidge paranoid. Probably from traveling with a cyber security researcher.” Molly knew she was talking about Jack Dean, someone she had dated before meeting Billie.

“Right.” Molly’s memory bank was dumping Jack residue on her head like Nickelodeon green slime. 

“Like Jack always says, ‘just because your paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you.’ Not sure if Jack or Curt Cobane coined that.” MollyG was a big Nirvana fan, but for her the quote oozed with Jack energy.  

The ladies had a pleasant catchup session, and by the time they were dried, combed, and scrunchied, Billie felt confident MollyG had made peace with her lingering desires. After getting back into their street clothes they remounted the Mini Cooper delivering Billie back to the Chool Bus and MollyG to the hearth and home of her little family.

***

In the morning, Jack and Buck regaled the Forks with some tidbits picked up on their Missoula bar crawl: First, the locals are proud of their rugged, slow-paced, wild-west, hard workin’ diverse heritage, meaning elements of the pale-faced pioneers and the great spirit native sentiments blend in a unique stew that places a high value on protecting the state’s natural beauty and unique history.

But then, the true aim comes bursting forth. You see, Jack is a beer hound, and some of the best brews, according to the Great American Beer Fest, can be found right there in Missoula. The boys started with The oldest brewery in town and the only German microbrewery in the Montana Rockies focusing on traditional lagers. They concluded the tour with a 12 tap pub serving artisan pizza, and a patio with a bird’s eye view of the surrounding mountains.

“Don’t mind me, i’ll just hang around the bus and do all the grunt work.” Professor T was feigning jealousy looking for a humor opening… failing to find one, with a slow smile, he assured the gang he was, “just kidding. In fact, i’m all caught up.”

“Maybe you can lighten up a smidge, yes?” Jack was acting like a jerk.

“We’ll see what we can do,” said Mork Thompson with Jack’s assholiness washing right off his back like water on a duck.

***

The trip to Coeur d’Alene was a bit tense given Professor T’s apprehension regarding the apocalyptic mood of the Great American Redoubt. He was afraid his research into the fibrillating heart of the divided nation might be misconstrued by these end-times preppers as having a political agenda at odds with their ideas about the future.

“Ah, don’t let it worry you.” Jack of all people was playing the voice of reason for a change. “I’m told their ravings are more bluster than anything, though i know their weapons are real. I once employed a network administrator to work in a Spokane office, but he lived on the outskirts of Coeur d’Alene. He invited me to dinner with his family. Seven dirt eaters, door slammers and curtain climbers crawling around the property like feral cats, but cute, yeah. His wife was a consummate den mom. She was able to whip those rug rats into line for dinner like a drill sergeant.” Jack took a bite from the breakfast burrito he had picked up at the grab-n-go.

“Tell Buck about his man cave,” Billie called out from the driver’s seat.

“Oh, yeah. Well, this guy was definitely strapped. His man cave was lined with pistols, rifles, survival gear, and some ominous crates in a dark corner. I asked him about those crates, about the size of a rocket-propelled grenade launcher, if he had one, that is.” 

“Woah!” Buck was paying close attention to Jack’s story. 

“Yeah,” said Jack. “I asked about them, and his response would have been funny if not cliche. He said, and i quote, ‘i could tell you, but…’ And that’s where my curiosity reached its end. I really didn’t want to know this about him.”

“Did he think you were going to leave it at that?” Buck was curious.

“Well, for all i know, those crates were filled with first-aid gear and supplies. None of it was any of my business. The guns i saw were all legal and registered. The evening left me the impression that he was an old-fashioned, be fruitful and multiply church-going, hard working American dad with enough ordinance to protect the brood in the event of an attack from a hostile force.” 

“Was he a good network admin?” Buck wanted to know.

“Sure, he never gave me cause to think otherwise. For all i know, he’s providing quality IT support for some other firm as we speak. But i had to block him on Facebook as he’s a prolific Christian doomsday ranter and it stopped being funny, so i really don’t know what he’s up to now.”

“None of this feels comforting,” Professor T was half listening to the conversation, and sinking deeper into an unsettling dread.

“You’ll see,” Jack was slightly amused by Professor T’s uncharacteristic concern. And as the Forks were packing the Chool Bus for the next leg of the trip, Professor T had forgotten all of those worries as the focus group and interactions around Coeur d’Alene turned out to be bland and pedestrian as one might expect from any Norman Rockwell world depicted in those Americana Paintings.

NEXT WEEK:
A different breed of preppers in Spokane, a visit to the Grand Cooley Dam, and a pilgrimage to the home of Grunge Metal’s birthplace. 

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch14)

CHAPTER 14: Professor T steps in it again and Billie arranges a mineral hot spring rendezvous with a kindred spirit.

