business

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

Irony is Dead (v42a)

Ah, the irony, it burns like a habanero dipped in turpentine! These self-styled patriots, these bastions of bootstrapped prosperity, these impotent congress-critters, now want to pull the ladder up behind them, leaving the rest of us to drown in the fetid swamp of their hypocrisy.

For decades, they’ve feasted on the fruits of immigrant toil, their pockets lined by the sweat and tears of folks who crossed deserts and oceans for a shot at the American Bait-and-Switch. They’ve built their empires on backs bent under the sun, minds dulled by the drudgery of minimum-wage purgatory. All the while, they (the ruling elites) sang hymns to liberty and opportunity, their forked tongues dripping with a molasses-thick patriotism that choked on the merest whiff of diversity.

But now, the winds are shifting. The browning of America, once a distant tremor, is an earthquake at their door. The faces they once exploited, the hands that picked their crops and cleaned their toilets, are no longer content with crumbs from the master’s table. They dare to aspire, to dream of a slice of the pie they helped bake. And that, my friends, is the real culture war.

Suddenly, the land of the free morphs into Fort Knox, the Statue of Liberty replaced by a gargoyle with a padlock for a mouth. Walls rise like monuments to their own fear, moats filled with the crocodile tears of those who once swore by the great American melting pot. They rail against “invasion,” these architects of exploitation, while forgetting the original sin – the forcible dispossession, the bloody conquest that birthed their precious nation.

The irony is enough to make a jackass weep! These masters of the oligarchy, these captains of energy-independence, these dismantlers of democracy, now reduced to trembling toddlers clutching their sandcastles against the tide. Their gilded cages, built on the backs of the forgotten, suddenly seem awfully fragile. And as the waves of change lap at the ramparts, they scream for walls, for moats, for anything to keep the ghosts of their own greed at bay.

But let them not fool you, these wall-whiners, these moat-mongers. Their fear is not of immigrants, but of justice. Their gated communities are not sanctuaries, but confessionals, where they whisper the sins of a nation built on stolen land and desperate workers. So let the walls rise, let the moats fester, for in their fetid depths lies the true face of American hypocrisy, a monument not to liberty, but to the fear of its own shadow.