in the loop

info waves collapsed into whizzing particles

The Chool Bus (ch37)

CHAPTER 37: Sweet home Alabama

The drive from Vicksburg to Mobile was uneventful, giving Billie ample time for quiet reflection. The plan was to visit the battleship USS Alabama and the submarine USS Drum before settling into a quiet Foley RV park near Columbia Southern University, with focus-group sessions scheduled at the Orange Beach campus. Buck was keeping the road-trip tunes eclectic and interesting. But as the Chool Bus crossed into “Sweet Home Alabama,” the selection pumping out of the speakers, Werewolves of London, had a familiar ring to it. Jack was in the back of the bus struggling with why that particular song and the Welcome to Alabama sign were connected. Out of the blue, Buck piped up, “Wasn’t that song challenged for copyright by Lynyrd Skynyrd… did they win the case? If so, wouldn’t that indicate an unfair advantage for Goliath over David? In other words, copyright cases determined by whose legal team can whoop whose?”

That reminded Jack of some of the motivations behind the Creative Commons movement. “Now, CC co-founder Lawrence Lessig didn’t say that explicitly, but i agree, Werewolves of London and Sweet Home Alabama sound nothing alike despite the fact they share a common chord progression.” It was still kinda fuzzy in Jack’s memory.

“There was no copyright case,” Professor T cut in. He remembered a dust-up over Kid Rock’s appropriating Sweet Home Alabama and Werewolves of London with a thing called All Summer Long, but that case was settled by Kid’s people… getting clearance from both Zevon’s and Skynyrd’s organizations.

“Now, Zevon did seem to address a feud between Neil Young and Skynyrd back in the ’70s,” said Professor T. “It was an unflattering song about some of the Deep South’s worst history, and Young’s song, Southern Man, painted the entire region with a broad racist brush. Play It All Night Long, i believe it was called.”

None of this penetrated Billie’s silent reverie behind the wheel. She was reliving the visit to the haunted McRaven House in Vicksburg. She always felt similar to that FBI character in the TV series, X-Files. Like agent Mulder, she really wanted to believe, but there were never any solid reasons to give in. Besides, she was surrounded by academics. The Pragmatic, mildly paranoid cyber-security specialist, Jack, and the media scholar, Professor T. To convince either one of them would require a cargo-ship load of objective, verifiable evidence and replicable proofs.

But… on the one hand, Billie knows humankind doesn’t understand universal forces completely. There may be several “theory of everything” frameworks bouncing around, but Billie knows these frameworks are no different than philosophy or religion at this point. Look at quantum entanglement: particles interacting across massive distances instantly, she thought. If science can prove something that inexplicable, why is it so hard to believe that human consciousness might exist outside the body, or that there are forces, spirits, or dimensions we can’t perceive yet?

But her inner skeptic is never far, and that brought her to remember something she picked up surfing the science corners of YouTube. Human brains are hardwired pattern-recognition machines. We see faces in the dark, we misremember details to fit the stories we tell ourselves, when we’re tired or stressed, sometimes we experience sleep paralysis or auditory hallucinations. Like Professor T often reminds students, “…anecdotes aren’t data. If supernatural phenomena were real, they would be repeatable under controlled, scientific conditions. Yet, every single time a psychic or a haunted house is subjected to rigorous, double-blind testing, the spooks vanish.”

Billie’s inner dialogue was heating up. Millions of people throughout history, across completely isolated cultures, have reported ghost encounters, premonitions, and near-death experiences. Are they all just lying or hallucinating? It feels incredibly arrogant to assume humanity has the universe entirely figured out… it doesn’t. I know Jack and Mork Thompson agree about that.

Again, science requires strict, repeatable conditions, and the supernatural, by its very definition, operates outside conventional physical laws. There are no proton packs or spook traps like in the Ghostbusters movies. You can’t just trap a soul or residual energy in a containment unit. And honestly, looking at the world through a purely materialistic lens feels cold and reductive. Believing in something greater… a mystery, an afterlife, a spiritual connection… gives life a sense of wonder and meaning. It gives people hope that death isn’t just a consciousness switch flipping off forever, she thought.

Finally, the voice of Billie’s beloved father piped up, like always, to settle the matter: “Finding comfort in an idea doesn’t make it true, Billie. Wishing for an afterlife or a cosmic connection is just a coping mechanism for fear of the unknown and our own mortality.” The last time she and her father visited this topic, he told her, “Accepting the material world as it is makes life more profound, because this one is all we’ve got. Relying on supernatural explanations actually stops us from looking for real answers. Throughout history, lightning, disease, and mental illness were all blamed on gods and demons until science found the actual causes. Magic is just the placeholder we use for things we haven’t explained yet.”

“Fine,” she whispered. And with that memory, Billie and the bus pulled into Mobile’s Battleship Parkway. Time for a walking tour of the USS Alabama and the submarine Drum.

NEXT WEEK:
Thanksgiving dinner with family in Savannah, Georgia.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch36)

CHAPTER 36: Ghost hunting in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Now… Billie loves her road-dawg companions, her bandmates, but she doesn’t always go along with Jack and Professor T’s rigidly rational mindset. Case in point, she doesn’t automatically dismiss ghost stories swirling around in the cultural soup. When the gang was in Oregon and Jack’s nephew, Jason, was going on about local hauntings, Billie wanted to believe his story was legit, not just another hackneyed tale of wealthy landowners trying to scare people away from some environmental atrocity like those Scooby-Doo episodes. So as the Bus rolled into Vicksburg, Mississippi, Billie pitched a haunted house diversion. Her first idea was to visit Auburn, the Grand Mansion of Natchez, Antebellum home of Lyman Harding. But the advertised tour was way too expensive, and besides, Natchez is nearly two hours down the Mighty Mississip from Vicksburg, so the gang turned their attention to a more affordable spectral diversion at the McRaven House.

A waiter at the local Cracker Barrel pointed the Forks to McRaven because its ghostly reputation was featured on A&E and the Travel Channel. An authentic pre-Civil War home with a complete way-of-life tour and pioneer kitchen. National Geographic called it the “Time Capsule of the South” whose area gardens served as Confederate soldiers’ campsite/field hospital. Billie was eager to hear about the famous and infamous people of McRaven and why their spirits never seem to leave. 

But first, the business at hand: focus-group interviews at Hinds Community College.

“Are you just going to sit there?” Buck was arranging chairs in a circle for the session.

“Hey, i got us here safe and sound…you can do the grunt work.” Billie wasn’t going to let the aggression stand unanswered. She gave Buck the finger, and he gave her a flirtatious wink.

Jack was watching this exchange and began to suspect there was something brewing between his favorite drummer and the new guy. He wanted to warn against potential discord that could occur between the members of this close-quarters group. After all, Jack had seen how things can spiral out of control when girlfriends/boyfriends join bands on the road. In fact, the Forks’ standing rule was to prevent significant others from getting involved with the band’s business or even riding along with them. The Forks were proper ambassadors of the “church of rock and roll,” including strict adherence to the first rule…what happens on the road, stays on the road. Of course, that was the ‘90s for Billie, the ‘70s, ‘80s, and ‘90s for Jack and Professor T…old-hat now, and Jack wasn’t going to stand in the way of what seemed to be developing between Billie and Buck. Jack knew Billie’s story and he hoped this romance might actually turn out good for her.

“Has anyone seen my gloves?” Professor T was protective of his guitarist’s hands.

“Are you serious?” Jack was quick to remind his comrade of the band’s chosen genre. The fact that it amounts to a slightly updated version of 1970s punk…a gritty business at best. “What self-respecting Punk guitarist goes around wearing ‘wuss-pads’ for their street-fightin’ hands?”

“Hey! I’m a punk scholar…a new breed,” said Professor T with a wink. “I leave scrappin’ to the roadies. You can join the fray if you want, but if i’m gonna have to slap a bitch, i’m gonna do it with my gloves…ON!” 