Billie Schmidt has a reliable method for combating driver fatigue common in her family. Her dad was notorious for nodding behind the wheel. And though never a traffic tragedy, he did send family members into a state of watchful vigilance and maybe that’s why. And so Billie had several mitigations aimed at setting passengers at ease. “Sunflower seeds and citrus-infused seltzer,” she said when Jack marveled at her stamina behind the wheel.

Today however, Billie is on a mission… get to Missoula and get settled so she can duck out in the morning for some hot springs action, a’la natural.  And since they would be close, she made a mental note to contact an old friend from the wild days, MollyG. Their talent was staying out of jail by sheer will and MacGyveresque creativity. And so MollyG would meet the forks at the RV park, then spirit Billie away in her Mini Cooper…more of a covered roller skate than a car…but the gals didn’t need much as they were planning to soak, again, a’la natural. 

The site, located in Idaho’s Clearwater National Forest, a popular, accessible, undeveloped, clothing-optional natural spring. Three rock-lined pools nestled in a forest setting along a half-mile hike. It would take a couple hours to get there from the Missoula campground. A mostly unspoiled, natural, soak in the woods experience with no developed infrastructure, only user-made, rock-bottomed pools… and yes, clothing optional.

Billie was known and admired by many for her brave self-possessed countenance, and she had friends everywhere. But this detour was not something the rest of the Forks were prepared to endure so she was grateful MollyG was available for the outing.

She reached for the seeds and soda, just in case, but didn’t really need them today as she was anxious to meet up with MollyG for a blissful catch-up session. She chuckled with a wide grin reflecting on some of the things that should have but somehow didn’t land the gals in jail back in the day. Like the time they drove Molly’s VW Bug into the porch lattice of one of the neighborhood Mother-in-law cottages. It was an accident, truly, but alcohol might have played a role.

It’s not that the gals were overtly testing the boundaries of what smokin’ hot party girls could get away with…

…more a tale of skant drivers-ed attentiveness and a faulty clutch on the bug. That said, they were fairly sure the boys in her class would have been subjected to the sobriety dance, had their cooler confiscated, and written up for DUI. None of these things happened to Billie and MollyG. 

Billie fixed her gaze down the road. Thoughts of all the straight guys pestering them back in the day, and how they (the fellas) resembled embarrassed peacocks upon finding out the gals were unavailable filled her with nostalgia, a slight smile. Billy let out a shallow sigh. Sunflower seeds, citrus infused seltzer,  wistful reminiscings, and Sam Jackson to keep her heading down the right roads… what more could she ask for?

***

Meanwhile, Professor T was getting agitated by the Zoom conference he had endured the last hundred miles. It was an attempt to mediate a settlement regarding some alleged improper behavior toward long-time administrative manager, Abigail Weiser. Ms Weiser’s attorneys, Scheizer and Bok, had convinced Ms Weiser she should sue for punitive damages, alleging she could have advanced to a higher position at the university in the absence of Professor T’s bogus appeals, power imbalanced intimidation, and non-consensual groping. Of course, this was a believable allegation as Professor T had been committed to bachelor life ever since the dissolution of his only marriage. As far as the Forks knew, Professor T would go to the grave single harboring absolutely no regrets or aspirations for a different fate.

He finally snapped… there would be no settlement. “You’ll get a grand total of nothing, not a single penny from me, you two-bit ambulance chasing charlatans!” He was addressing Ms Weiser’s attorneys, nearly screaming into the headset microphone. “We’ll see you in court!” Professor T probably should have held his composure as this outburst was also witnessed by Ms Weiser and the court-appointed mediator. 

“Now now, temper temper,” Jack was starting to get worried for Professor T’s blood pressure.

“Lemmie at ‘em!” Billie piped in with her characteristically sanguine moral support.

Buck moved a little closer to the red-faced Mork Thompson asking if there was anything he could do to help the good professor navigate what was clearly becoming a career threatening, potential legal minefield. “In fact,” Professor T finally cooling off some shook his head slightly. “I think i need more intel… these shysters are leading Abigail down the road to perdition.”

“Say no more!” Buck knew a Corpus Christi couple in the business of gathering competitive intelligence (read: domestic surveillance and clandestine spycraft). “Head ‘em up… move ‘em out… them yella-bellied varmints are gonna have to deal with karma, Texas style.” Buck was channeling his inner gun slinger.

“Are we there yet?” Jack was eager to change the subject.

NEXT WEEK:
Billie and MollyG enjoy the steamy Clearwater Mineral Pool and Coeur d’Alene turns out bland as any mid-sized white-bread college town.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch13)

CHAPTER 13: The Forks and Buck witness the nation’s fibrillating heart a little more directly than anticipated in the Pacific Northwest.

The Forks had a few days to make the trip to Coeur d’Alene where the next set of interviews were scheduled to be conducted at the University of Idaho. After breakfasting at a Salt Lake mom & pop pancake house, they set off for Missoula, Montana. It would be nearly eight hours on the road, but Billie was up for the challenge as some of the nation’s finest hot springs are located there. She was excited to check out some of the less developed spots for a truly unique communion with mother nature. 

