waves

everywhere and nowhere

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 doom-scrolling social media, looking for funny memes to post to his news feed. “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 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 up to 95% 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 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 is fundamentally designed for 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 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.” ~ Jack Dean

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

That night, in his sleeping birth, 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 09: 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 his reverie of the spiraling forces of intellect and spirit. He paused the reading a moment to listen as Billie, Jack and Buck’s friendly banter carried on from topic to 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 in with Billie’s melodious 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 sleep.

“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 can throw at him.”

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

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 birth. 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 the MOAB 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 grunge-metal 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 subtilly, not loud enough to force an immediate nocturnal trip to the commode, but just enough to invoke that foggy state of consciousness where textures, moving objects, interactions, and colors are vivid as ever, with the waking mind also present enough to recognize the dream state and, depending on the desirability of the images, works to keep the dream state 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 an aircraft in the eye of a category 5 storm. He saw artifacts of human progress and scientific inquiry. He saw the icons of religious tradition, 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 to sleep. 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 a bit more aware of his surroundings he would have noticed Abigail was dressed somewhat more provocatively than is her normal workday routine. 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 he was comfortable with, but he thought nothing of this 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 very 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, Abigaile 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 Abigaile 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, and as Billie steered the Chool Bus into Silverthorn Colorado. Evening was approaching, 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 The Forks were 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 this research project would help people see a way out of this corrosive state of affairs. Professor T. wished citizens would find a way to promote a willing detente between neighbors who have different ways of seeing the world. And so, the image of a swirling vortex of science and religion icons spinning around as if both 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 Silverthorn 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. 

Now, as we have yet to describe Professor T. to any satisfying detail, please indulge this brief meta moment as we more properly introduce this slightly enigmatic character. Mork J. (Jehosiphat) Thompson was born in a Kansas small town, a little over 20 miles due South of Junction City, training ground for the U.S. 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 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, Mork 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. An avid reader, this habit serves well in the profession that claimed him after the “Great Recession (2007-09)” cratered the Internet enterprise he went to work for after the Forks gave up the ghostly rock star dream. Although accidentally landing in the halls of higher-ed, he adapted, and his voracious reading habits served him well contributing to the larger discipline through multiple published research papers and essays, as well as his unique brand of mentorship provided to the student population.

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 pick up 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, he was between gigs. Recently earning his undergrad degree and ready to continue in higher-ed, at least for a Master’s Degree as his undergrad advisor told him the master’s degree 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 his 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 processed 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: 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. 

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, after getting their fill of mineral pool bliss, they would 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 heading out on a much longer sojourn through the wild-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. had 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 his own hand off 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 make a sailor blush. 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 R.Crumb 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 now, 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 platoon 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 very strenuous test. 

“I don’t care if Ms. Sasquach 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 said with the serene countenance of nostalgia.   

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 focus group interviews in Billings 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: Where 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. Larimie, Wyoming was but a short jaunt away, but no one was feeling rushed as the events of the previous night were still ringing in their collective gizzards. Billie couldn’t remember the name of the good natured southern gentleman that had 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 Larimie 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 Larimie in time for the gang to grab some 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 brew-pub designated for rendezvous with Mr. Wellstone.

Now, the Forks had plenty of experience in Wyoming, and after everyone was settled into a pleather-cushened booth, each their own chosen libation working its social-lubrication magic, Professor T. mused about a two-week engagement the band played in Riverton, Wyoming in the early 90s. 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.” (Mork T. and The Forks… get it?),  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 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 they 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 and how much was 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 this “Fozzy” character, 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 so 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 for faculty and staff, but he had grades to turn in and he needed to have that task completed before Monday at noon. Normally, he would have saved some of that work for Saturday, but since he was scheduled to hit the road with his former band mates and long-time friends Mork Thompson and Billie Schmidt, he needed Saturday and Sunday for attending personal tasks preparing to accompany his friends on 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 bizniz 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., primary songwriter and 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 saught 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 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 of that rock-steady bootie-movin’ groove for which he was regionally famous, he still possessed an animal magnetism that had to be judiciously regulated on campus. Jack was damn good at repelling amorous advances by the many young students populating the campus. But, as a cyber-security specialist, not many of his direct charges were of the female persuasion. And, for some odd reason, his male LGBT students weren’t susceptible to his 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 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 have 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 in 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