Professor T did have to get mixed up with the shenanigans from time to time. There was that night where a groupie from Great Bend, Kansas, had a jealous boyfriend that traveled to one of the band’s gigs in Collier. He decided to sneak up on Mork Thompson during a break and grab him by the hair from behind. The future scholar impressed everyone in that roadhouse with a roundhouse kick that dislodged the jealous boyfriend’s hand. The two stood looking at each other for a tense moment, but the drunk’s friends pulled him away as it seemed fairly obvious they were outnumbered. Collier was a regular stop for the popular cover-band Mork was in at the time.

After the last encore, and while the roadies were tearing down, Mork stepped outside to catch a smoke and mingle with the crowd. He was surprised to see two rows of guys facing each other, and they all looked pretty tense as if there was some sort of nuclear détente. Mork looked on from a distance waiting for something to happen when a familiar face motioned him to join the lineup. Apparently, there was going to be a gang-rumble over the jealous boyfriend’s wish to beat Mork to a pulp, a move stymied by several local supporters lined up to defend him.

“Well, alrighty then,” Mork T said pulling his white load-out gloves on. “Let’s dance if we must,” he said while internally questioning his occasional after-gig carnal choices.

The rumble never got started because on Mork’s side was someone with a notorious reputation for putting folks stupid enough to get in a tangle with him in the hospital with grave injuries. And he was lined up directly across from the jealous boyfriend. Someone whispered in the jealous boyfriend’s ear, and that was that. The Great Bend crew decided the row wasn’t worth the expected outcome. They slinked off with their tails between their legs, and Mork was spared the trouble of potentially getting blood on his white load-out gloves.

Lighting a cigarette, Mork muttered to nobody in particular, “make friends with the biggest, meanest bad-asses in your social circle, and you’ll never have to get blood on your gloves.” Once the danger had passed, he joined the load-out effort, rolling cables.

Fast forward, back to Vicksburg, at the McRaven tour: Billie imagined a ghostly confab taking place on the astral plane. Of course, her travel mates were not on the same page. Billie imagined an inexplicable cold breeze but chose not to mention it in order to avoid the reliable shower of skepticism that would surely follow.

Billie constructed the scene in her imagination…a sudden, chilling giggle through the room. She imagined a spectral trickster, a little girl floating on a wisp of Spanish moss. She imagined a cackling sound like wind chimes in a graveyard. Then a chorus of ghostly laughter filling the McRaven House, echoing through the empty rooms. Of course, nobody heard it because it was all playing out in Billie’s fertile imagination. Besides, they were too engrossed in the tour guide’s monologue to notice Billie’s wide-eyed attention. In Billie’s imaginings, the trickster’s eyes were gleaming with mischievous delight, pulling on the drapes, flitting from chandelier to chandelier.

“What was that?” said Billie. “Who pulled on the curtains?” She was trolling for reactions. “Did anyone feel that?” Billie shivered as if recoiling from a sudden chill. She thought she saw Professor T twitch and wondered if he wasn’t silently haunted by the McRaven spirits as well.

He wasn’t… he was trying to remember where he might have stashed his white gloves. 

NEXT WEEK: Sweet home Alabama

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch35)

CHAPTER 35: Lake Charles, Louisiana

After wrapping up in Austin, the Forks made their way over the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge on Interstate Ten heading east toward Lake Charles, Louisiana. And the timing was such that Professor T was able to persuade the rest of the gang to get a super-size portion of wacky fun at the local Pride Fest. The Forks had always identified with fans on the margins, and though Billie was the only member part of the LGBTQ sister/brotherhood, Mork and Jack were extra vigilant to shun homophobic members of the audience and protect her to the best of their ability. In fact, the Forks echoed their favorite grunge star’s revulsion of bigotry in all its forms, adding language in the liner notes of their records addressed directly to individuals…whether racist, sexist, or homophobic…“stay away from our shows and consider buying records from other like-minded assholes.” 

There was the focus-group appointment at McNeese State University, but first, Pride Fest! Jack heard a famous drag show was featured this year and that sounded like something all could enjoy. So the Bus was pointed East and the gang was on schedule. But Mother Nature was on the same road crossing the Atchafalaya Bridge as well. Nearly twenty miles of bayau-crossing, with nowhere to pull over. A white-knuckle drive for Billie as the torrential downpour had reduced reasonable and prudent travel down to forty miles per hour and slower. Of course, Billie had seen this kind of condition before in the Oregon canopy forests, but this time, it was a bridge with no escape whatever…you just gotta keep moving.

“A shame we can’t see out the windows,” Jack was unfazed. “Nothing but Louisiana bayou and Cajun swamp over there…you just know those gators are licking their chops for someone to tumble over the edge.”

“Not funny,” said Buck from the passenger seat. He was right there, white-knuckling it with Billie.

Professor T was engrossed in the task of compiling the Austin focus-group data through the sound of buckets being dumped on the roof of the bus. “C’mon, Jack. Give Billie some credit. She knows when to flip the hazard switch…we’ll be fine.”

The rain persisted long after clearing the near twenty mile span of the bridge, subsiding a bit only when entering the outskirts of Lake Charles. After checking in at the university, the gang set their sights on attending Pride Fest, making sure not to miss the famous Drag Show.

“I don’t know anything about drag-shows,” Billie was surprised at Buck’s stereotyping. “I mean, just because you were raised on a Texas ranch, i don’t assume you know whether John Wayne was the real deal or did he have stunt-men to do his rough-riding for him.”

“Sorry about that,” Buck was contrite. “But yeah, i know all about The Duke’s primary stunt-double. His name was Chuck Roberson. He passed in 1988. It was a sad day for my dad as they were often in the same places at the same time. Roberson grew up on a ranch near Roswell, New Mexico, and started his cowboy career at age thirteen, working as a cowhand and oilfield roughneck. He was a World War II vet, and worked as a police officer after being discharged. So yeah, sometimes stereotypes are accurate.” 

Billie just kept her eyes forward and let out an amused chuckle. “I can’t wait to see how you respond to the drag-show,” said Billie. “Hopefully not ALL cowboy stereotypes are true.”

Now, this exchange left Buck a bit on the back heel, so after the McNeese interviews and the famous Pride Fest/Drag Show, Buck spent the trip to Mississippi in the back of the bus putting his cowboy poetry talents to good use. That is, to make up with Billie with an ode to the Drag Show:

Well, the campfire is bound to flicker out soon,
The coyotes are out there howlin’ at the moon.
Time to kick off the boots, and pour a finger of rye,
And settle in ’neath the wide western sky.
Now, i ain’t much for glitter, ain’t much for style,
I’m a dusty old cow-poke… come sit for a while.
Cause there’s a stampede of glam, and spice, and sauce,
Run by a buxom earth-bound angel callin’ the shots.

They call ’em the queens, and they’re tough as rawhide,
With lashes like sashes and a whole lot of pride.
They’re ropin’ the sequins and rhinestoned high heels,
And blush on their face to show how they feel.
When it’s time for the runway, they strut and they pose,
Like prize-winning stallions to win or to show.
They cinch up their corsets like a well-fitted girth,
The fiercest dern showgirls on Dolly’s green earth.

And there she sits on the judge’s high seat,
Watchin’ ’em throw down their moves to the beat.
If a cowboy gets bucked, he dusts off his pants,
But now, the glamour skill gonna save their last chance.
It’s a duel at high noon, without any guns,
Bust moves on the catwalk ’til the battle is won.
Then Dolly calls it, fair, steady and brave:
“Sashay away,” or “Whitney, you stay.”

So here’s to the queens of the Drag Race corral,
You don’t need a bull-whip to be a tough gal.
It takes grit to be glamorous, guts to be bold,
A truth that this weary old ranch-hand holds.
Keep sportin’ your pasties and be what you are,
‘Cause every last one of you struts like a star.
I’ll tip my old Stetson and turn out the light,
And wish all the drag-queens a victorious night.

Turns out, Dolly herowndamnself was a contestant at a different drag-show, and what do you know? She lost… now that takes some serious chutzpah, and like Angel Dolly herself would say, “it takes a lot of money to look this cheap.” 

“Bless her,” said Buck. “A true goddess in our midst. I’ve spent my life looking up to her as a saint among mortals. Knowing she accepts all walks of life just reenforces my respect for her.”

NEXT WEEK:
Ghost hunting in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch34)

CHAPTER 34: Red Rock and back home for Buck, “Corpus Christi.”