Toward the back of the Chool Bus, the hypnotizing hum of rubber and asphalt lulled Professor T to some fitful napping. He remembered at least three moments between sleep and wakefulness where the dream, or nightmare, stuck to his conscious memory like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth when there’s too much PB and not enough J. One of these, in particular, had the good professor sort of dreading this push into the Great American Redoubt (GAR), an area of the country deeply steeped in apocalyptic religious fundamentalism.

Now, Professor T is a live-and-let-live secular humanist at heart, one hundred percent in support of the 1st Amendment’s explicit provision of religious practice free from government involvement (for or against) but the folks in the GAR of Northern Idaho, Eastern Washington/Oregon, had been slowly creating a space where their brand of apocalyptic Christianity was seeping into a cultural dominance. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, thought Professor T, as long as they don’t try to draw everyone into their oxygen deprived world view. He wasn’t worried for himself so much as for Billie’s safety as a person of gender fluidity. 

It didn’t help that Professor T was watching a documentary on YouTube about the GAR, drifting in and out around the point where some of the worst extremists urged followers to seek out and identify Communists, Jihadists, Antifa & BLM. When responding to a critique over the white nationalist flavor of their apparent political goals, they loudly declared their token black pastor negated all claims of their wish to establish a white ethnostate set to secede from the union like those southern states in the mid-19th Century. Of course, that separation led to a bloody civil war and the radical element of the GAR seemed anxious for a rematch. 

In that misty state between wakefulness and dreaming, Professor T heard voices declaring California and the i25 corridor in Colorado the playground of the devil… spiritual warfare … good-vs-evil. There’s mention of a manifesto that reads like the Anarchists Cookbook for prepper GAR compatriots… lots of tactical advice. For example, in The Biblical Basis for War: A Plan For Creating a New Theocracy Through Violence. First, “Make an offer of peace before declaring war.” This offer would not be a negotiation or compromise of perceived righteousness. Non Christians MUST surrender on terms of the GAR’s brand of justice, including the halting of all abortions, same sex marriage, idolatry, occultism (read: no Wicca, or anything resembling paganism), no communism (whatever that’s supposed to mean), and all must obey biblical law (like the Taliban in Afghanistan). Those who comply must pay the GAR’s taxes and those males who refuse… will be killed… read that again… they. will. be. killed!

“Comply or die.” Jack was hip to the irony of folks displaying Gadsden Flags with a snake expressing a desire that tyrannical government entities refrain from stepping near them… the folks who trumpeted warnings of a nationwide gun confiscation and establishment of concentration camps by the previous administration were now silent as their own political party’s federal government was snapping up abandoned warehouses for the stated purpose of facilitating mass deportation of illegal immigrants. As well, sending divisions of armed goon squads into cities run by political opponents.

“Irony is dead,” Jack mumbled as Professor T voiced his increasing apprehension approaching the GAR. 

“Yes, dead, but unacknowledged irony doesn’t mean mixing with the folks in the GAR could be dangerous… yet.” Professor T cued up an interview featuring a librarian from the Coeur d’Alene area who had spent time in law enforcement during the bad old days when Neo-Nazi groups had set up compounds in the area, some taking their views to extremes with the murder of 1980s talk radio personality, Alan Berg. She said she was certain Idaho would not allow that sort of militant activity again. 

“But still,” Jack’s 6th sense was tingling. He was worried they might run into some trouble poking around asking questions of the GAR locals. 

“Not to worry,” Buck was listening to Jack and Professor T’s conversation. “I know plenty of rodeo dudes from Northern Idaho, and they say all of that great secessionist redoubt talk is empty bluster. You know, like in Iran when they chant ‘Death to America’. Really, all they’re saying is they don’t like our one sided approach to Middle East diplomacy. It’s how they express dissatisfaction.”

“Take the goddamn next exit,” Sam Jackson barked from Siri’s Drunk Sister’s bluetooth audio link.

“Well, i don’t much care about politics, but i am hungry,” Billie had to weigh in as she steered the Chool Bus into a truck stop somewhere around Idaho Falls. “Let’s get some truck stop food.”

NEXT WEEK:
Professor T steps in it again, and Billie arranges a mineral hot spring rendezvous with a kindred spirit.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch12)

CHAPTER 12: The Chool Bus survives a torrential downpour and Buck is treated to a personal data colonoscopy.

