in the loop

info waves collapsed into whizzing particles

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:
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

The Chool Bus (ch27)

CHAPTER 27: Focus-group interviews at UNLV complete, the Forks take a detour to Lake Tahoe for a guided boat cruise on Emerald Bay.

When Professor T started going on and on about Lake Tahoe, Buck silently remembered the wild story a girl he dated in Corpus Christie back in high school told him. Apparently her mother had friends who traveled to Tahoe for a gathering of Western-themed social media influencers, basically an industry party. Lots of dancing and modeling cowboy/girl clothing, hats, and horse tack products. There was a “bad weather” forecast, but storms very often come and go quickly on this high alpine lake as a matter of routine. Unfortunately for several boat owners and eight unlucky passengers, the storm did quite a bit more than cause a blustery inconvenience and Buck was determined to pump the brakes on any lake-cruise ideas if the forecast started looking sketchy. 

The gang wanted to charter a private party cruise on Emerald Bay and Buck’s no shrinking violet, so he made no protest, but keeping this tragic story close to his vest, he watched the weather forecast closely. He was prepared to make a case for sticking to the shore if necessary…he did not trust Mother Nature…not here.

As the Chool Bus rolled over a rise entering the lake’s basin, surrounded by Sierra Nevada mountains, these flatlanders felt a strange sense of claustrophobic verticality. After all, the Forks were used to seeing the horizon disappear up to twenty miles in any direction. Their familiar landscape was horizontal. But here in the Tahoe basin the spacial axis flips almost completely vertical. Instead of an open sky stretching forever, the landscape folds sharply upward. It felt almost like they were cupped inside a giant basin, surrounded by timber-heavy peaks nine to ten thousand feet. It was somewhat disorienting for Billie. She knew the Bus was up to the alpine mechanical challenge and she had no trouble piloting in these conditions, but she had never seen such a natural spectacle as this. From one of the scenic overlooks they could actually see granite boulders up to fifty feet below the surface as if resting at the bottom of a freshly scrubbed swimming pool. In this expanse, the shade of blue isn’t the soft hazy sky-color to which they were accustomed, but more like a deep, cobalt electric blue that seemed artificially saturated.

And their depth perception was affected, too. On the plains, when one sees a town or a ridge, they know roughly how long it takes to drive there. In the Tahoe basin, across the liquid expanse, the opposit shoreline looks like one could reach out and touch it, yet it’s twelve miles of deep, ice-cold water away. 

When the gang finally made it to the marina they agreed Tahoe felt like stepping inside a giant, hidden room made of stone, glass, and pine. Sort of a shock to the system… like moving from a world of infinite horizontal space to one dominated by massive depth and towering height.

As Professor T worked out final boarding arrangements his comrades relaxed at the bar with buck stealthily monitoring the weather in real-time. He had resolved to stay fairly sober in order not to miss any subtle cues from Mother Nature which would send him into guardian mode.

“So what about those deep-water mafia graveyard legends?” said Billie. “Like that scene in the Godfather where Fredo met his untimely end… i heard the bottom of Lake Tahoe would be littered with perfectly preserved former wiseguys sleeping with the fishes. You know… because the water is so c-c-c-cold?” Billy was half-joking. She knew deep-water exploring technologies had to have advanced to the point of exploring the bottom long ago. If there was any truth to the legends, they’d have heard about it by now.

Jack knew the stories were just that, provocative and entertaining, but essentially a nothingburger. “In fact, mobsters looking to make a killing in the casino business back in the day found Tahoe basically too much trouble. With the small size, inclement, sometimes unpredictably furious weather, a ‘Sin City’ on the lake never really materialized. The casinos that did emerge on the South Shore were basically bootstrapped by a couple ‘straight-arrow’ guys, anyway. So… great movie fodder, but not much in the way of news.”  

“Buzzkiller,” said Billie with a crooked smirk.

Fees paid and boarding time approaching, Buck took one last look at the forecast, all clear! When the gates opened, they made a beeline for the top deck, grabbed a drink and, taking in the massive 360- degree expanse of the crystal-clear water, basked in the sunshine and glory of Mother Nature’s spectacular wonder. 

Several miles of deep-blue open water later with Mount Tallac looming large overhead, the boat finally passed through the narrow mouth of Emerald Bay, the deep cobalt blue of the main lake’s water abruptly shifting into a brilliant, translucent turquoise. Once inside the bay, the captain throttled down slowing the boat to a smooth, quiet glide where they would soon circle Fannette Island giving everyone a photogenic view of the stone “tea house” perched on its peak, then past Vikingsholm, a thirty-eight room Scandinavian castle nestled in the pine forest on the shore.

After dropping anchor and releasing the more adventurous guests to some swimming or floating time in the not quite as icy water of the bay, the boat was again underway for a beautiful “golden hour” return to the marina. Professor T was at the bow taking it all in, with the sun dropping behind the Sierra peaks and the sky turning vibrant shades of pink, orange, and violet all reflecting across the still water, he almost dreaded going back into the breach of our divided nation looking for the causes of it’s wild fibrillation. Jack was in the main galley talking to a handsome lady on the boat for a family shindig. Not a single word about cyber-security and Jack was more than fine with it. Buck and Billie were back on the top deck soaking the experience and trying to hide that fluttering feeling in your stomach when you know something seismic is brewing, but you’re kinda scared of it and you do your best to hide it from your familiars. 

Once back in the bus and heading for the RV park, Buck let out a sigh of relief and never mentioned his Texas cowgirl friend’s tragic story.

NEXT WEEK:
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.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch26)

CHAPTER 26: The Forks go separate ways in Vegas. Jack Dean crashes out in a New Media information session addressing the Artificial Intelligence sector, where Chinese models were achieving major progress on the cheap.