The Forks spent a long, relaxing morning in Hot Springs, moving from the moderately hot pools, to the scorchers, to the cool pools in a cycle of mineral bliss. And once all got their fill, and hunger began to call, they took their shriveled hands back to the dressing rooms, then to the dining hall for a meal before pointing the Chool Bus Southwest toward a small burg near Austin called “Red Rock.” There would be focus-group interviews in Austin, but first, a visit to one of Professor T’s early musical outlaw compadres near Red Rock. He was eager to catch up with his old bandmate and introduce him to the Forks and Buck.

So… beer cooler stocked, and everyone rejuvenated from the morning’s mineral soak, the Forks made their way across the lonesome Texas prairie. The atmosphere felt familiar to Buck, so he cued up a song that was haunting him as an earworm. It was from the Eagles founding member, Don Henley’s solo catalog. A high-lonesome ditty called “Lilah.” Rolling along that endless landscape, Buck treated the gang to some downright Texas expanse. All agreed, that song really hit the mark.

“Oh Lilah, the fields lay fallow, what will ye sow so shall ye reap. Oh Lilah, the ground we hallow is ours to tend and not to keep.” ~ Henley

“That’s a banger,” said Billie. “I sorta lost track of the Eagles after their initial breakup. I didn’t pay much attention to their solo albums.”

“Good one,” said Jack. “I forgot how good that record was. That’s the one with ‘Dirty Laundry’ on it, right?”

“Yup,” said Professor T. “Years before the Internet tore down legacy media’s hearts and minds monopoly. He was spot on with that one.”

“Well i coulda been an actor, but i wound up here. I just have to look good i don’t have to be clear. Come and whisper in my ear, give us dirty laundry.” ~ Henley

“Ouch,” said Billie. “I suppose he predicted the Fox News anchor lineup somewhere in there.”

“Yup,” said Buck. “1982… long before the Internet.”

“Got the bubble-headed bleach blonde… comes on at five. She can tell you ‘bout the plane crash with a gleam in her eye. It’s interesting when people die… give us dirty laundry.” ~ Henley

“Well, if that was an accurate mirror of public sentiment at the time, i guess the current distrust of establishment media was inevitable.” Buck was the youngest of the group… pretty well raised with the internet.

“Art influencing culture or reflecting it?” Jack was fishing.

“Most likely a little of both,” said Professor T. “In his heyday, Don Henley was quite good at channeling the zeitgeist.” Mork Thompson wasn’t much of a fan, but he does recognize talent when he hears it.

“We can do the innuendo, we can dance and sing. When it’s said and done we haven’t told you a thing. We all know that craft is king, give us dirty laundry.” ~ Henley

Mile after mile the gang sunk into their own thoughts as the lonesome Texas prairie rolled by. They arrived at Red Rock near sundown and Professor T’s friend was ready to receive the Forks for an unhinged bender under the glittering Texas stars. As the beer drained, and the stories spooled, Billie mused over the years gone by. She never took a conventional path in this life, and never harbored regrets. She absolutely loved meeting new people and seeing the country, town to town, and rocking their worlds with her kinetic drumming. Attacking those skins with the brutal energy of a Tasmanian Devil with anger issues. It was her bliss, her nirvana and she never grew tired of it.

As the coolers drew empty and snacks all devoured, the gang began drifting to the bus and the bunks, one at a time. Till it was just Professor T and his former bandmate, slurring reminiscences over ‘the good ol’ days.’ And since these old hands aren’t as spry as they used to be, they finally ran out of gas around the time after-gig parties used to begin… somewhere around 2:00 am. Back in the day, they would have seen the rising of the golden orb, the universal alarm clock. 

There would be time to rest before heading to Austin for the interviews, and Mork T was more than ready to crash.

***

After sleeping it off, the gang made their way to the University of Texas at Austin. After tearing down at the end of the session, they continued southwestward to Buck’s home stomping grounds just north of Corpus Christi. A ranch in cattle country, and Buck was excited to spend some time with his dad and the hired cowboys. And though the Corpus Christi area is home to some of the largest most historic cattle operations in the United States, Buck’s home ranch was more of a boutique, less well-known operation, but a thriving specialty of raising Texas Longhorns, known for those iconic, sweeping horns and extreme longevity. 

When the bus rolled down the driveway, the fragrant, billowing smoker issued forth a rich scent of slow smoked brisket. Buck’s dad was really putting on a spread for the returning grad student and his rambunctious companions. Billie and Professor T kept Buck’s dad busy with all sorts of citified questions, and Buck’s dad rose to the occasion with relish. He loves his life on the Texas prairie and Buck is proud of his upbringing and the cowboy life.

After dinner, the gang, still recovering from the previous night’s debauchery, filed, one at a time to the bunks on the bus leaving Buck alone with his dad.

After a relaxed silence, Buck cleared his throat. “I know we have very little in common, but i think i might be falling for our bus driver. She’s roughly eight years older than me, but i’ve never met anyone like her. She seems to harbor no ill will toward anyone, but at the same time, she takes no guff either. And talent… she literally rips on the drums. Here, watch this video of the band at Lollapalooza. It was a minor slot, but they rocked it, and Billie was a bundle of kinetic rage behind the kit.” 

“The band no longer takes gigs these days, and i think she may be ready to put the wanderlust in the closet and settle down.” Buck’s features brightened as the topic of discussion turned exclusively to Billie. “Dad, i might be falling for her,” Buck said with a wistful smile. “She kind of reminds me of Mom with her ‘do no harm, but take no shit’ countenance. What do you think?”

Buck’s father’s eyes narrowed as he quietly formulated his response. The front porch was quiet save for the rhythmic twittering of insects and the dull hum of a fan. Buck ran a thumb over the frayed edge of his bandana, his eyes fixed firmly on his hands.

“She told me she’s gender non-binary, Dad,” Buck said, his voice barely rising above the fan. “Says she’s thinking about settling down, maybe raise a couple of kids. But… i don’t know. It spins my head a bit.”

Gilbert “Gil” Wellstone took a sip of his iced tea, the scent of saddle leather heavy in the warm air. He looked at his son from under the brim of his arched eyebrows. “She give you any reason to doubt her word?”

“No,” Buck muttered, finally looking up. “Not exactly. It’s just… it’s a lot of variables, isn’t it? A lot of ways for it to go wrong. What if she wakes up three years down the road and realizes she’s missing out on a whole other side of herself? What if i’m not enough to keep her around?”

Gil set his glass down on the coffee table and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “Buck, any person on God’s green earth can wake up one morning and decide to walk away. That ain’t got a damn thing to do with who else she might find attractive in theory. It has to do with her character, and the promises she makes to you.”

“It’s just complicated,” Buck was uncharacteristically tentative.

“Is it?” Gil leaned back against the chair, his voice softening, losing the rough edge of a boss and finding the gentle cadence of a father. “Or are you just looking for a reason to bolt before she gets the chance to?”

Buck’s jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”

“Maybe not, but it’s the truth,” Gil said, holding his son’s gaze. “Since your mom passed, i’ve watched you lock every door to your life and swallow the keys. You find a good horse, you worry about the day it might go lame. You find a good woman who’s being dead honest with you about who she is, and you start digging around for a reason she’s gonna leave.”

Buck swallowed hard, his eyes dropping back to the bandana in his hands.

“Your mother leaving this world wasn’t a choice, son,” Gil said quietly. “And it sure as hell wasn’t your fault. But you can’t live the rest of your days terrified of being left behind. If this girl chooses you, you have to decide if you’re brave enough to let her in. Don’t use her honesty as a shield to protect your own heart.”

Buck had much to contemplate, and he knew it was only going to get more complicated as the research tour rambled on.

NEXT WEEK:
Lake Charles, Louisiana.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch33)

CHAPTER 33: Billie’s speed-bump lesson serves well as the Gang meanders around Arkansas’ hot-spring destinations.

Crossing the Arkansas state line Buck resumed the effort of introducing Billie to “Old-timey” roots music. The song he cued up as they crossed the state line was a portrait of abject poverty. My Name Is John Johanna, famously recorded by Kelly Harrell & The Virginia String Band in 1925. The song is also known as The State of Arkansas and tells the tale of a traveler’s hard luck:

My name is John Johanna, i came from Buffalo town. For nine long years i’ve traveled this wide wide world around. Through ups and downs and miseries and some good days i saw, But i never knew what misery was ’til i went to Arkansas.