It was late afternoon and storm clouds were gathering, a June rarity in Salt Lake City. So the Forks rode together to a designated brewpub near the capital. After some post-interview observations discussing the unique character of the locals, appetizers and beers were ordered and the Forks endeavored to dig into the personal history of their fuckin’ new guy as Billie would put it, FNG for short. It was going to be a long year and Buck Wellstone had some catchin’ up to do with this tight-knit trio. So Jack kicked the game into play with the first question. “Tell us about yourself, Buck, and give us a sense of your personal influences,” Jack anticipated a painful norm of reciprocity exercise as he expected everyone to be as reticent as himself.

“Sure,” Buck began. He was grinning as if he had endured this kind of personal colonoscopy before. Taking on a subtle shift in affect, perhaps channeling campfire moments among his early adulthood classmates and friends back home, he launched into a lyrical monologue. 

“Likely as not, you’ve got me sized up already, ‘account of me hailin’ from South Texas and puttin’ in my time up there in Wyomin’. Fair enough. I don’t much hide the way i was raised. But i’ll tell you straight… i ain’t never crossed trails with a man who looks a lick like that fella on the billboard. You know the one… stiff-jawed, a smoke hangin’ just so, and a sunset that looks like it was painted on by someone who never broke a sweat in his life. The truth of the matter is, a modern cowboy doesn’t just sprout from some fancy marketing scheme. No, sir. We’re a uniquely American gumbo… a rich stirrin’ of traditions that surely don’t require the blessin’ of a Madison Avenue suit to know who we are.”

This piqued the interest of everyone. Professor T remembered his childhood, watching all those black & white westerns on one of the only TV channels that came in clear, Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Bonanza, and Rawhide. Jack was partial to the Coen Brothers’ take on the 1970s classic True Grit, and Billie’s schema of American cowboys came from movies like The Urban Cowboy, The Midnight Cowboy, The Power of Dog, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

The pints and bites had arrived, and as the Forks split rapt attention between sips, nibbles, and Buck’s verbal tapestry, the minutes flew by between distant peals of thunder. “You see, when it comes to rodeo culture and cowboys in general, there are two flavors. You’ve got the ones who take it all quite sober, lookin’ at a steer like a geometry proof that has to be solved in less than eight seconds. Then you’ve got the others… the devil may care thrill seekers in it for the grins, giggles, and enough cold beer to drown a water buffalo.”

Buck took a long, thirsty pull from his pint of pilsner, dipped a fried mushroom in the ranch dressing provided and resumed. “I find myself reminiscin’ about a particular gentleman… a steer roper by trade… who held the firm conviction that every livin’ soul on God’s green earth, whether man or beast, ought to be tempered as stout as a well-worn saddle. One fine afternoon, he invited a rather refined city fellow out for a ride through the brush. They journeyed until the shadows stretched out as long as a California Sequoia, at which point our prankster looked that dandy square in the eye and said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost our way, friend. It appears we’ll be beddin’ down beneath the stars tonight, much like the range riders of old.’ And indeed they did. They made do with naught but sweat-dampened saddle blankets for their pillows and their covers. That poor fellow endured the night, tremblin’ with the chill and feelin’ a mite worse for wear, likely contemplatin’ the series of unfortunate decisions that led him to that patch of dirt. When the sun finally graced the horizon, they crested the very next rise… and lo and behold, there sat that scoundrel’s bunkhouse, not a mile’s distance away. It is, i suppose, a rather stern lesson that the ‘good ol’ days’ were often seasoned with a generous helpin’ of most disagreeable circumstances.”

Just then a bolt from Zeus’ quiver slammed into something not but a few blocks away. The thunder crash rattled the custom mugs hanging from hooks above the bartender’s head. It was like a jump scare moment in a horror movie, but Buck was unfazed. “The cowboy itch hits everyone different. Like me, some apply to the University of Wyoming after catchin’ the fever at Frontier Days in Cheyenne. Now, that’s a tradition that started back in 1897 when the cattle barons wanted to lure in some new blood and get their city noticed. They organized a little get-together, a few thousand folks showed up, and a century later, the cowboy games show no sign of lettin’ up. Today, you’ve got young people and city folk comin’ for the buzz, all united by stubby-bottle banquet beer, coiled ropes, and lonesome hopes.”

“I’ve heard a little about the Cheyenne Rodeo. I’ve always wanted to go, but haven’t made it yet. Tell us about it, Buck.” Professor T wanted to hear it from someone with actual experience.

Buck took a measured breath, offerin’ a polite nod as he gathered his thoughts. “Well now,” he began, “it all commences with a grand parade, much like that very first gatherin’ back in eighteen-hundred and ninety-seven. The thoroughfares are fairly teemin’ with… well, pardon my bluntness, but there’s a fair amount of hoss apples and a great deal of ranch finery polished to a high shine for the occasion. You’ll see the Miss Rodeos from every state in the West, perched high in their saddles, sparklin’ in sequins and Stetsons, callin’ out to the crowds with the most marvelous, wild enthusiasm. But, you see, a rodeo simply isn’t a rodeo without the livestock. Behind those chutes, there lies a labyrinth of what one might call restrained fury. You’ll find bulls that possess the sheer, muscular presence of a behemoth wrapped in rawhide, and broncs that seem to be patiently waitin’ for some unsuspecting tourist to lean just a bit too close… providin’ them the opportunity to make a quick meal of a fine straw hat.”

