particles

The Chool Bus (ch12)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“BOOM!” bellowed Mother Nature.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here here,” Professor T hiccupped. 

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

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

NEXT WEEK:
Idaho enroute to Washington State

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch11)

Chapter 11: We learn a bit of Buck Wellstone’s back story and Professor T’s Zoom Conference provides more questions than answers.

The time for Professor T’s Zoom conference had arrived so after grabbing a coffee in the University of Utah library’s lobby and one more trip to the restroom he checked into a reserved study room, settled into a comfortable chair, logged into his laptop, and checked a few emails and social media direct messages. Once all of these preliminaries completed, he logged into the Zoom session which placed him on hold waiting for the attorneys back home to start the conference… a pair of opportunistic shysters, as the befuddled Mork T would later characterize the firm of Scheizer and Bok.

“Good Morning, Professor Thompson,” the conference moderator began. “As indicated in the summons, this is a formal information gathering exercise. There are no charges to answer, but because a complaint has been filed, we’re obliged to interview all relevant parties.”

“Understood,” Professor T had resolved to let the process play out. Once he deciphered the essence of the matter he could better respond.

“Now, Professor Thompson, are you familiar with Abigail Weiser, administrative manager at your current academic post?” The interview was underway.

“Why, yes. I’ve worked closely with Ms Weiser for the last fourteen years,” said Professor T.

“And could you please characterize the nature of your and Ms Weiser’s relationship?” asked the moderator.

“Sure. She keeps the department’s administrative and bureaucratic matters attended in good order. I have found her exceptionally good at her job,” Professor T responded to the question.

“Could you elaborate, Professor Thompson… is there nothing more you would add about a working relationship going back fourteen years?” The questioner was probing for more.

“Well, i try to show appreciation by presenting her with a gift card to the union coffee shop at the beginning of each semester and the department staff chips in on administrative workers day. We all sign a card and try to show our appreciation,” Professor T was wondering where this line of inquiry could possibly be going.

“Please give us a sense for how your and Ms Weiser’s association had evolved over the years,” said the moderator.

Professor T gently rubbed his chin mentally retrieving memories from the distant past. “Well, my time with the department began a semester after hers. She was still getting her bearings as a new administrative manager… basically, we were learning the ropes together. We were kindred spirits, i suppose.” Professor T took a pull from his now luke-warm coffee. “I suppose there was a time when we could have ended up dating, but my policy is against mixing intimate personal relationships with co-workers. I’ve seen how those entanglements can end up, and, well, i prefer a strictly businesslike office atmosphere.”

“Now, professor Thompson, on the day in question, June 1st, will you please walk us through your interactions in the 24 hours preceding your final encounter with Ms Weiser before launching your research tour? Who reached out to whom? What was the tone of the communication?” Professor T blanched at the notion of anything unusual happening on that day.

“Well, frankly i’m not sure what might be special about June 1st, other than that being departure day for the tour,” Professor Thompson was digging for more to go on.

“The complaint alleges there was inappropriate physical contact that day. Can you tell us what happened from your point of view?” The moderator provided a glimpse.

“Oh, okay, yes. Ms Weiser and i were attending some paper work matters, signatures, completed forms, regular operational stuff.” He was starting to remember. “Just as my companions were arriving, Ms Weiser seemed to have tripped over her own feet and happened to fall into me. Of course i caught her and prevented what might have been an embarrassingly comic pratfall. I did notice her countenance was not what you would expect.

Rather than thanking me for preventing the fall, she departed through the office door with a bit of a blushing sneer.”

Professor T blanched at the memory. “I chalked it up to something in her life outside the office. We had finished our business so after her exit, my companions and i made our way to the Union cafeteria for a meal before loading up in the bus and heading West,” Professor T felt sure he had remembered correctly.

“Now, Professor Thompson, the complaint outlines a pattern of lewd talk and groping as a regular feature of day to day work in your office. When you first learned a complaint was filed, what was your immediate response?” The moderator was zeroing in on the point.

“Preposterous,” Professor T was starting to feel his temples heating up. He felt he had always maintained a professional tone in his office, with the exception of those first few months of his association with Abigail it had been so, and back then, the extra-curricular attraction was strictly one way and he made a point to draw boundaries as soon as he was aware of Abigail’s crush. “I’ve maintained a professional decorum with all of my colleagues from day one.” Professor T was satisfied he had made his case.