Boiled to its essence, the song is about a great human grift known as the “bait-and-switch.” Advertise one thing and deliver another.

“Sounds a lot like the fabled ‘American Dream,’” Jack piped in from the galley.

“Ah yes,” said Buck. “Maybe the song can make its way into Professor T’s analysis of the nation’s ‘fibrillating heart.’” Buck hadn’t intended to start a serious discussion. He just wanted to set the mood as the Bus rolled into Arkansas.

Billie wasn’t concerned with any of that. She had read somewhere about the condition of Arkansas’ meandering roads and kept her eyes peeled for those famous vehicle-wrecking potholes. 

“Be careful, i have family here,” said Billie keeping her eyes on the road. “My North Little Rock relatives are a hearty bunch. Their hospitality is legendary, and their dry wit never fails to put a smile on my face. They’ll welcome you with open arms, but don’t be surprised if they also give you a sideways glance and a knowing smirk. Folksy wisdom and modern cynicism coexist with these guys.

“Some say Arkansas is one of the most beautiful states in the union,” said Billie. And following the meandering highways toward North Little Rock proved her right. Endless green rolling landscape. It kept Billie on her toes and provided no end of fascination for Professor T as it reminded him of the dense wooded areas of Oregon. He kept his eyes peeled for Sasquatch. 

For hot springs action, Arkansas has it in spades. It’s home to several natural hot spring sites, and they were headed for the most famous of them all, Hot Springs National Park. 

But first, the work. The gang met Billie’s relatives for dinner at the North Little Rock Cracker Barrel. “Comfort Food Central,” said Professor T. 

“Well, sure…we, won’t knock ‘em for that.” Billie had made the introductions all around, and now, her aunt, who had never met a stranger, was singing the praises of the many mom & pop restaurants serving authentic southern cuisine for the budget conscious. 

“Billie knows,” said her aunt. “You remember, darling, when the family gathered for Great Grandpa’s funeral, after most of the attendees had gone, we walked to a diner near our house. The one they opened in the early 1960s…remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember the biscuits and gravy. It was divine,” said Billie. “I still don’t think I’ve experienced any better.”

“But Cracker Barrel is fine,” said Billie’s aunt. “I don’t think your bus would find a place to park at the diner, anyway.”

“It’s all good,” said Jack. “Sometimes you just have to work with what you have.”

“We’re heading to Shorter College in the morning. It’s our next stop for focus-group interviews,” said Professor T. “We’re doing our best to visit a wide diversity of campuses, the big public and privates, the medium size state comprehensives, the Ivy Leaguers, and the small faith-based non-profits. We can’t visit them all, of course, but we want our data to come from a wide variety of perspectives.”

“Well,” said Billie’s uncle, “Shorter is super small, but i’ve heard good things…a community college actually revered by the community.”

The next day, room reserved, snacks obtained, recording equipment in place, Buck, basically a spectator, chair wrangler, and snack custodian, settled on a metal folding chair that felt about three sizes too narrow. He watched as Jack and Professor T, with clipboards on their knees, prepared to capture the data. 

Suddenly, Buck was aware of how loud the creak of his boot leather sounded in the quiet room. Lord, don’t let us look like interrogators, he mused. He watched several participants file in: a grandmother with a worn study Bible resting on top of her nursing syllabus, two young men with tired eyes who probably just clocked off a third-shift warehouse job, and a few teenagers with bright, nervous energy. On the wall behind them the portrait of the college’s founding reverend right beside a framed print of the Jordan River.

Keep your mouth shut and your ears wide open, Buck thinks to himself. We’re here to listen, not run the fence line.

As the conversations got rolling, the rhythm in the room caught Buck off guard in the best way. Back home in Texas, folks talk slow and guard their words like water in August. Here, there’s a music to it…a cadence of soft assents, nods, and the occasional quiet “Amen” when someone speaks a heavy truth. When a young woman started talking about how hard it is to pay for gas to drive across the county line just to make an eight o’clock lab, something inside him ached with familiarity.

That’s the same hill my cousin has to climb, he thinks. Different dirt, same damn hill.

Yet beneath the common ground, he catches the distinct weight of their stories…the generational pride tied to this specific patch of Arkansas ground, the sacred duty they feel toward ancestors who weren’t able to read a book, let alone earn a degree. It isn’t just ambition…it’s stewardship. Faith isn’t just Sunday best here…it’s an engine.

He sees Professor T scribbling notes furiously, catching himself smiling when the grandmother laughs and calls the group to order before he even has a chance to intervene. They didn’t need us to build a bridge, Buck realized, feeling smaller in the best possible way. They just need us to document the truth of what they’ve already built.

As the gang packed away gear, picked up trash, and replaced tables and chairs wrapping up the session, Buck quietly wondered what the singer of that old-timey song about Arkansas would think about the state now. Still strikingly beautiful, but also still plagued by poverty in the south delta, scarce access to public services, and health care.  But after meeting Billie’s relatives and the focus-group session, Buck came away impressed by the folks in the “Natural State” for their razor wit and their built-in resilience. 

NEXT WEEK:
Red Rock, Texas. Then back home for Buck… Corpus Christi

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch32)

CHAPTER 32: The gang conducts interviews at Oklahoma State University before venturing into the hot spring paradise and pothole central of Arkansas.

Billie was glad to turn the wheel over to Buck after stopping at the National Route 66 Museum in Elk City, Oklahoma. The drive reminded her of that stretch of Interstate 70 between Abilene, Kansas, and Denver: endless prairie grass, crops, and cattle. It was a landscape mostly devoid of civilization, its boredom occasionally shattered by bus-rocking wind gusts and tumbleweed attacks. But Route 66 has a storied history, and Professor T couldn’t help thinking about the wild anecdotes Jack Kerouac included in that classic scroll known as On the Road. He (Professor T) was almost disappointed that the route couldn’t be covered on more of those two-lane stretches where Neal Cassady drove the rattlin’ Hudson like a maniac, pushing over 100 mph, passing semis on the dirt shoulder with inches to spare while talking non-stop about jazz, time, and cosmic revelations.

The trip reminded Jack Dean of those heady years when The Forks made their way around the country with their grunge-metal songs and mosh routines. They were a fairly nihilistic bunch, but not inclined to push as close to the edge as those storied Beat Poets or Gonzo Journalists of post-war America. They were mostly happy to read about the “edge” and experience it vicariously.

There was that wild experiment in Laramie, Wyoming, with that “Fozzy” character, but afterward, Jack was less inclined to get boosted on amphetamines and oppressive heat…sweat flying out of windshields with manic companions huddled in the backseat clutching notebooks, all convinced they were going to disintegrate into the prairie like that flash at the end of the 1971 movie Vanishing Point.

“You know, Buck,” said Jack. “Rodeo cowboys pushing their luck on raging beasts are not at all unlike the crazy beat poets, gonzo journalists, and 27-club luminaries.”

“You mean like Kerouac, Burroughs, and Hunter S Thompson? I get those references, but what’s a ’27 Club’?” Buck suspected this had something to do with Billie’s favorite rock star.

“I’m sure that ’27 Club’ syndrome correlates closely with the age at which young men finally develop some frontal lobe perspective,” said Professor T. “I haven’t really given it much thought.”

“Again with the stubborn, sexist omission of ladies as impactful human beings,” Billie said, clearly annoyed.

“Hello?” whined Buck. “What the hell is a ’27 Club’?”

Jack was the Forks’ foremost expert on nihilistic hedonism, so he took over. “Well… it’s a fairly long and sad list of beloved music artists shuffling off the mortal coil at age 27.”

“I, too, had a radical turn of karmic trajectory at that age. I can still see the scene vividly: the day i stopped chasing parties, booze, girls, and cocaine. Walking from the parking lot to my apartment after one of those pointless all-nighters, the sun blazing in my face, i was reviewing all the wasted dollars and precious time spent with people who would never be considered friends. I was 27 when i made that turn. I made it out of that phase alive… the 27 Clubbers did not.”

