battleground

The Chool Bus (ch38)

CHAPTER 38: Thanksgiving dinner with Jack’s family in Savannah, Georgia.

The house was pregnant with autumn olfactory assaults, sage, pumpkin spice, and simmering family traditions: food, spirits, and the “Scarlet P.” At one side of the long table sat Chloe, immaculate in a tailored cream turtleneck, radiating the polished, certain energy of a libertarian pundit who just signed a three-year own the libs book advance. Directly across, her favorite fightin’ cousin Jack, leaning forward in his trademark Thanksgiving navy-blue overalls, tapping his index finger trying, like always, to apply selective hearing as Chloe, grown less and less willing to leave the Scarlet P off the Thanksgiving table, droned on about unelected meddling federal bureaucrats.

Between them sat the traditional battleground: a glistening, perfectly basted twenty-pound turkey, wine, stuffing, cranberry sauce, aunts, uncles, cousins, and the Forks secretly looking forward to this legendary battle of matched wits.

The spark caught when Buck politely declined the candied yams.

“Good idea,” Jack announced, he and Buck agreed about Americans’ obsession with sugar. “No offense to Aunt Jean’s dish, but it’s always been a bit too sweet for my taste. Besides, it’s time to break the system promoting food and beverages loaded with sugar and high-fructose corn syrup to marginalized communities. Old habits die hard ya know.” Jack was waxing eloquent. “For a gustatory shock, give Japanese hard candy a try one of these days. My first exposure had me wondering… ‘where’s the sugar?’ It’s a totally different system there.”

Chloe dabbed her mouth with a cloth napkin, letting a patronizing, camera-ready smile bloom across her face. “Jack, daaarling. The only thing systemic at this table is your inability to eat a carbohydrate without turning it into a class-struggle talking-point. Are you going to debate the yams, or are you going to pass them to someone who actually believes in personal joy?”

Uncle Fred let out a low whistle from the corner. “Round one…ding, ding, ding.”

Jack didn’t miss a beat. He leaned in, his retort spinning at three hundred words per minute. “I believe in joy, Chloe. I just prefer my joy aligned with verifiable facts, preferably from recognized communities of experts, peer-reviewed, and buttressed by double-blind tests for iron-clad veracity. Speaking of credible sources, i noticed your peanut-butter pie has a store-bought crust. Don’t you usually do that from scratch? Is this your way of pulling yourself up by the bootstraps? You know that’s physically impossible, right? Try levitating the cranberry sauce over here.”

A ripple of laughter echoed down the table. Cousin Sam slapped the mahogany. “It’s true! I tried that. I put on my boots, grabbed the straps, and tried to pull myself up. Levitate…? Ha! That’s one of my favorite Dr Hook songs.”

“Sure, you got me, the crust was pre-made in a grocery store,” said Chloe. “Most likely mass produced, even. But i brought something better than homemade pie crust,” Chloe adjusted her cuffs. “I brought cash to pay for groceries. Because unlike some, whose entire ideology is dedicated to complaining about capitalism from their iPhones paid for through their parents’ family wireless plans, i actually understand market logic. Every day, i expose the hypocrisy of keyboard warriors planning revolution from their climate-controlled Brooklyn lofts.”

“Are you sure those lofts aren’t shared with three roommates because they can’t afford private housing due to venture capitalists turning the market into a casino?” Jack shot back, his hands gesturing in rapid, geometric chops. “But that’s fine. I know it’s hard for you to grasp structural inequity when your entire aesthetic is ‘I read Thomas Sowell once and made it my entire personality.’ You don’t have political philosophy, Chloe, you have a Pinterest board of 1950s tax codes.”

Aunt Jean nearly choked on her sweet tea. “Bless her heart, not the Pinterest board!”

Chloe’s eyes gleamed. She was in her element. “And your entire aesthetic is ‘I have a fancy high-tech degree and now i yell at people faster than they can blink.’ You don’t have conversations, Jack. You just have verbal seizures. If you spoke at a normal human cadence, your students would realize you’re just an over-educated shithead with a Bernie Sanders crush.”

“A fast repartee is only a seizure to someone who processes data at dial-up speeds,” Jack retorted, zeroing in. “It’s okay, take your time. I know you’re used to the teleprompter feeding you rebuttals on behalf of the billionaire class. But tell me, Chloe, when Elon finally colonizes Mars, do you think he’s gonna let you ride on the bridge, or are you gonna have to podcast from the cargo bay with the gear?”

The table erupted. Uncle Reggie had to put his fork down, laughing so hard he wheezed. “Cargo bay! He put you in the trunk, Chloe!”

Chloe broke character for a fraction of a second, a genuine smirk slipping through her practiced composure. She reached out and smoothly handed Jack the bowl of macaroni and cheese.

“Eat your dairy, Jack,” Chloe purred, her voice dripping with absolute mock-sweetness. “Your brain needs the glucose to figure out why socialism fails every single time it’s tried. Maybe you can run a quick regression analysis on the cheddar to Velveeta ratio.”

Jack accepted the bowl, scooping a generous portion onto his plate. He looked up, matching her smirk perfectly. “Thank you, Chloe. And make sure you get some of them collard greens. It’s the closest you’ll get to acknowledging your roots all year.”