The Forks agreed to meet for breakfast early. They would explore the Vegas strip in pairs, then rendezvous for dinner at Javier’s for margaritas to report on the sights and sounds of what used to be called Sin City, now more like Disneyland for adults. Professor T and Jack had business at the MGM Convention Center but Buck and Billie were free to explore the spectacle as civilians. 

Jack was looking forward to getting some insight on how his contemporaries in higher-ed were coping with the introduction and mainstreaming of “generative” and “agentic” artificial intelligence tools. At first it was easy for instructors to recognize the hallmarks of work generated by AI, but as the tools evolved and students were getting better at weeding out hallucinations and outright fabrications cooked up in those red-hot, insatiably thirsty, noise blasting, money pits better known as AI “Data Centers.” For Jack, the bottom line was this: Evaluating the quality of student work was growing exponentially more difficult.

The irony was the fact that he supported the nation’s investment in this paradigm changing technology but he was also apprehensive about the headlong pace of corporate adoption. He was a true fifth-estate evangelist: “Move fast and break things” was a favored mantra. But in this case he favored a more analytic approach. Move slow, try things, learn from mistakes, keep what works, and try again seemed a more pragmatic way forward.

Unfortunately, the high-tech world moves at its own pace and with the anti-regulatory zealots in charge of all branches of Federal Government calling the shots, the AI bandwagon was more like a runaway nuclear-powered locomotive. In this era its either grab a handle or get left behind.

So Jack explained it to his students thusly: “AI is here…and just getting started,” he said. “Please do your own ethics inventory…don’t go into this era frivolously. If you land in the anti-AI camp, at least your position will be sufficiently scrutinized.” When students asked Jack what they can do to address a movement they cannot support, Jack’s response was stark. “You may be right…there may be a burst of the bubble, but if you want a career in knowledge work of any kind, really, you need to have learned how to use these tools. At the very least your interlocutors will respect you as someone who understands their world. But more importantly, if the bubble doesn’t burst and you hope to keep up in the marketplace, you really need those skills. Why? Because your competition will surely have figured out how to get ahead leaving very little chance for you to catch up.”

The “New Media” convention Jack and Professor T attended had a “content” track and a “technology” track. The “tech” session Jack absolutely didn’t want to miss concerned international competition in the development of back-end technology driving AI. Jack knew this was a point of vulnerability to the USA. Hardware and software behind the infrastructure of a handful of organizations leading the charge hoovered up billions of dollars. Jack heard other nations were charging head-first and achieving similar results on far smaller investments and open-source development models. Jack worried the USA was heading for an economic correction comparable to the “Dot-Bomb” debacle of the early 2000s and was determined to let the thought leaders gathered at the convention hear his Jeremiah-like barbaric yawp.

He lauded the Chinese for their cost-efficiency and open-source models. He fervently believed this innovation was too big to allow proprietary tech and knowledge-hoarding that comes part and parcel with a capitalist economic model. “This technology leverages all available information and knowledge. In other words, the intellectual output of the entire human race is hoovered up into these large language models. It’s only right to have the collective brain power of the entire connected planet working on the problems and reaping the benefits of increased productivity, quicker problem solving, intelligent resource allocation, and the evolution of sentient life on this planet,” said Jack.

“To allow an elite few to monopolize risk/reward calculations is a crime against humanity,” Jack was on fire. “China is doing it right, and we are setting ourselves up for epic failure,” Jack wasn’t the only attendee with this mindset, but he was the only one crashing out in this session. Professor T listened intently hoping Jack might take the temperature down a couple notches before concluding his diatribe. But…just in case…he chose a seat near the door.

***

In a different sector of Adult Disneyland, Billie and Buck were having a banging good time trolling sex-hustlers flicking their player cards in the faces of passers by. “Is this all that’s left of “Sin City?” Billie was mildly amused.

“I’m sure there’s still and underground economy of gamblers, pimps, and mafioso-types out there, just not apparent on the streets.” Buck was trying to reconcile images gleaned from popular movies about Vegas with the apparently mundane vacation resort feel of the Vegas they were experiencing in real-time. “Hell, they even have a magic medieval castle here with kid-friendly attractions and costumed character actors.” 

“Come on,” said Billie. “We gotta experience the Pirate raid at Treasure Island!”

“I’m afraid you’re out of luck with that one,” a friendly bystander answered Billie’s wish with some cold, hard, post-pandemic news. “There was a rumor the original pirate stunt show would be fully restored, but according to the real pirates running the casino, it was just that…a rumor. For now, the lagoon stays dry and the show doesn’t go on. Maybe a limited return in a few months, but for now, nada.”

Billie and Buck really weren’t all that disappointed. They had a grand ol’ time strolling from casino to casino watching people. So many reminders of the excesses their fellow humans love to indulge here in one of the driest deserts in the world…it’s a marvel of civil engineering this oasis in the desert. Billie and Buck wandered around in a constant state of awe.

***

At the end of the day, the Forks met for dinner at Javier’s as planned for a few margaritas and to trade war stories. Jack was still somewhat agitated by what he felt was another case of “irrational exuberance” destined to correct itself in a much bigger way than the dot-bomb of the early 2000s. He worried about the effects a crash would have on his 401k investments, but mostly got the bile out of his system at the convention. 

The suppertime conversation was dominated mostly by Billie and Buck’s Las Vegas first impressions. The strip had so many interesting attractions…there really wasn’t enough time to see it all. But duty calls, and the Forks prepared to conduct the next round of focus-group interviews at the University of Nevada, Las Vegas (UNLV) first thing in the morning.

NEXT WEEK:
Focus-group interviews at UNLV complete, the Forks take a back-tracking detour to Lake Tahoe for a guided boat cruise on Emerald Bay.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links