The Chool Bus (ch02)

Chapter 2: Billie Schmidt and the “Chool Bus”

Billie picked up her phone and opened the email around 3:00am. Normally fast asleep this time of night, but for some reason her eyes popped open automatically. She knew Professor Thompson had applied for a grant to conduct a year-long series of road trips aimed at visiting every one of the lower 48 states, meeting and interviewing people about their awareness and relative engagement with popular culture and politics. Billie really wasn’t all that interested in the details, but she knew she was on the list of companions and was looking forward to going on this coast-to-coast tour with her friends on the bus she had lovingly spent the last several months customizing. Inspecting all points of potential failure, preparing for brutal miles over scorching hot pavement, vicious cross winds and punishing steep mountain grades. She was more than up for the challenge. And now, so was the vehicle the gang had christened, the “Chool Bus”.

The Chool Bus was a solid rolling apartment, designed to accommodate four people comfortably with kitchenette and full restroom facilities in back. Now, bedding in the Chool Bus resembled that of bunks in a submarine. A little tight, but each pod had privacy curtains, reading lights, and the kind of high-tech mattress that delivers real comfort with a small footprint. Billie was a tomboy through and through, but she was in possession of impeccable taste and the Chool Bus interior reflected that taste in spades. The floor, ceiling, and side panels were covered in cedar paneling with plenty of wool insulation for holding in the heat on cold days or the cool air conditioning for the dawg days. Cabinetry finished with ebony composite material, light weight, but strong and resilient, ready for the many thousands of miles their journey would take them.

She gazed across the shop floor at her father, the owner/operator of a used car dealership where she worked. “Hey, Dad, can you help me with this belt install,” called Billie?

“Sure, Pumpkin,” said Billie’s father.

“Please… don’t call me that. I’m not a little girl, anymore, in fact, i’m not a girl at all… call me ‘Bruno’, cause i’m one badass bitch of a Chool Bus mechanic.”

“Ok, Bruno,” her father was all smiles. He really loved this little firecracker of a human being. She was by all conventional western standards, strikingly beautiful, statuesque, radiant skin, smiling eyes and a spunky countenance that variably beamed with mischievous energy. Precocious as a child, musically inclined and mechanically adept. In younger years, she played the drums in Professor Thompson’s grunge metal band, but was glad to leave that lifestyle behind as MTV had grown less and less inclined to play music, and more inclined to those barely “reality” shows. She had other reasons as well, as someone with unconventional gender inclinations, she grew tired of the drunken advances of guys who mistook her conventional beauty and good natured mischievousness for invitations to amore. “Good lord,” she would often exclaim. “Is this all guys ever think about?” 

Billie adjusted to her gender contradictions early on. She had to mature even faster than her female classmates as it’s not easy being this kind of different. But her parents, being rainbow hippies from way back, refused to hard-sell gender roles so she was able to reach adulthood relatively well adjusted. 

She had been anxiously waiting to hear from Professor Thompson about the grant. Would they be off on their first sojourn after graduation, or back to the normal routine working in her dad’s auto repair shop? The application had been submitted all the way back in January, and Billie had been frantically mapping out routes for favorable weather. She was driving Professor Thompson crazy with endless questions about who he wanted to interview and could they plan the route for not only meeting the interviewees where they live but also hitting some of the best destinations for sightseeing. Making bucket-list suggestions, leaning in, barely able to think of anything else.  

Professor Thompson had always loved this endless spring of nervous energy. He was aware of her personal challenges, she was mildly introverted and deeply empathetic, never brooding or sinking into depression funks. She always came alive around her friends, fiercely protective, she could be a bit of a hot-head. Many a time when folks mistook her fair appearance for being a push-over, they quickly learned, Billie could peel paint from the walls with her sharp tongue and buccaneer’s vocabulary. So now, when Billie opened that email to see that the grant had been approved, she nearly woke the neighbors with her whoops of celebration. “Game on…! WOO HOO,” she exclaimed! The gang and the Chool Bus were going on tour, sea to shining sea!