Another not so distant peal of thunder, then the sky opened up like the Jolly Green Giant dumping a bucket on the roof.

“It’s a partnership of sorts.” Buck was unshakable. “Though a violent one. Half a rider’s score depends on the animal’s performance. These bulls and broncs are athletes… and believe me, they’re just as keyed up for the clash as the riders are. The cowboys themselves? They’re friendly, they’re nervous, and they ought to be scared shitless to be strappin’ themselves to a ton of fury that wants ’em gone by any means necessary.”

“BOOM!” bellowed Mother Nature.

 “Should we be checking the bus for leaks?” Professor T was worried.

“Naw.” Billie saw the storm coming. She made sure all of the windows and ceiling vents were closed before retiring to the pub. “I did an idiot check, and the roof fixtures are made with the latest weatherproof sealant. It better not be leaking. Please, Buck, continue.” Billie was riveted by Buck’s back story.

“Anyway…” Buck was sufficiently warmed up. “The gate swings, the announcer’s voice twangs over the PA, and high-energy rock music blares loud enough to rattle your fillings. If the cowboy hangs on for the required eight seconds, they might get a commemorative belt buckle. If not? They get lashed, whiplashed, and finally just throwed.”

“I’ve seen video of modern rodeos, the cowboys wear kevlar vests and face masks to guard against getting gored,” Jack remarked.

Buck took a moment, his expression softenin’ with a touch of gravity… he’d seen too many good men broken by those temperamental beasts to ever treat the matter lightly. “Now, you must understand,” he continued, “these measures were put in place followin’ some truly somber tragedies. More importantly, we must consider the modern bullfighter. And i beg of you, don’t go doin’ that man the disservice of callin’ him a clown. He is, in every sense that matters, a soldier draped in denim and cleats. He performs a most perilous dance between a thunderin’ bull and a fallen rider, actin’ as a courageous decoy. He moves with the nimble grace of a varsity halfback, pivotin’ and spinnin’ away from those brutes… creatures that acknowledge no rules of engagement, possessin’ naught but pure, unadulterated fury. He’ll willingly place himself in harm’s way to shield a man he might’ve only just met over a cup of coffee at the snack bar. They may well paint their faces and employ a few colorful barrels for the sake of the children’s amusement, but mark my words: their true callin’ has precious little to do with provokin’ a laugh.”

“I love to watch the rodeo clowns… they’re like clairvoyants anticipating the animals’ play.” Billie appeared to be a closet cowgirl, something she had yet to reveal about herself as country music was mostly the subject of caustic ridicule in the Grunge-Metal community.

“Anyway, my dad is the most influential person in my life, and he loved the cowboy mythos. I’m more than happy to follow in his bootsteps.” Buck was winding down. “It’s a bizarre world, this modern West. We’ve got city dandys in snakeskin boots browsin’ ropin’ tutorials on YouTube and TikTok. Sorta like that movie Billie mentioned, the one with that disco dancin’ dude, what’s his name?” This rankled Jack as one of his favorite movies is Pulp Fiction, and EVERYBODY knows John Travolta, right? 

“You mean Urban Cowboy John Revolta, don’cha?” Professor T was starting to get a little tipsy.

“Nobody’s expectin’ any of this to make any sense,” Buck said. “And when the dust settles and the games are played out, there’s usually nothin’ left to do but get drunk and talk about what might’ve been. See, my dad says the mythical cowboy will be with us for a long, long time. Like the outlaw biker, he’s here for the perpetually alienated to appropriate, defy, or reclaim as we all squint against the fog of this ongoing culture war… what does Professor T call it?”

“The fibrillating heart of our divided nation,” answered the good professor.

Buck, eager to dive into the food, put a lid on his monologue, “For some reason… maybe it’s the dirt, maybe it’s the danger, or maybe it’s just the hat… we just can’t quit the cowboy mythos. And it’s a long way from 1897, but the spirit’s still the same… life is tough, the ground is hard, and ya better hold on tight.”

“Here here,” Professor T hiccupped. 

“Thank you for your patience,” said Jack. “I have a greater appreciation for cowboy culture. Maybe we can catch a rodeo somewhere on the tour. There’s one in South Florida in January. That ain’t a bad place to be in the dead of winter.”

As Billie and Jack conferred over the next leg of the tour, Professor T motioned for the check. Mother Nature had finally let up on the rain, and the Forks plus Buck would make their way to the campground for a good night’s rest, providing they don’t find puddles in their sleeping bunks.