“Very well, Professor. Thank you for your cooperation. You will hear from us once the preliminary interviews have been conducted and a decision is made as to whether the process should continue or terminate. Good day.”

Once Professor T had his laptop and cables stowed, he made his way to the union cafeteria. His companions were waiting to hear how the Zoom meeting went. As each of the Forks and Buck settled with their lunch tray, Professor T redirected the gang’s attention, turned the conversation spotlight to Buck. “What about your home in Texas, Buck? Can you give us some more of those Southern accents?” Glad to oblige, Buck launched into a story concerning his early Texas memories. He described the ranch he grew up on and the hired hands he had met. 

“Cowboys come from everywhere.” Buck was a true lover of the old wild west stories and the life of cowboy ranchers under the endless stars of the Texas sky. “And my dad is the ultimate cowboy.” Buck was on a roll. “He didn’t just read about it romanticizing the old days, he lived it. Dad made a point of giving those rodeo cowboys a fallback redoubt.” He was waxing misty eyed about the lifestyle he loved through and through.

“Did your dad ever hire any desperadoes?” asked Billie, who perked up with this topic. She was feeling kinda cringy about Professor T’s predicament.

“Well, you see, Dad’s attitude was sorta like Tom Joad in Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, everybody’s got their struggle and Dad cast his lot with the doomed same as the rhinestone, bronc bustin’ buckle winners.” Buck was no stranger to dangerous characters and was careful not to put on airs around those polite society would shun. “Besides, the desperadoes had the best stories.” Buck was poised to launch into one when Jack asked about Buck’s mother and what she was like.

“Tell us about your mom, Buck. We haven’t heard about her yet.” Jack persisted.

“Yeah, mom died in childbirth. I would have had a sister, but the baby was breach and they were not ready when the time came. With no doctor within a hundred miles, it all happened too quickly and we lost them both.”

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry to hear this,” said Billie, as the rest of the table nodded in agreement. Professor T placed his hand warmly on Buck’s shoulder, and the gang had a moment of silent empathy before finishing lunch and heading back to the bus. Tomorrow would be focus group interviews… then back on the road.

NEXT WEEK:
Campfire ranch storytime over craft beers.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch10)

Chapter 10: The Forks spend a day among the bougie natives of Park City and Professor T receives some troubling news from home. 

As the Chool Bus rolled past Glenwood Springs, Professor T was seen staring at his phone with the troubled countenance of someone coping with exceedingly bad news… a death in the family or something equally nasty. “Are you ok?” asked Jack noticing Professor T’s expression.

“Oh, fine, i guess. I’m being summoned to join a Zoom conference next week… something about a Title IX inquest involving Abigail Weiser,” Professor T frowned. “I’m sure it’s just a misunderstanding. Something about instances of verbal and physical cringy conduct toward her. She’s retained the services of Scheizer and Bok and they’re filing a suit to recover punitive damages for ‘egregious conduct’. What the hell? I have no idea what she’s talking about,” he sounded exhausted. “I’ll know more after the conference.” Professor T looked crestfallen, but recovered composure presently and changed the subject not wanting to drag the general mood down.

“Let me know if there’s anything i can do. I’ll vouch for you,” Billie called from the driver’s seat. 

Buck Wellstone only caught fragments of the conversation… he was meme-scrolling social media, looking for jokes to post to his story reel. “I don’t know why some people get worked up by casual office banter. It’s just good-natured jest,” he said to no one in particular. Buck’s upbringing was steeped in old-fashioned southern propriety and genteel manners, though he found it a little stifling. “All these constraining conventions keeping the ladies down. Why not encourage an atmosphere of mutual frankness?” he mused under his breath. “It ain’t hurt’n nobody… give a little, get a little. Stand up for yourself… do no harm, take no guff.” Words to live by, thought Buck as he scrolled through the endless kaleidoscope of distractions the tiny glowing screen shoveled his way.

As the Highway 40 miles rolled by… Rifle, Meeker, Dinosaur, Colorado, then Vernal Utah, into the Ouray Reservation, then finally, Billie steered the Chool Bus into Park City, settling into a park & ride center where the Forks and Buck checked out electric bike rentals for an afternoon of sightseeing and lunch among the bougie locals.