The table descended into absolute pandemonium. Jimmie fell entirely out of his chair. Aunt Jean was waving a napkin in the air like a surrender flag, tears streaming down her face, while Uncle Ronnie just kept shouting, “Stop the fight! Stop the fight!”

Chloe threw her head back and let out an unpolished laugh, breaking the tension completely. She raised her crystal glass of Moscato in the direction of the turkey. Jack grinned, tapping his water glass against his fork in a mock salute. The scarlet P was put on pause, the audience was thoroughly entertained, and the gravy was finally passed.

And this scene almost didn’t happen. The Chool Bus almost didn’t make it to Georgia as circumstances began pulling on Professor T like a magnet. He needed to get back home in time to work through the sexual harassment case brought by Abigail Weiser’s corrupt attorneys. Professor T was certain all was not as it seemed, and he was determined to get to the bottom of it with what legal assistance he could afford on a mid-level academic’s salary. But Jack assured Mork the delay would be worth it as his extended family was exceedingly entertaining, especially at the annual Thanksgiving Feast.

Jack was right, and after the food and spirited debates were spent, the Forks made their way to the Bus and began the three-day journey back to home base for the holidays. Professor T was confident he would prevail in his campaign to establish innocence. If he and Abigail weren’t able to reconcile afterwards, that would be on her, he thought.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks return home for the holidays and Professor T copes with a disappointing verdict in the troubles with Abigail Weiser.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter V (genderpocalypse)

In the chaos of twisted chromosomes and warring hormones, we stumble upon the battleground known as “gender identity.” Picture it, loopers: a cosmic joke played on the fleshy stage of human existence. On one side, we have the cold, hard warriors of science, armed with their microscopes, brain scans, and impenetrable jargon, dissecting the very essence of what it means to be a dude or a chick. Like a swarm of blue ants, they peck away at the X and Y chromosomes… they focus their compound lenses on squishy gray folds of the brain hoping to uncover the secret lair of gender.

On the other side, we’ve got a dubious combination of politics and religion. And like red ants quoting holy scripture confined in a glass jar with the lab-coat wearing blues, all are content to share the space peacefully until someone comes along and shakes the jar. Ideologies and agendas are imposed upon the mix, where gender is leveraged as a weapon, a war cry, a bargaining chip designed to divide in order to conquer. Here, the forces of division speak in tongues, twisting words like “identity” and “expression” into righteous mandibles and impenetrable exoskeleton. They invent fake threats, hurl buzzwords like sugar crystals, and paint the very notion of gender itself as some kind of existential threat against all ant-kind. It’s an artfully designed battle, loopers, where common sense goes to die and the casualties are sanity and nuance… but enough of this ant-jar metaphor.

Caught in the political shitstorm, behold, the ordinary human! A curious creature, armed with little more than a body that feels and a mind that questions. “Who am i?” they wonder, peering into the distorted screen of warring society. “Am i what the textbooks say i am, what my birth certificate proclaims? Or am i something more, something deeper, an echo of feeling that defies the rigid rules of biology?” The scientists, bless their methodical hearts, try to offer answers, mapping out hormonal landscapes and brain circuitry. But what do they really know about being trapped in a body that feels like a prison, or feeling a defiant joy under a label that the world wants to erase?

Meanwhile, politicians bellow and posture. Christian Nationalists, with their faces twisted in apocalyptic fury, see transgender folks as harbingers of societal collapse, demonic agents sent to shatter the sacred order of man, woman, and holy matrimony. They clutch their dog-eared Bibles like shields, shouting verses about abominations as if the wrath of God himself will smite down those who dare to blur the lines. Oh, the irony, loopers, for aren’t those holy books dripping with gender-bending stories? Androgynist angels, prophets who blur the lines of man and woman… all stuff of genderqueer fever dreams!

And let’s not forget the paragons of liberal tolerance, sometimes just as ridged and uncompromising. Armed with academic tomes and social justice battle cries, they paint gender as a fluid, ever-shifting spectrum, where the very act of categorization is an act of violence. For them, biology is a mere suggestion, pronouns a tool of liberation, and self-declaration of the highest law. To question their orthodoxy is to be cast as bigoted troglodytes, clinging to a world that no longer exists, a relic of a less enlightened age… nuance be damned.

So, here we are, loopers, trapped in this absurdist play. The lab-coat wearing blue ants fiddle with their instruments, hoping to find a grand unifying theory of gender, while the red culture-warriors trade barbs and twist reality like cheap balloon animals. Yet, in the end, what does any of this say about the boy who looks in the mirror and sees a girl staring back, or the woman who feels like a stranger in her own skin? It’s the eternal human struggle played out on a new stage… a struggle to simply be, to exist without judgment, to find a sliver of peace in this glorious, messy, and often nonsensical thing Bill Hicks reminds us is “just a ride.”

And where does our fictional alter-ego fit in this absurdist play? Well, Ronnie Hays says he’s a woman trapped in a man’s body, but that woman happens to be a lesbian. So… the deviance is nearly imperceptible because if he’s dating… he’s dating a woman, and since his skin, flesh, and blood is male from the get go… NO ONE notices something amiss.

Cheers… Loopcircus