“Give us some names,” said Billie. “I did read about Cobain being part of something like that,” she was slowly shaking her head. “Twenty-seven is way too young for checking out.” Billie was devastated by the news of grunge’s foremost luminary.

“Okay… but it’s a long, depressing list,” said Jack. “Robert Johnson, Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin, Brian Jones, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, and Billie’s favorite, Cobain. Neil Young once wrote, ‘It’s better to burn out than to fade away,’ and every member of the 27 Club did just that. It’s ironic Young is still with us, but as a musical journalist of sorts, i guess it’s good he survived the curse. ‘The Needle and the Damage Done’ is another example. It’s like there is a chasm across an artist’s timeline. You either have the will and ability to clear it, or you join the club. You either cross it and gain wisdom as you fade away, or you dispense all the wisdom you have by 27 and check out early.”

Rolling into Cushing Oklahoma, the scent of raw sulfur and heavy hydrocarbons wafted from the tank farms, seeping into the bus through the ventilation and cracked windows. At the fuel stop, Billie asked a local if that was normal. “Oh, that’s a good smell… means things are still hummin’ ’round here.” With a deadpan shrug while paying for her soda and candy bar, she mumbled, barely audible, “…it just smells like money to me.”

In the pre-interview discussions at OSU, Billie pressed on the unique situation Cushing residents face. She learned that despite billions of dollars in oil sloshing beneath and around the town in pipes and barrels, very little of that capital actually sticks to Main Street. Like many legacy energy hubs, the infrastructure is owned by multinational corporations, leaving the local tax base to deal with heavy road wear, crumbling asphalt, and rural infrastructure strain without a fair return.

As a consolation prize for rising to the top of the world’s natural gas producers, Cushing has become ground zero for human-induced seismic activity…the result of excessive fracking. In the 2010s, a rash of earthquakes shook the prairie, including at least one 5.0 magnitude quake that damaged historic downtown brick facades.

If that wasn’t enough, the locals live with the underlying anxiety of residing adjacent to tens of millions of barrels of volatile hydrocarbons. After all, a severe thunderstorm, lightning strike, or grass fire could ignite a biblical holocaust.

As the Cool Bus rolled east through Oklahoma along Route 66 that day, Professor T contrasted the manic bohemian hedonism of his early days with the juxtaposition of On the Road and Vanishing Point’s protagonists. Both Kerouac’s high-strung musings in the careening 1949 “Super Six” Hudson and Kowalski’s white 1970 Dodge Challenger slamming into bulldozers seemed to foretell what was to become of the crumbling “unum” in the USA’s 21st-century “e pluribus.”

NEXT WEEK:
Billie’s Albuquerque speed-bump lesson serves well as the Gang meanders around Arkansas’ hot spring destinations.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch31)

CHAPTER 31: Focus group interviews complete at Central New Mexico Community College. The gang gears up for a full day on the Embudito Trail. This time Buck won’t have to carry Professor T on his back…hopefully.

The interview participants were gone for the day, and with that, the Forks were free to plan the next day’s trek on the Embudito Trail. Professor T wanted to break the new shoes in a little before putting them to the test, so as Jack busied himself documenting the last sessions and getting them uploaded to the cloud, Mork disappeared to a nearby park for a few laps getting a feel for the new shoes.

Billie and Buck were searching for some New Mexico trivia to spice up conversations over dinner.

“I wonder why anyone would choose to live here on purpose?” said Buck. Seriously, i remember a family trip when i was nine or ten. Dad wanted us to see Carlsbad Caverns, so we drove all the way from Corpus Christi in one shot, rented a room nearby then spent the day exploring. I recall never being so impressed with Mother Nature’s wonder than the sight of the ‘Big Dome.’ Truly incredible.” Buck took a luke-warm sip from the vending-machine soda he’d gotten before the last session and went on. “But as amazing as the caverns are, the bleak landscape we had to cross to get there…shrubs and stubby mesquite bushes, dirt, dirt, and wind-blown dirt. Every once in a while, Dollar General, windshield repair shops, then some more wind-blown dirt, mesquite bushes, shrubs, and more dirt. And this was the good stuff. Apparently, the locals hadn’t seen that public service announcement with the Native American shedding a tear over the roadside litter, because there was trash, trash, and more trash in the ditches. Hell, i think that made me sad enough to cry.”

“You gotta be kidding, Buck,” Billie was incredulous. “You don’t see that kind of carelessness in Kansas or Colorado. In fact, i think you could get yourself killed doing that kind of thing in our neck of the woods…especially in the mountains. Kanoradians are proud of nature’s beauty.” She shrugged, barely smiling. “I remember seeing those ads…we haven’t had a litter problem since.”

“Anyway, New Mexico is nothing if not a land of contrasts.” Buck wanted to veer away from the depressing stuff. “Have you ever been to Santa Fe or Taos?”

“No,” said Billie. “But i’m a Georgia O’Keefe fan for sure.”

Buck chuckled. “I’m familiar, but i don’t understand the fuss. After all, sometimes a rose is just a rose.”

Billie had to suppress a belly laugh. “And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” They seemed to be on the same page about art. “I’ve heard people talk about life in that part of New Mexico, laid-back with lots of hippies.”

“Cowboys, too,” said Buck. “In fact, Henry McCarty went bad in Silver City foster homes.”

“Henry McCarty?” Billie had never heard that name.

“Yeah,” said Buck. “After a jailbreak and a fatal encounter with a blacksmith and some horse theivin’ he went by the ‘Kid’ handle. He wasn’t Billy the Kid till the tabloids of the day immortalized him in print long after his death. But there ya go. New Mexico claims him.”

With Jack finishing up and Billie and Buck’s conversation ongoing, Professor T returned to the Bus with a wide grin.

“These shoes will do just fine,” said Professor T. And after a restful night’s slumber, the gang made their way to the local pancake house for a hearty breakfast, then on to the Embudito trailhead at the foot of the Sandia Mountains. 

A perfect day for hiking and also a perfect day to learn about Albuquerque’s parking lot speed-bumps. On the way out of the pancake house, Billie missed the cue and the jolt sent everyone toward the Bus’ ceiling. Billie and Buck were strapped in but Jack and Mork crashed knees into the galley table…hilarious. Though no one was hurt and the driver-side fan that Billie had been meaning to fix since California started working again, she’ll never underestimate another speed bump…lesson learned.

So, on the road East, the gang was evenly split on whether to pass through artsy Taos, nerdy Roswell/White Sands, or skip the touristy diversions and continue on Historic Route 66 to their next focus-group destination, Oklahoma State University in Stillwater. 

What to do? What to do? 

“After all, Taos offers a confluence of culture and nature, a vibrant artistic community,” said Professor T. “Roswell… well, that’s just a tourist trap for people who want to believe in aliens. Do you think it coincidental that Roswell is so near the White Sands proving-ground for military and rocketry research?” 

“Hmmm,” Billie was intrigued.

“That’s rich coming from a guy who couldn’t account for a middle-age foot spread,” said Jack. “Taos is for artists and hippies, Professor. People who paint pictures of rocks and write poems about the moon. Roswell is for real Americans. People who are willing to face the unknown, and maybe find some alien technologies to beat the Soviets.”

“Oh snap!” said Billie, sometimes Mork and Jack would get carried away with their debates. Years on the road tends to expand the boundaries of polite conversation.

Buck was starting to worry about these guys.

“Yes, the great American spirit of curiosity,” said Professor T. “Which, in your case, seems to be limited to finding a better way to beat a mule. And by ‘beat a mule,’ i mean, of course, finding a new and improved method for being a hee-honking jackass.” Professor T was personally invested in Taos, and Billie wondered if there was a former girlfriend there or something.

“Wait a second,” said Jack. “I think I know why you want to go to Taos. It’s because you’re a sensitive soul. You like to write lyrical poetry and look at pictures of sunsets. You’re probably one of those guys who thinks that the universe is talking to you.”

“Actually, i do believe that the universe is talking to me. It’s saying, ‘Jack Dean is an idiot.’ Please stop him before he rubs his ‘all et up with the dumbass’ all over these young impressionables.”