It was the city of Robert Redford’s Sundance Film Festival held annually in the height of ski season. The Greatest Snow on Earth, goes the promotional slogan. Of course Jack, being a die-hard Kanorado native, would take issue with the brag. He had always preferred the more relaxed feel of places like Winter Park or the night skiing slopes in Keystone’s off the beaten path Summit County resort. Billie was partial to the bougies of Vail and Aspen, but had to admit for some reason Mother Nature was partial to Park City as she often gifted Utah’s slopes with fresh powder on the regular. “It’s all the same to me,” grumbled Professor T as he was partial to warmer climates. “June in the Utah mountains suits me just fine… shall we find some fine culinary treats?” All agreed and they pointed their rented bikes toward the après-ski resort district.  

Buck did some Googlin’ and concluded the closest eligible spot was just off Main Street on 7th. And so, the gang gathered at the High West Saloon for some locally distilled cheer and swanky vittles. They got there in time to line up at 11:30am local time to get ahead of the lunch rush, but the crowd had already beat them to the punch. The host told them there would be a 15-20 minute wait for a table of four so the Forks stepped back, opened their phones, and commenced some down time doom-scrolling.   

Jack, taking his customary scan of the room, looking for potential escape routes should the relaxed atmosphere turn chaotic, turned his attention to patrons, making a game with himself to spot signs of bougie-tude, where conspicuous consumption, pretentious displays of wealth, and a dearth of self-awareness reigns. “Check out the incoming party,” addressing no one in particular. “It looks like a Mean Girls movie entrance.” Jack was watching the one clearly in the lead, a Queen Bee type, regaling tavern patrons with her “total awesomeness”. She was clearly in command of a platoon of bougie ladies on the loose. They pulled up in one of those enormous party limos, most likely commissioned for one of those girls gone wild celebrations needing no special occasion. Each decked in at least several hundred dollars in footwear alone. “There we go,” said Jack. “There’s the bougie circus we came to witness.”

Billie flashed a side eye at Jack as the incoming party was escorted to a prime table instantly, strutting by the Forks without a glance. “I’m sure they had a reservation,” said Billie. She wasn’t bothered about the wait. “Next time we’ll call ahead.” 

“Did you see the rock on the tall one?” said Jack. “I wonder if it’s real?”

“Hard to tell,” Professor T’s uncle was a jeweler who had at one time invited him to an apprenticeship in his main street store front business. He knew about lab grown diamonds, that they can cost significantly less for the same quality. “Yikes, if it’s real, it’s very expensive,” his shoulders dropped as he suppressed a look of awe.   

“You know, there’s no such thing as a Bourgeoisie any more,” said Jack. “The middle class has been effectively flushed down the toilet of globalism. It’s all about the uber-rich now. But they don’t hold sway over small town culture like the Bourgeoisie used to. In fact, they don’t even know what small towns even are any more. There’s the Yacht class, the Laptop/Air Travel class, the HOA class, the Struggle-Bus class, and the Doomed.” Jack took another scanning assessment of the wild-girl party. “If you wanna rebrand the Yachtsters, who am i to argue? That said, we’ve certainly picked a perfect spot for bougie watching.”

Professor T was beginning to feel uncomfortable with the trajectory of this exchange when, just in time, the host led the Forks and Buck to their table. “So, did you notice that guy at the register at our last fuel stop? He paid for the coffee and biscuit for the guy behind him. It’s moments like those that remind me humanity can often default to selfless cooperation. These pay it forward acts, no matter how small, create ripple effects that can have big results… think butterfly effect.”

Jack scoffed. “Oh, please. He didn’t buy breakfast, he bought a social ego-boost, virtue-signaling. He probably checked the window reflection to see if he looked saintly while doing it.”

Billie looked at Jack with a pinched grin, “I think we’re overthinking a mundane transaction. If he wants to spend eight dollars to feel good, and the guy behind him gets a free meal, it’s a net gain. I don’t care if his heart is made of gold or recycled plastic… the math works out.” 

Professor T’s pay-it-forward assessment put Jack in a cynical mood, “Altruism is just a sophisticated way of tricking our brains into feeling superior so we don’t have to face the fact that we’re all just hairless apes competing for resources. And that boulder on Ms Bougie’s finger is the Yacht Class version of hickies… just so much territorial pissings. See, that’s the problem, this net gain nonsense ignores the reality of the jungle. If you spend your life looking for ripples of kindness, you’re going to get drowned by the first person who marks you as a soft target. Self-interest isn’t evil… it’s honest. At least i know where i stand with a selfish person.”