NEXT WEEK:
Idaho enroute to Washington State

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch8)

Chapter 8: The Forks prepare for a long swing through the western states, Professor T ponders a vivid dream, and Abigail Weiser takes advantage of his unsuspecting nature. 

Mork T’s eyes popped open around midnight. He hadn’t felt this giddy since The Forks’ early days. That is, before the charms of his post-punk song & dance routine began to wear thin. After an obligatory visit to the toilet he would try to get right back to sleep as tomorrow would be a long day of travel along familiar highways. Sometimes however, the call of nature sings subtly, not loud enough to force an immediate nocturnal trip to the commode… just enough to invoke that foggy state of consciousness where textures, moving objects, interactions, and colors are vivid as ever with your waking mind present enough to recognize the dream state and, depending on the desirability of the images, works to keep it going. In this straddled state, Mork T witnessed a stunning tapestry of swirling figures, all moving in color-streaked spirals around his awareness. A hurricane of sensation where the locus of observation was like the cockpit of an aircraft in the eye of a category-5 storm. He saw artifacts of human progress; he saw the icons of religious tradition; he saw labs of scientific inquiry; he saw spires of great cathedrals, microscopes, holy books, high-tech weapons, bottles of communion wine, communication satellites, pipe organs, advanced medical imaging machines, and gilded pulpits swirling around him in an ever expanding spiral. And just as Professor T’s awareness worked for a finer focus at these swirling shapes, the dream state evaporated like so much morning fog. As he reached for the flush handle, he tried to focus his bearing toward slipping back into a cozy position in bed in order to get right back into the dream state. Before pulling the covers and placing a pillow between his knees, he made a mental note to take up the dream impressions for later ponderings.  

And now, in the department office, taking care of final details, Abigail Wiser, long-time office administrative manager, approached Professor T with Buck Wellstone’s application paperwork. Just a couple more signatures and the process would be complete. She approached him with a Mona Lisa smile. Had Mork T been more aware of his surroundings he would have noticed Abigail’s attire was a tad more provocative than usual. She knew the rest of The Forks and Buck Wellstone were to meet in the office at noon. They would grab a lunch in the university cafeteria one last time before boarding the Chool Bus and striking west for Salt Lake City by way of Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Abigail was hovering a bit closer to Professor T than usual, but he thought nothing of it since he believed their relationship had settled into a strictly professional mode years ago. Little did he know, but Ms Wiser was setting him up to be caught by his traveling companions in the act of misconduct clearly prohibited by the policies of Title IX.

As Billie, Jack, and Buck entered the closed door of Professor T’s office, what they witnessed would be hard to interpret as purely innocent.

She tripped, fell against him, he caught her, hands around her waist and just as the Forks were entering the room, Abigail struggled against Professor T’s hold as if to escape an unwanted groping. As the Forks stood there, jaws agape, Professor T tried to maintain a dignified countenance, but Abigaile played her part with great panache. “This isn’t what it looks like,” said Professor T looking wide-eyed at his companions.

“Have a great trip,” said Abigail with a cold sneer as she elbowed her way out of the office.

After an awkward, silent beat, “Well… who’s hungry?” Jack enthusiastically inquired, eager to get past the chilly silence. 

“Right… shall we?” Professor T gestured toward the open door, leading the gang toward the cafeteria.

***

It was a perfect day for a road trip… evening was approaching as Billie steered the Chool Bus into Silverthorne Colorado. It was time to pull over for some rest before pushing on to Salt Lake City where their next focus group interviews would be conducted on the campus of the University of Utah. 

In a quiet reverie, with the hypnotizing sound of rubber to the road, Professor T recalled images experienced in the early morning hours of this day. It seemed as if his unconscious was sending him messages related to the research he was conducting. For most of his adult life, Professor T would be dismayed at the behavior of his fellow Kanoradians. Staunchly conservative in rural areas and moderately progressive in the population centers. Even so, there was much in the way of rancorous discontent between neighbors, even family. Some folks driven to the point of insisting the only solution to this stubborn culture clash would be a rematch of the Civil War. And with the rise of Social Media’s dominance of the Internet, these divides grew worse with each passing year. Professor T dubbed this the fibrillating heart of our divided nation and he hoped his findings would help people see a way out of this corrosive state of affairs. And so, the image of a swirling vortex of science and religious icons spinning around as if attracted and repelled simultaneously held some hinting charm in his mind.

Then the memory of Abigail Weiser, someone with whom he had years of shared professional experience, inexplicably forcing a close unwelcome physical encounter within eyeshot of witnesses had him puzzled. He knew she had crushed on him many years ago, but believed she had grown to accept the fact that he was not open to that kind of relationship, especially with co-workers. The encounter caused no great consternation and so his thoughts drifted back to the research project.

The sound of Sam Jackson berating Billie for missing a turn in Silverthorne broke Professor T’s reverie. Jack and Buck were finishing a chess match when Billie pulled the Chool Bus into the RV park where the gang would rest for the night.