“Young? Ah, how nice of you to say so,” Billie blushed. “How about a compromise? We can get our touristy impulse fed by experiencing eight more hours of Americana on Route 66, we can feed Professor T’s intellectual curiosity by visiting pipeline central in Cushing Oklahoma, then Jack’s conspiracy bug with a visit to the site of ‘Black Wall Street’ in Tulsa. After that, we’ll probably need a powerful steam shower, or maybe an all-day soak in one of those Arkansas hot spring complexes.

Jack and Professor T decided to yield to Billie’s logic. “Well, Mork, i guess it’s six of one, half-dozen of the other. Billi’s got a point. You can feed your sensitive soul some other time in Georgia O’Keeffe’s stomping grounds.”

“Don’t forget the roses,” chuckled Buck.

“And the cigars,” snickered Billie.

With that, Billie pointed the Chool Bus toward Tucumcari by way of Santa Rosa… Route 66 or bust!

NEXT WEEK:
The gang conducts interviews at Oklahoma State University before venturing into hot spring paradise/pot-hole central, Arkansas.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch30)

CHAPTER 30: Professor T wastes no time taking another stab at acquiring comfortable hiking boots. Next stop, Albuquerque. Focus group interviews at Central New Mexico Community College (CNM), after which the gang takes another swing at nature trekking on the Embudito Trail.

The gang was running ahead of schedule so Professor T was anxious to consult a real outdoor footwear specialist once the bus rolled into Albuquerque. But it was a nearly six hour journey from Williams on Interstate 40/Historic Route 66. And since they weren’t pressed for time, the gang wanted to do some touristy stuff en route. Of course, Billie wanted to see if anyone was driving a flat-bed Ford slowin’ down to take a look at someone standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona. But like the Dude in The Big Lebowski, if she had to pick something from the Classic Rock canon, it would be Creedence. 

Truth told, she doesn’t really hate the Eagles like “The Dude,” she considered all that noise so much fake controversy, anyway…just marketing noise. Grunge-Metal is her grindstone, and hard-core Grunge started as a rejection of the pabulum corporate A&R people were pushing on radio and MTV’s “heavy rotation”…mostly vapid, soulless “Hair Metal.”

“Besides,” said Billie. “When you get down to brass tacks, ‘Take it Easy’ is Jackson Browne’s song.” Billie plays the tough-as-nails Grunge Queen to a tee, but among friends she’ll confess to having loved Jackson’s early work, as well as the social commentary that came later…Lawyers in Love, Information War, Barricades of Heaven. “Good stuff,” said Billie. “Not entirely unlike the social commentary of punk bands like Green day and The Clash.”

***

Jack was more interested in seeing some retro sights, so the gang decided to stop at an Indian Market on the Continental Divide for some photos and trinkets. Once back on the road, Billie dialed her music playlist to those early country-rock, classic Americana tunes. Starting with those gorgeous duets by Graham Parsons and Emmylou Harris. Buck was aware of Parsons’ early influence on the Americana genre, but had never really listened to those deep cuts. So, Billie and Buck settled into a quiet reverie in the pilot and co-pilot seats of the Chool Bus.

Back in the galley area, Professor T and Jack were at it again. This time, inspired by their interaction with the local natives…the topic was Immigration. 

“How can we justify considering ANYONE illegal on land taken away from their ancestors by force?” Jack was taking Professor T to the task of defending the trail of tears leading to euro-honkey hegemony in the USA.

“Well,” Professor T assumed a somber countenance formulating his response. See, Mork and Jack were constantly flexing their rhetorical muscles, each using the other as a sounding board…a form of mental practice. Sort of like chess, but with ideas and words. “Europe was getting crowded and opportunities for building wealth was growing scarce. The news of boundless land and natural resources coming from North America was presenting a tempting brass ring to grab. Very sexy,” said Professor T. “And since Europeans were in possession of better technology for prevailing in armed conflict, i guess their dominance could have been considered inevitable.”

“But, the indigenous people were handicapped by a different relationship with the land,” said Jack. “More like co-existence, with the concept of ‘ownership’ being an unthinkable proposition.” 

“Yes but, over the centuries, euro-honkeys had developed a conquer and rule modus operendi. And once it became apparent who had the sharpest knives, the most soldiers, and an iron-will to commit outrage against those daring to challenge, they became dominant. They made the rules, and they enforced those rules with the promise of ruthless violence.” Professor T felt he was on the losing end of this discussion. He considered the current movement toward branding indigenous and Latino people “illegal” patently absurd.

“I guess it comes down to which philosophy is better suited for dominance, and the euro-honkeys had it,” said Professor T. You may not like the result, but it’s important to recognize the fundamental mistake made by indigenous tribes.” He shrugged, and continued. “Had they understood the inevitable dominance of the euro way of social organization, they could have learned to play that game while preserving religious and cultural traditions within a ‘fenced-in honkey world.’” None of it was ‘inevitable’ at the time. Remember, the Whites had to negotiate with each other over how to grow crops, manage livestock, and co-exist near population centers. Many of those negotiations done at the barrel of guns.”

Jack was appalled at a sense of entitlement the recent Christian Nationalist/White Supremacist movement was conducting themselves. “I just don’t think it’s sustainable,” said Jack. They can’t justify ruling such a diverse nation from a theocratic platform. Isn’t this what they are fighting with the Muslims about? And the idea of building a wall to keep out people originally displaced by White Supremacist ancestors is laughably absurd. We have to get back to honoring diversity. We can never accomplish a pure white ethno-state…not here.” 

 “Well, they’re gonna give it the ol’ college try, it seems,” said Professor T. And that conflict is ramping up to fever-pitch as we speak. The folks favoring good ol’ euro-honkey hegemony have recognized demographic vicissitudes were heading toward something they call, ‘The Great Replacement.’ Where a nation dominated by whites for two-hundred-ish years was heading toward an organic inversion. White couples having fewer if any children; brown Christians and Muslims being ‘fruitful’ like gang-busters; and the folks down south, the ones displaced by land wars, have been returning like homing pigeons. And unlike the proud North American Warrior-Tribes of the 19th Century,’ these folks learned to coexist alongside the whites, signing up for jobs the entitled honkeys didn’t want to do. Not to mention the rainbow wave of others from around the world applying for citizenship to this teeming ‘land of boot-strap opportunity’ with their relentless work-ethic and professional credentials.”

Jack shook his head, sadly. “We could choose to welcome and assimilate them in our uniquely diverse stew,” said Jack. “Instead, we’re trying to deport ALL of them, then keep them out with legal and literal freaking walls? This is crazy, and not sustainable!”

Professor T pondered Jack’s “unsustainable” argument, then put on his “devil’s advocate” hat and plowed right in. “You know, multiculturalism was never going to work. It’s an inherent vulnerability as other multi-ethnic states have faced social fragmentation, lower civic trust, and heightened tribal conflict.”

“As we are seeing now,” said Jack. “But it seems the only tribe at war is the white ethno-nationalist euro-honkey tribe. I’m not sure we can count their declared self-fulfilling prophecy as a worthy one.” 

Professor T was testing the tensile strength of his debater’s resolution skills. “But there are social thought leaders with direct access to the White House asserting non-Western immigrants can’t assimilate into American civic life. They conclude physical removal is the only tenable solution to preserve cultural norms. ‘Look at all the innocent victims of crime perpetrated by illegals,’ they say. ‘It’s an invasion, and we have to remove them in order to preserve fundamental national sovereignty.’ ‘Besides,’ they declare, ‘we’re merely enforcing laws previous administrations were too cowardly to do themselves. Total deportation is simply the literal enforcement of existing immigration law.’” 

Jack was starting to feel like he needed a shower. “Well, that kind of thinking may have friends in the White House, but i suspect there’ll be a total dismantling of these draconian measures once current occupants are replaced by the democratic will of our nation’s formerly sleepy majority.”

“We’ll have to pick this up later,” said Professor T. There’s the gettin’ place!” Billie was steering the Bus into the parking lot. “I’m going to retire my cruel shoes for a less agonizing experience on the Embudito Trail.”  