Professor T persisted. “That seems like a lonesome way to live, Jack! If we only look out for ourselves, the jungle becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Altruism isn’t about being a target… it’s about courage. It’s the choice to be the light in a dark room. When we give without expecting anything back, we tap into something higher than biology.” 

“Giving without expecting anything back is how you end up bankrupt and burnt out,” said Jack. “I’m all for helping people, but i have a hard boundary. I’ll help you change a tire, but i’m not giving you my car. My rule is simple… do no harm, but take no shit. If altruism requires me to be a martyr, i’m opting out.”

Billie wasn’t going to let Mork T get steam rolled while waiting for drinks to arrive, and though Jack usually plays the synthesis role in these occasional dialectics, she decided to reverse roles keeping the new guy (Buck) guessing. “You know, i’m a regular contributor to the local food bank because i couldn’t live with myself if i didn’t. Maybe that is a biological trick, Jack, but if the trick helps me feed a hungry child, i’m happy to be fooled. Isn’t a world where we try to be good… even for selfish reasons… better than a world where we stop trying altogether?”

“Like the Buddha says, there’s always a middle way.” ~ Billie Schmidt

Just then the bougie wild girls ordered another round of margaritas contributing to a festive air when the Forks’ food arrived. The tequila was setting a new lunchtime pace for the room, and it was kinetic. In the din, Billie turned to Buck Wellstone. “You’ve been kind of quiet, Buck. What do you think about this selfishness vs altruism lunch-banter?” Billie winked and smiled, giving Buck permission to chime in.

“Well, there was this widow i knew in Laramie. She was known in the county as someone who’d move a turtle off the road to save its shell. She lived by a simple creed… keep your heart soft, but your spine like spindly oak. She spent her days tending a productive garden and leaving jars of honey for neighbors in need, never raising her voice or looking for a fight. She treated everyone with a quiet, steady kindness, believing that peace wasn’t just a feeling, but a practice you had to protect.” Buck paused to enjoy some of his sandwich and the gang let him off the hook as they dug in as well.

When everyone was wiping the last crumbs from their lips, Buck resumed his story. “The widow’s peace was tested when a developer from Cheyenne tried to bully her into selling her patch for a bougie golf course and club. When his bribes failed, he turned to legal threats and trespassing, assuming a woman who talked to marigolds would be an easy mark. The widow didn’t flinch… she simply handed him a folder proving the land was a protected sanctuary and calmly informed him that her lawyer was already ahead of his next move. She told him plain… ‘I don’t believe in causing hurt, but don’t mistake my silence for weakness… a hornet’s nest is perfectly peaceful right up until you poke it.’ The developer cleared out by sunset, realizing that while the widow wouldn’t start a war, she was more than prepared to end one.”

“And there you have it,” cried Billie over the din of the wild bougie girls. 

“You could take a cue from Buck’s Laramie widow,” Jack was looking at Professor Thompson. They (Billie and Jack) knew good ol’ Mork T was prone to assume the best from everyone he meets. 

“Right,” Billie agreed. “Like the Buddha says, there’s always a middle way.”

That night, in his sleeping berth, Professor T reread the email from home. He had known Abigail for many years, and he thought they had come to an accord regarding their relationship. He knew she had carried a torch for him in the beginning, but believed that was all water under the bridge. He was soon to find out how badly he was mistaken.

NEXT WEEK:
We learn a bit of Buck Wellstone’s back story and Professor T’s Zoom Conference provides more questions than answers.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch09)

Chapter 9: Mork Thompson ponders the mental residue of a recent dream and the newly expanded Forks make sightseeing plans before resuming research interviews. 

Professor T was already settled by the time Billie set the parking brake in Silverthorne. Behind the privacy curtain, he was reading a novel illuminated by a clip-on book light. This week he was well into an uncensored version of Oscar Wilde’s Picture of Dorian Gray. As he pondered ideas articulated by Wilde, such as the intertwining of intellect and spirit, his attention turned back to the dream from the night before. In this dream, artifacts of science and religion were swirling in opposition, a spiraling motion like a hurricane or the stars making up the Milky Way. It seemed as if these icons were exhibiting an attractive and repellant influence on each other simultaneously, both maintaining and dispersing the spiraling motion. It seemed to Professor T that an irreconcilability of the nation’s warring cultural forces resembled this image, and perhaps could be better understood through a similar frame. 