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 3: Jack Dean makes paranoia a viable career path

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch01)

Chapter 1: Professor Thompson’s Roadtrip Sabbatical

The rhythmic cha-click of his office door felt somehow symbolic as Professor Thompson made his way into the department’s hallway. He was running late for an “end of semester” convocation and awards ceremony. He broke into a light jog to reach his colleagues heading for the university’s grand auditorium, an annual review attended faithfully over the last fourteen years as a member of the “informatics/new media” faculty at a mid-western state university. 

Catching up, between panting breaths, Professor Thompson asked anyone inclined to respond, “Do we have a new theme?”

 “Yeah, but it’s the exact wording used by one of those networking technology companies,” said Jack Dean, long-time friend and department colleague.

“Damn! The least they can do is come up with their own idea,” said Janice, a marketing specialist, beloved by students for her exceptional creative flair. “I don’t know why they do that,” speaking of the university president’s promotions team. “They recently hired a couple of my students for internships. Surely, they were able to come up with something original.”

“Nah… they always seem to mail the ‘theme’ in,” said Jack. “Maybe they’re overwhelmed by the latest funding cuts.”

“Who knows?” Professor Thompson wasn’t interested in the regular end of semester gossip. “I’m just glad this week is over.” He had a frantic final week as some big changes were on the horizon… exciting changes. He finally nailed that lucrative new media grant guaranteed to keep him busy for the full year of his earned sabbatical.

And it was a perfect day… the campus was in full springtime bloom. The smell of lilac and freshly cut grass filled Professor Thompson with a sense of well being and gladness as the group made their way along impeccably groomed sidewalk landscaping. Workers busy with graduation preparations made their way to and fro in golf carts from the sports coliseum. Students had long since retreated to their dorms, off campus housing, and local restaurants. The air was electric, as if any moment the party of newly minted university graduates would break out with a vengeance. Professor Thompson was intimately familiar with the scene as his undergrad years were spent right here.

“Lovely day for a great escape,” asked the interim department chair? “I bet you’re itching to get out there on the road.”

Professor Thompson was deep in reverie. He had dreamed of exploring the country, sea to shining sea. With the new media grant, he was not only free to do it, he was getting paid to do it with companions. Meeting people across the nation, asking them about the recent descent into fractious national politics. The nation had been clearly divided by tribal identities. Policies to address the problems were no longer a matter of good-faith negotiation and reasoned compromise. It was now all about which jersey you were wearing.

Professor Thompson called this phenomenon, “the fibrillating heart of our divided nation” and he was determined to get his arms around the dysfunction. Though not delusional enough to believe his research could cure the problem, he knows sunlight is the best disinfectant. And so, he was excited to get the process started. As an added bonus, he would be traveling with friends, Jack Dean and Billie Schmidt. Jack, Billie and Professor Thompson shared a long and eventful history as they were band mates in the 1990s… Grunge Metal band mates, in the Soungarden, Nirvana mold. All of this was in a previous life. The band broke up around the time they realized no one was gonna put up sufficient cash to get a video up on MTV. And besides, MTV seemed more into so-called “reality” anyway. Jack followed Professor Thompson into academe and Billie went to work for her father in the ever more technical world of auto mechanics.

As the convocation rambled through various department accomplishments, individual faculty and staff awards, and notable student accomplishments, Professor Thompson beamed with pride when he was called up to the stage to accept the grant award. His colleagues could be heard over the general applause with whistles and cat calls. The moment was sweet and all over as fast as it began. His portrait was flashed on the jumbo screen along with the title of his research and a photo of his department’s building. And with that, the adventure was about to begin. Just a few logistical matters, such as routing and interview appointment schedules. As well, Billie was still working on the vehicle that would take this motley crew on their journey. A luxuriously converted bus recently acquired from the local school district. The gang christened it the “Chool Bus” (the H is silent). Somehow, the “S” had been removed or worn away and rather than spend more money branding the vehicle, the gang agreed to leave well enough alone.

Stay tuned… next week…
Chapter 2: Billie Schmidt and the “Chool Bus”