NEXT WEEK:
Focus group interviews completed at Central New Mexico Community College and the gang gears up for a full day on the Embudito Trail. This time Buck won’t have to carry Professor T on his back…hopefully.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch29)

CHAPTER 29: Cruel Shoes and the glory of Mother Nature’s geological wonders.

Professor T finally finished the backlog of work accumulated while preparing for the current leg of the research tour. Being thus preoccupied, one of the things he forgot was the fact that his old hiking boots were no longer usable. He needed to acquire a new pair for the big Grand Canyon visit. So, while Jack made the gang’s arrangements for an old-school Steam Train starting in Williams, Arizona, to the canyon’s south rim, Professor T did a search for outdoor gear retailers. With the Williams destination poked into Siri’s Drunk Sister’s navigation app, the Chool Bus was underway and everyone was stoked to spend the day in Mother Nature’s spectacular playground. 

The tour Jack arranged included a wild-west themed diversion on a vintage steam train. The “Bright Angel” trail-head was close to a South Rim lodge and the gang was determined to get deep enough into the canyon for some epic photo opportunities before catching the return trip back to Williams. Jack failed to mention the return trip also featured a mock train robbery, fake guns, desperados and all, so that was kinda fun. 

The real attraction was the hike itself. But the fun quickly diminished for Professor T as his feet had gained some significant width over the years and after a half mile or so into the Bright Angel descent, as described by Professor T, the expensive hiking boots he had stupidly tried on and purchased without assistance was beginning to straight-up torture his pinky toes…both of them. At first he pretended like nothing was amiss, but with each passing step those pinky toes were shouting something about those shoes…those cruel-shoes! 

It had been many, many years since last he had purchased hiking boots. He was due for a new pair, but all those years had altered the dimensions of his feet unbeknownst to him…the piper was being paid now. As the Bright Angel journey down, down, and down progressed, Professor T thought about turning back so that he could enter some civilized comfort of the south rim lodge’s gift shop, remove those cruel-shoes, massage his aching feet and learn his lesson. Never, he vowed. Never will i ever allow myself to purchase specialty shoes without consulting an expert with knowledge of conditions on hot, dusty, steep-grade, cliff-addled trails, ever again! 

Professor T kept this suffering to himself and the gang continued their downward descent on Bright Angel’s trail.

Jack was keeping time, he knew the return trip would take longer as uphill is slower going than down. When his phone indicated it was time to turn back, Professor T let out a sigh of relief as uphill would place less pressure on his beleaguered pinky toes. He wanted to exclaim for the universe to hear…HALLELUJAH! My toes are free at last, free at last, thank Zeus Almighty, my piggies are free at last. 

It was one of those funny/not funny situations best consumed visually, but since this is a novel, we’ll just set the scene “screenplay” style:

EXT. BRIGHT ANGEL TRAIL – DAY

A scorching sun beats down on the towering red rocks of the Grand Canyon.

PROFESSOR THOMPSON (60s, wearing a cotton Hawaiian shirt, bucket hat, and glaringly new hiking boots two sizes too narrow) hobbles down the switchback.

His companions, BILLIE (40s, energetic, carrying binoculars) JACK (50s distractedly browsing the Bright Angel brochure) and BUCK (30s, strong like bull, sporting a hydration pack), shuffles confidently ahead.

BUCK (Inhaling deeply): Ah! Smell that crisp desert air, Professor! Nature in all her unbridled majesty!

THOMPSON: (Grimacing, teeth clenched in a tight smile) Splendid, Buck! Absolutely… screamingly… splendid!

An animated X-RAY VISION CUTAWAY reveals the professor’s feet inside the boots. His left and right pinky toes are crushed flat like little Vienna sausages.

Suddenly, tiny OPERA WINGS and HELMETS appear on both pinky toes. They throw their heads back in dramatic unison.

PINKY TOES (V.O.) (Singing high-pitched, operatic Primo Uomo Tenor): ♪ O SOLO MIOOOOO! O SOLO MIOOOOO! ♪

     BACK TO SCENE:

Mork Thompson winces as his left boot strikes a small pebble.

THOMPSON: Gah-ha-ha-OY-VAY!

BILLIE: Did you say something, Morkster?

THOMPSON: Just… admiring the stratigraphy! Look at that Tapeats Sandstone! Oh, the temptation to study it from the comfort of the rim! Perhaps near the lodge? Where there are chairs? And air conditioning? And gentle carpets? And ice-cream?

JACK: Nonsense! The real science is down at Havasupai Gardens! Only four more agonizing…i mean, glorious miles to go!

Thompson’s eyes widen in terror.

PINKY TOES (V.O.): ♪ FIGARO… FIGARO… FIIIIIGAROOOO! ♪

Mork Thompson takes another step. CRUNCH. He stumbles forward, trying to disguise his excruciating limp as a sprightly dance step. He does an awkward, desperate tap-dance routine cringingly close to the edge of a hundred-foot drop.

BILLIE (Gasping): Look at the Professor! He’s doing an interpretive dance to the canyon’s beauty!

JACK: Bravo, Professor! Celebrate the wonder!

Professor T violently twirls, grabs a wooden trail sign for balance, and accidentally spins it around so the arrow pointing back UP to the rim now points DOWN.

THOMPSON (Sweating profusely, leaning heavily on his trek pole): Say, y’all! Look at that! The sign clearly indicates that the… ah… South Rim Gift Shop and Toe-Massaging Emporium is actually this way! Down is Up! Up is Down! SCIENCE! Let’s turn back!

BILLIE (Giggling): Oh, Professor, you silly goose. You flipped the sign! the lodge is that way!

Billie points UP the steep, dusty trail. Thompson stares at the endless vertical incline.

PINKY TOES (V.O.): ♪ FIGARO! FIGARO! FIGARO! NOOOOOOOOO! ♪

THOMPSON (Voice cracking): Right. Up. The stairs of eternal damnation. Splendid.

JACK: Tell you what, Mork. You lead the way back up! (Imitating Arnold Schwarzenegger) Show us your leadership capabilities!

THOMPSON (Nodding weakly): Yes… leadership…

Thompson turns around. He takes one step UP.

      SCREECH

His boot hit a solid boulder banging his right pinky toe on the front wall of the narrow boots. He freezes, paralyzed by a blinding lightning bolt of pure agony. His eyes roll into the back of his head.

Without moving his legs, he deliberately tips backward like a felled timber.

     THUD

He lands flat on his butt in the dust, staring up at the blue sky.

BILLIE: Mork! Are you okay?!

THOMPSON (Calmly, eyes wide, holding completely still): I am merely… taking in the grandeur from a low-angle perspective.

BUCK: Incredible dedication!

THOMPSON: Billie… Jack… Buck… listen to me carefully. The canyon has spoken to me. It says… ‘Go back to the lodge. Buy the overpriced padded-socks. Unlace the cruel-shoes. Release the Singing Pinky Toes.’

BILLIE (Confused): The Singing Toes?

THOMPSON (Desperate, standing up, grabbing Jack by the lapels): THE TOES, JACK! THEY ARE SINGING PUCCINI! THEY WANT OUT!

BUCK (Laughing): Ah, sun-madness! A classic hiker malady! Come on, I’ll piggyback you the last fifty feet to the trailhead!

Buck hoists Professor T onto his back. Mork’s legs dangle free. The pressure vanishes from his pinky toes.

PINKY TOES (V.O.): ♪ HALLELUJAH! HALLELUJAH! ♪

Thompson lets out a long, blissful sigh, resting his chin on Buck’s shoulder as Jack and Billie plow up the trail toward the gift shop.

THOMPSON (Smiling beatifically): Onward, noble dragon. To the air-conditioned ice-cream station.

[SCENE END]

NEXT WEEK:
Professor T wastes no time consulting an expert at the local outdoor gear ship, taking another stab at acquiring comfortable hiking boots. Next stop, Albuquerque New Mexico. Focus group interviews at Central New Mexico Community College (CNM), then the gang takes another shot at nature trekking on the Embudito Trail.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch28)

CHAPTER 28: All agreed, the backtracking detour to Lake Tahoe was worth the trouble, but it was time to get back to business. Eleven punishing hours to Flagstaff Arizona for the next round of focus-group interviews… then, a trip to the deepest crack in the USA, the Grand Canyon.