“Sweet dreams, everyone,” Billie was in a rare bubbly mood.

“I’ll decide,” Jack was not.

“Thank you,” Buck yawned.

“Humph,” Professor T turned the page.

Tomorrow would be a new day, they would arrive in Salt Lake City in time to enjoy a relaxing dinner, then a couple full days of sightseeing and wanderings before getting back to work gaining insights from people in the area. Jack wanted to take an excursion to nearby Park City. He had heard some great stories of après-ski babes in the off-season, and he wanted to mingle with the singles. Billie asked about his squeeze back home, Jackie Blue. 

“She bailed,” said Jack. “She’s got ADD bad. She knew she’d get bored with me being gone weeks on end. It’s all good… we were starting to get stale anyway.”

“That’s an interesting relationship assessment,” said Billie. “Whatever happened to romance?”

“You’re one to talk,” Jack said with a smirk. “Billie the man-eater is nostalgic for romance, hash-tag LOL.”

Billie winked. “Don’t believe a word of it,” she was looking at Buck. “I still believe… just waiting for the right combination. It’s not my fault i was born this fabulous. The right one’s out there somewhere… i just know it.”

“You’re cursed with super model looks and the hide of a 21st century Annie Oakley,” said Jack. “Good luck finding your Wild Bill, or Calamity Jane, or whatever. I’m sure they’re out there somewhere.”

Professor T could hear this exchange mingling with the mental formation of Wilde’s words leaping off the Dorian Gray pages and it added to the reverie of spiraling spiritual in intellectual forces. He paused the reading a moment to listen as Billie, Jack, and Buck’s friendly banter carried on from topic to topic with a relaxed ease. Professor T smiled. He was glad to have Buck Wellstone added to the gang. The music of his slight southern drawl mixed with Billie’s dulcet tones, and Jack’s witty sarcasm was music to Professor T He was fading. He closed the book… the voices trailed… and he drifted off to…

“So what should we do first in Utah?” asked Jack.

“I’ve always wanted to see MOAB,” said Billie.

“I’ve been there,” Buck interjected. “It’s amazing, but we need motorcycles to properly get the full effect. Hiking takes too long.” Do you think Professor T’s up for that?”

“Oh yeah,” Said Jack. “He’s a trooper… he’ll keep up with anything we throw at him.”

“Ain’t that right?” Billie directed the question to Mork’s sleeping berth.

……silence……

“Well… i guess that’s it for the skipper. I think i’m next,” said Jack. “We’ll see ya’ll in the morning.”

Billie made her way to the back of the Chool Bus to brush her teeth and whatever else she does before settling into her sleeping berth. Buck, feeling a bit self conscious still waited for everyone to get settled before heading that way himself. He pulled out his phone and checked his emails while Billie did her thing. Within a few moments the Forks were off to a painted desert dreamland.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks spend a day among the bougie natives of Park City and Professor T receives some troubling news from home.

The Chool Bus (ch8)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch7)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch6)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

Image Credit: Meta AI

The Chool Bus (ch05)

Chapter 5: The Forks recruit another member. Buck Wellstone applies for graduate assistantship and joins the project as Professor T’s aid de camp. 

The crisp morning air in Fort Collins was a refreshing difference for the Forks as each performed their morning necessaries preparing for the next stop. Laramie, Wyoming was but a short jaunt away, but no one was feeling rushed as events from the previous night were still ringing in their collective gizzards. Billie couldn’t remember the name of the good natured southern gentleman that intervened in the misunderstanding triggered by Professor T’s silly looking recording rig. But Jack did and he also recalled inviting Buck Wellstone to join the forks at a popular Laramie brew-pub once the focus group interviews were conducted and the Forks were ready to relax for the evening. 

“Buck Wellstone is his name and he’s interested in applying for a graduate assistantship in our department. He wants to join us on the tour,” said Jack.

“I don’t know if we can get through the application process quick enough for next semester, but we do have an opening,” said Professor T. “Did you say he was meeting us in Laramie?”

“Indeed he is,” Jack responded.

“Good. I can check on his eligibility on the road, and i’ll give him the standard interview while in Laramie. If his references check out, maybe…” Professor T was secretly hoping this would work out as Mr Wellstone had a refreshing positive vibe. Smart, funny, physically imposing, and genuinely interested in the research the Forks were conducting and the tight-knit camaraderie displayed by this motley collection of humanity.