“Check?” cried Jack with an almost surprised tone.

Buck took a moment to confirm, but sure enough, “I think it’s mate,” he mumbled. “Well played,” Buck congratulated his new colleague for an interesting match.

Next Week:
Professor T ponders mental residue of the previous evening’s dream and the newly expanded Forks make sightseeing plans before resuming research interviews.

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch7)

Chapter 7: After a successful initial run, the Forks return home. Mr Wellstone’s application is approved and he joins the gang for a long push through the Western States. 

As we have yet to describe Professor T to any satisfying detail, please indulge this meta moment as we more properly introduce this slightly enigmatic character. Mork J (Jehoshaphat) Thompson was born in a Kansas small town a little over 20 miles due South of Junction City, training ground for the US Army’s oldest active-duty infantry division, The Big Red One. Council Grove was named after an agreement between American settlers and the native Osage Nation allowing settlers’ wagon trains to pass westward through the area on the Santa Fe Trail. Pioneers from the established Eastern states gathered at a grove of trees so that wagons could band together for their trip west. Council Grove’s first post office was established in 1855, several decades ahead of the remaining soon to be established Western Kansas townships. 

Many a cross-country sojourner East and West can testify and joke about the flat, treeless landscape that characterizes the western two thirds of the Sunflower State. But Council Grove is nestled in the fabled Flint Hills, some of the more interesting topography in a mostly flat landscape where natives jokingly claim the state tree is the telephone pole. Due to its rocky soil, the early settlers were unable to plow the area, resulting in the prevalence of cattle ranches as opposed to the crop land more typical of the Great Plains. 

And like his Flint Hills birthplace, Mork J Thompson is a flinty soul. Almost preternaturally averse to conformist sentiments, Mr Thompson will go out of his way to defy popular trends. Short in stature, stout in constitution and bodily girth, he exudes a stern, almost severe, yet melancholy countenance. His olive skin browns fast and easy in the warmer months, rendering him fairly dark in the summer and walnut-olive in the colder months.

Mr Thompson is an avid reader and this habit served him well after the Great Recession (2007–09) cratered the internet enterprise where he landed after the breakup of The Forks. Later, after finally landing in the halls of higher ed, he adapted… his voracious appetite for knowledge served him well in contributing to the larger discipline by way of published research papers and essays.

With this latest funding grant and burning question he was able to reassemble his favorite team for a year-long expedition exploring public sentiments on politics and culture in the United States of America. Where the data leads is still a big mystery, but The Forks have the means of nimble travel and subsistence through the generous research grant. Professor Thompson is confident the eventual publications will shed illumination on the origin of the nation’s fibrillating heart. If voters and policy makers can use the results to make positive changes for the sake of the nation’s health… success!

And so, we resume where The Forks left off, conspiring to add a fourth teammate in the person of Buck Wellstone.

They say timing is everything and with Mr Wellstone between gigs he was open to some substantial changes. Recently earning his undergrad degree and ready to continue for a Master’s as his advisor told him this path was statistically the best choice for return on investment potential. Lifetime income stats showed a rather large gap between those with a high school diploma and those with a master’s degree. His serendipitous encounter with the Forks and their research mission looked to be a perfect opportunity for facilitating this transition. In the short time he had known The Forks he had grown quite fond and attached.

Professor T impressed him as honest, true and genuinely committed to the American experiment. For some reason, Jack Dean was reserving his normally suspicious tendencies after watching Mr Wellstone effortlessly defuse the potentially volatile situation in Fort Collins, and his unhurried Southern Gentleman countenance. But, if Mr Wellstone was truly honest, he would tell you it was Billie that attracted him to the Forks most earnestly.

Billie notwithstanding, he saw Professor T as brilliant, if innocent, a slightly vulnerable soul in need of a loyal aid de camp. Mr Wellstone understood and believed in the mission depending on this tight-knit team and the Chool Bus on which they rode. When he saw that Professor T failed to see danger brewing in Fort Collins, he intervened to the satisfaction of all involved, the suspicious locals went back to drowning their sorrows and Professor T retired his rather conspicuous recording rig. “Wow, that could have gone sideways in a hurry,” Jack had mused as Professor T dismantled the recording rig. 

“Ah, ‘twern’t nuthin’. That feller weren’t no Curly Wolf,” Buck drawled with his thickest cowboy affect. This, he did every once in while, never failing to produce a grin on Billie’s secretly admiring countenance. Later that evening, Professor T received clearance to process Mr Wellstone’s application. Just a couple more hurdles to clear. Mr Wellstone would sit for an interview with a department search committee, and his references would be contacted. The process would be completed in a couple weeks, then The Forks +1 would resume the Westward push, first stop, Salt Lake City.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks prepare for a long swing through the western states. Professor T ponders a vivid dream and Abigail Weiser takes advantage of his unsuspecting nature. 