Passing through Vegas on the way to Flagstaff, Billie agreed to turn the wheel over to Buck as eleven hours was about, “three more than i can stand.” Billie knows her limits and Buck was more than happy to help. So rolling into the Las Vegas area after seven plus hours with Billie behind the wheel, the Forks pulled over to get some fresh air, stretch their legs, and catch a meal before pushing the rest of the way to Flagstaff with a new pilot. Just a little more than three hours and they’d climb above the punishing heat of the desert to the cooler climate at seven-thousand feet. The smell of pine, the lush green lawns… Flagstaff Arizona. Focus-group interviews at Northern Arizona University were scheduled for the next couple days, so they couldn’t afford to dawdle.

Professor T spent a considerable chunk of road time working with the data so far gathered and catching up on administrative tasks. Occasionally he would confer with Jack over themes emerging in the data. These conversations were often quite spirited. It’s not that they were at odds over their perspectives, but they did have sometimes diverging ways to interpret what the participants were saying. Which is fine, these interviews can’t be used to draw objective conclusions, but they do provide an interesting “why” behind the numbers revealed in survey data. The surveys show what people do or think on a large scale, and the focus groups allow Professor T and Jack to hear how people explain these choices in their own words.

Merging onto Interstate 40 in Kingman Arizona, Billie got a jump-scare when Jack slammed his fist on the table making a particularly passionate point in one of those “spirited” conversations with Professor T. But Mork just laughed and brushed it off with a shrug. They’d have to agree to disagree. And Billie was awake now and rather impressed with Buck’s cool demeanor as the Bus encountered road construction and slowdowns. So much so that she began to quiz him over this uncanny ability to bring tempers down in situations that look like certain escalations to violence. This was refreshing for Billie as she is famous in her home town for a short temper and a withering vocabulary. Her method of de-escalation has always been to wear her opponents down with withering truth-telling generously seasoned with caustic, paint peeling accuracy.

“How do you do it?” Billie piped up out of nowhere.

“Do what?” said Buck with a sly grin.

“How did you turn that raging drunk in Fort Collins into an agreeable bystander?” Billie had marveled at the swift turn of events that day when Professor T appeared to have triggered a drunk and paranoid bar patron into a brawl, one that looked like it was going to land several bystanders into the urgent care clinic, at best.

“Well, it’s really simple when you look closely. I picked it up from a friend. He was a civilian contractor working in Afghanistan in the late stages of US involvement. Apparently he had spent some time with a detachment of special forces soldiers. And one of them taught him a way to defuse potential deadly confrontations with the locals. He boiled it down to an acronym, D-E-F-U-S-E. First, you have to short circuit your own “fight or flight” impulse, by remaining completely calm, and avoiding a defensive or argumentative stance. So ‘D’ is for de-escalate. After all, we are at bottom, animals. And this version of the mammalian animal is all et up with the hubris to consider themselves “civilized.” We’ve really only had a few thousand years to evolve from slithering in the grass to finding sanctuary in the trees, to walking upright, to developing food production for communities, to splitting the atom and other methods of habitat destruction. Not even a blip in geologic time. So, anyway, gotta tame the instinct. Most freeze in the face of an in-your-face threat. They don’t know whether to fight, or run. But the right thing to do is to remain calm no matter what.”

“Is that hard to do?” Billie was tumbling… catching her breath.

“Well, it may look that way, but considering the alternative, especially when others are involved. Others you care about and don’t want to see hurt, it really is a no-brainer. So… what’s the next letter in the DEFUSE acronym?” Buck was bringing Billie along.

“Well, we did ‘D’ so now we need ‘E,’” said Billie.

“Right.” said Buck. “‘E’ stands for empathize. You have to acknowledge and validate your opponent’s feelings or frustration. You gotta show ‘em that you recognize their emotional state. Anger, humiliation, wrath, whatever. Empathize with the prevailing emotional winds coming from your would-be attacker.”

“Ok…what’s the ‘F’ stand for?” Billie was eating this up. And they had plenty of time as Flagstaff was still hours down the road.    

“”F’ is for focus. This is where we direct our attention completely on our would-be attacker and the specific problem that seems to be driving them. This requires us to overlook our opponent’s attempts at provoking us with insults or threatening postures, personal attacks, or simple incoherent noise.” 

Billie was silent pondering the implications of the discipline it would take for her to ignore those personal attacks. She nodded solemnly.

“After that,” Buck went on. “You have to genuinely understand where this person is coming from… the ‘U.’ Again, this takes mental discipline for those of us used to throwing hands, or in your case, withering truth-bombs. So… the ‘U’ is a difficult state to arrive at when all you want to do is turn this person’s face into a pudding.” Buck winked and Billie laughed out loud.

“So now,” Buck was warming up to a conclusion. “Now it’s time to ‘S,’ solve the problem that brought the threat up to your face.”

“Solve?” Billie was incredulous. This all seemed somewhat fanciful. “After all,” she went on. “Some people just want to hurt others. They aren’t always interested in accepting reasons to keep their hands to themselves.”

“True story,” said Buck. But, there’s going to be a bottom-line reason for this irrational wish. And depending on your luck in the previous phases of the DEFUSE model, you may be able to tap into that wellspring.”

“C’mon…” Billie was struggling with these ideas.

“Bear with me,” said Buck. “Remember the reason for the dust-up in Fort Collins?”

“Yes. I believe he was angry with the world over a perceived, or literal loss of privacy… modern digital life.” Billie remembered actually identifying with the drunk’s complaint. “He saw Professor T’s audio recording rig, and that triggered a vengeful response. He was going to take this general feeling of violation and loss of control out on good ol’ Mork T.”

“Right,” said Buck. “But i was able to get him to face the absurdity of punishing a well-meaning, but absent-minded civilian for his general feelings of helplessness with the DEFUSE method.”

Billie nodded.

“So, to review,” Buck was sounding more like Professor T with every sentence. “We started with the ‘D.’

 “De-escalate!” said Billie.

“Right,” said Buck. “We refuse to allow the heat of the moment raise our emotional temperature.”

“Then you empathized with the guy.” Billie was playing along.

“The whole time, i remained focused on the fella’s problem,” said Buck. “That, right there, was almost enough to end the trouble.”

“But WAIT… there’s more!” Billie was starting to let some sarcasm show.

“Right, we’re not done yet,” said Buck, totally unmoved. “And keep in mind, these things don’t necessarily happen in sequence. You have to stay focused through the whole process, you have to remain empathetic start to finish, and understanding may take a little while to set in, but you have to keep digging for it.”

“So…what’s the ‘S’ for?” Billie was impressed with Buck’s ability to parry her jabs.

“Well, ‘S’ and ‘E’ sorta come together. ‘S’ is for solving the problem. Once the Fort Collins fella understood Professor T’s recordings had a purpose other than spying on hapless bystanders, he calmed down. Now, ‘E’ is for end the encounter. But it isn’t as simple as it sounds, there has to be clearly articulated next steps, and these next steps, when done right, are always voiced by our would-be attackers. In other wards, the confrontation is defused and the other person walks away feeling vindicated, the stable, positive outcome conceived by them.”

“So, BOOM! Resolution appears to have been conceived by the person that was threatening you in the first place?” Billie purred in amazement.

“Of course,” said Buck. “It doesn’t always end so cleanly, but fortunately for you and Jack and Mork T, the DEFUSE method worked like a charm in Fort Collins.”

Rolling southeast on historic “Route 66,” they passed lots of interesting potential pullovers. But duty calls. The Forks and DEFUSE-Master Buck Wellstone, needed to be on campus in the morning. With the sun at their backs and receding fast, the gang was fading. Parks Arizona, the Bellmont, then the interchange at the Navel Observatory… they had arrived. 

“Don’t miss the Route 66 interchange, Dummy,” said Roseanne’s gravley voice.

Buck acknowledged Siri’s Drunk Sister instructions, pulled into the RV park, and all made their way to bunks in their own time for a good night’s sleep before getting back to business on the NAU campus.   

NEXT WEEK:
Cruel Shoes and the glory of Mother Nature’s geological wonders.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links