The Chool Bus rolled into Laramie in time for the gang to grab lunch and get freshened up before gathering participants for the focus group interviews. And, as expected, the room was divided as the nation’s fibrillating heart seemed to be in this culturally-fraught era. But the session was conducted professionally and participants behaved respectfully. As soon as they got started, it was over. Participants went their separate ways and the Forks pointed the Chool Bus toward the designated brew-pub for the rendezvous with Mr Wellstone.

Now, the Forks had plenty of experience in Wyoming and after everyone was settled into a pleather-cushioned booth, each with their chosen libations working their social-lubrication magic, Professor T mused about a two-week engagement the band played in Riverton Wyoming in the early 1990s. In Professor T’s recounting, the gig felt like a lifetime trapped in a malfunctioning deep freeze. December in that desolate outpost was a symphony of howling wind and sub-zero temperatures, a perfect recipe for laryngitis. Professor T, at the time, known as Mork T,  fueled by a steady diet of codeine cough syrup and still clinging to his delusional dream of rock stardom, chased those nonexistent high notes across a well lit stage in a room full of barely interested strangers. Needless to say, it went about as well as a fleshy juke box in a dank, howling sauna.

As is often the case, one anecdote leads to another with this group so Jack, musing about post-Forks times, recalled a highly-unlikely story where he, partnered with a gonzo ski-resort co-worker, someone that went by the alias, Fozzy (for the sake of anonymity).

Now, this Fozzy character, a Laramie-educated electrical engineering savant with a graduate school acceptance letter burning a hole in his pocket, held a peculiar belief: That Laramie Wyoming, was a magical land where cops were blind to the transgressions of the gloriously intoxicated. This, of course, was a theory ripe for testing by these two nihilistic souls clinging desperately to the wreckage of their semi-feral animal-house-esque existence.

Imagine, if you will, a borrowed car (ownership and registration a fiction at best), fueled by cold beer (courtesy of the nearest liquor store), hurtling towards Laramie like a pair of wobbly missiles. The speedometer, a mere suggestion, registered a healthy too-damn-fast, a testament to their utter disregard for both the law and their own mortality.

Several beers and a vanished sunset later, they rolled into Laramie like banshees on Adderall. To their utter disappointment, the flashing blue lights so richly deserved remained stubbornly absent. Finally, in a moment of glorious absurdity, Fozzy managed to run a red light, narrowly missing a cop car pulling out of a parking lot.

“Well, this is it,” Jack chuckled, fresh with i told you so energy dancing in his eyes. “Busted… hauled off to the drunk tank, a glorious, self-inflicted martyrdom!”

The officer, a woman with a withering gaze that could curdle milk, approached Fozzy’s window. The story Fozzy concocted to explain their lack of documentation was a masterpiece of nonsensical bravado, worthy of a Bugs Bunny episode. Miraculously, it worked. The officer, perhaps amused by the sheer audacity of it all, subjected Fozzy to a sobriety dance (how he passed remains a mystery). Deemed sufficiently non-threatening, they were banished from her sight with a stern warning and a $25 fine, payable through a conveniently located after hours slot at the courthouse. And so Fozzy’s theory was field-tested and determined factually sound. Or perhaps, the officer had simply taken pity on these two hapless fools.

As Jack recounted this delicious slice of youthful debauchery, Mr Wellstone’s countenance danced between mild astonishment to dubiousness as he wasn’t sure how much of this was exaggeration or outright fabrication. As Jack was winding down, Mr Wellstone’s expression softened as he seemed to recall his academic advisor complaining about drunk drivers skating by with impunity in their wild-west college town. Jack swore the story was mostly true to a detail and since the rest of the Forks had already heard the story (several times), they vouched for Jack because they knew Fozzy, and the story tracked.

As the evening progressed, Mr. Wellstone made a strong impression on Professor T that he was serious about joining the Forks on their tour, applying for the open graduate assistantship, and eventually earning an informatics/new media master’s degree from their University. “I can’t promise anything at this time,” said Professor T, but we have room for one more on the Chool Bus, and your assistance was greatly appreciated in Fort Collins. If Jack And Billie agree we’d be honored to have you aboard.”

“I vote eye,” said Billie, with a sly grin.

“And i concur,” said Jack lifting his glass for a toast. With that, all raised their glasses and it was settled. The Forks had a new roadie and Professor T gained a loyal aid de camp.