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch6)

Chapter 6: The Forks begin their time in Montana with a relaxing day in the steamy drink at Chico and Jack calls Bullshit on a wild Park Ranger’s story. 

Running ahead of schedule the Forks rolled into Montana relaxed and ready to explore the many mineral hot springs found there. Professor T had specifically asked Jack to route their wanderings in such a way as to accommodate national park detours, but especially mineral hot springs. And so Jack remembered a family shindig several years prior where one of his uncles had mentioned a hot spring/lodge complex between the Yellowstone River and the Custer Gallatin National Forest in a place called Chico. According to Jack’s itinerary, they would enjoy some mineral pool bliss then head East to Billings. Once focus group interviews were conducted and filed away they would make their way back home to help Mr Wellstone get his graduate assistantship application in order and take care of some personal necessaries before the next leg of the tour, a much longer sojourn through the wild western states.

Admission paid and bathing suits donned, the gang eased into the steaming medicine pool for some quality soak time. And boy can you meet some interesting people in mineral baths. Professor T struck up a friendly conversation with a retired rescue ranger from the US Forest Service who described a scene straight out of a fever dream. Nestled amongst the Ponderosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, the ranger thought he might be in a situation similar to the one where a climber had to cut off his own hand to escape. Instead, this fella says he encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’d ever thumbed through.

This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grizzly with a bad case of the Mondays.

This was a lumbering, buxom rug with a coat of hair rendering clothing unnecessary. The ranger thought he’d encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. The ranger, we’ll call him Chico Suave (“To protect the ridiculous,” said Jack.), a man who, by his own testimony, wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal terror shimmy down his spine, but forced himself to push the silly sasquatch thoughts aside. He was delirious, desperate to escape the rock tangle, and this strange creature seemed willing to help.

With the grace of a drunken tap dancer on a greased skillet, and with the help of the creature, Chico wrestled with the rock tangle, muttering curses that would get a sailor’s full attention. Finally, with an audible thunk and sending electric pain all the way up his spine, the rock fell away. The hairy maiden straight out of an RCrumb sketch book lumbered to her feet, with a graceful waltz of power and surprising elegance. This unusual savior let out a sound that could have been a growl, a yodel, or maybe the mating call of a particularly disgruntled walrus. Chico, ever the pragmatist, took it as a giant, hairy, “good luck, silly human.”

The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole myths must persist philosophy. She melted back into the woods like a particularly large, pungent shadow. Now, Chico did remember one thing clearly (it was a stressful ordeal and well, he wasn’t completely lucid): The big gal moved with a stealth that would make a ninja weep with envy.

***

Once back at the ranger station Chico showered, and then, slightly less ripe, he dressed the flesh wounds, and nursed a brace of coffee. The encounter with the big gal sat heavy in his gut. He knew the official channels would have him hunting the poor thing down with a posse and a case of tranquilizer darts. But Chico, in a moment of rebellion, decided to keep his trap shut. The big gal deserved her peace, and her myths. Besides, who was Chico to deny the world a little bit of magic, even if it came wrapped in a giant, smelly package? 

“These are lies,” Jack Dean muttered under his breath. 

“That certainly is a fantastic image. Are you sure you weren’t just delirious?” asked Professor T. He considered himself open minded, but this particular story put his credulity to a strenuous test. 

“I don’t care if Ms Sasquatch was a figment of Chico’s imagination, that was a banger of a story,” gushed Billie. “I bet you’ve seen a lot as a rescue ranger.”

“Oh, we have our moments,” said Chico. “But mostly, it’s a battle against boredom. Luckily i’m immune.” And with that, he lifted his arm and pointed to the scars left by the rock tangle. “I don’t pretend to have answers,” said Chico. “And i know this story sounds like utter balderdash, but every time i tell myself i had imagined it all, that dehydration and fear had led me to some sort of semi-conscious autopilot complete with images of receiving assistance from Ms Sasquatch herself, the memories are as vivid today as ever. Soon after, and still harboring PTSD triggered doubts of my sanity, i filed the retirement paperwork, and i’m glad i did,” said Chico. “It’s all good. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed retirement so far. I get more time with the grand kids, and i restore antique furniture for a side-hustle. I tell you, the gratitude i receive from customers makes it all worthwhile. It often leads me to believe i would do it for nothing more,” Chico was deep in reverie of eudaimonia.   

Jack wanted to call bullshit out loud on the sasquatch story, but decided silence was the wiser choice. And with that, The Forks would get a good night’s sleep, gather participants for the Billings focus group interviews in the morning, take in some Big Sky nature hiking, then head back to home base to prepare for the big wild-west push to California.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 7: After a successful initial run, the Forks return home, Mr Wellstone’s application is approved and he joins the gang for a long push through the Western States.

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)