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

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch03)

Chapter 3: Jack Dean makes paranoia a viable career path

By the wall clock it was 9:15pm. Jack Dean had no plan to still be on campus after celebrating accomplishments and attending end of semester ceremonies. But he had grades to turn in and that needed to be done Monday at noon. Normally he would have saved some of that work for Saturday but he was scheduled to hit the road with his former band mates, Mork Thompson and Billie Schmidt and he needed Saturday and Sunday for attending personal tasks preparing for the first of many road trips supporting Thompson’s research project searching for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation. Fortunately, he was able to click submit on the final class roster before 10:00pm. Now he could head home, get some sleep, and get his business done in time to check in with the gang Sunday afternoon.

Back in the day Jack played a crucial role in the Grunge band (The Forks) with Billie and Professor Thompson (stage name, Mork T.). Jack was not just a perfectly serviceable bass player, he was also the glue that kept Mork T, the group’s center of gravity and Billie Schmidt, their kinetic hot-headed drummer from flying apart. A bit of a paranoia case, Jack could sense when trouble was brewing. Not only between his mercurial companions but also with promoters, venue owners, and fans. Like… he had a 6th sense antenna for trouble. Fortunately, these proclivities served him well after the band broke up and each member sought their own post rock-n-roll life. 

Again, Jack was a bit of a paranoid, not pathological, but enough to make sleep a bit of a challenge. His nighttime MO consisted of a couple hits of primo weed and a beer or two on weekends. On this occasion he skipped the beer and hit the hay after packing his ganja back in it’s safe place. Tomorrow would be dedicated to making preparations for weeks on the road conducting focus group interviews and tending to logistics with the assistance of a US road atlas and a new GPS app sporting various celebrity personalities for voices. Jack called the app, Siri’s Drunk Sister (SDS) because it had led him astray a couple times and he felt he needed to cross-reference questionable back road routes with the official road atlas. No worries, the extra vigilance was worth the trouble because the newest build had Samuel L Jackson and Roseanne Barr among others giving voice instructions. Colorful remonstrations issued forth whenever a driver made turns not aligned with SDS instructions… often hilarious. 

And like Billie, Jack was excited to be part of Professor Thompson’s team as he was also on the university’s tenure track and so needed publication credits for his curriculum vitae. More importantly, he was excited to be traveling with his old band mates, older, wiser, no longer dealing with the youthful angst and drunken drama that marked many of the “good ol’ days”.

One reason the gang’s checkered past was even more colorful than most was Jack’s hapless talent for attracting trouble.

And though he was no longer soliciting extra-curricular rendezvous with young admirers, he was responsible for a rock-steady bootie-movin’ groove that made him nearly irresistible to the susceptible. And so this animal magnetism had to be judiciously regulated on campus. Jack was damn good at redirecting the amorous advances of impressionable young ladies. And fortunately, as a cyber-security specialist, not many of his direct charges were of the female persuasion. As well, for some reason, his male LGBT students weren’t susceptible to Jack’s particular brand of pheromone. 

And so, the gang was reunited, Billie had taken the Chool Bus on a maiden voyage over one of the more challenging mountain passes on a pilgrimage to visit Owl Farm in Woody Creek Colorado, the home and redoubt sanctuary of her favorite cultural critic Hunter S Thompson. So with the Chool Bus road-tested from the High Plains to the top of the world, the Forks were ready to take the nation’s temperature, coast to coast. 

First stop, Fort Collins Colorado. Professor T’s research included survey questionnaires, the type used by political pollsters, where participants are drawn from college towns, dense urban population centers, and rural working-class communities with strong religious identifications. This data would be juxtaposed with the face-to-face focus-group work conducted by the reunited Forks making their way from state to state in a rolling home converted for traveling rock and roll refugees, the Chool Bus. Appointments with off-the beaten path communities as well as inner-city diverse-demographic groups are made and the tentative itinerary was crafted to be flexible enough to provide alternate destinations in case any of the original appointments proved unworkable for whatever reason.

Jack Dean, the paranoid tenure-track cyber-security instructor with a history of attracting trouble and a terrific bass player with tons of soul. No way Billie and Professor T would trade Jack for a less troublesome model, the Forks loved their mildly paranoid groovelicious partner.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 4: The Forks embark, and Professor T learns the perceived value of privacy in a social media world.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links