capitalism

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

The Chool Bus (ch24)

CHAPTER 24: The detour to Ensenada is ill timed as the Mexican Government cracks down on a notorious cartel kingpin and all hell breaks loose.

Rolling into Mexico at Tijuana was an eye-opener for Billie and Buck. The long lines of vehicles were met with street vendors, flowers, jewelry, mariachi singers, hand-made trinkets, and much more for sale, some of the vendors, small children, each with their own unique pitch. “What the hell?” said Billie. “That kid can’t be more than ten-years-old. He’s selling balloons like they’re goin’ outta style.”

“Right,” said Buck. “Gotta love unrestricted capitalism. Seems kind of messed up to me, but i’m sure there’s a reason for it.”

Billie shrugged. “But…they’re everywhere. Maybe the cute kids and the little old abuelitas are the best border vendors… i just hope those kids have a safe place to go at the end of the day.” Billie was feeling a little emotional about young kids out there soliciting the gringos in their fancy cars. Billie was thinking about the migrant families she knew in Kansas. That is before the ICE-cold goon-squads started sweeping them up and shipping them off to El-Salvadore. She couldn’t imagine any of those kids among the long lines of cars with god knows what kind of psychos driving them.

Once through the border gauntlet, The Forks made their way along the Mexican coastal highway, a little over an hour and a half to Encenada where Professor T, on the advice of a US Navy veteran, steered Billie and the Chool Bus to a popular cantina. The cantina was within walking distance of a cruise ship docking area so lots of people from around the world come and go.

After finding a place to park the bus for an overnight stay, the gang made their way to the cantina. Once seated, they struck up a conversation with a group of cruise passengers from New Zealand. Turns out, one of the New Zealanders had spent a few years in the Denver Tech Center working for an engineering firm. He knew several of Jack’s Denver friends, and so the Forks and Buck found themselves at a raucous table of jabbering small world stories. Jack noticed a “bachelorette party” special on the menu, and suggested pooling resources. 

“You can really tie one on here,” said Mort T… fifty beers, a bottle of Don Julio 7, and a plate of guac and chips at the table…a bangin’ party for ten people. Five beers, a shot, and some guac for good measure… not that cheap, but super convenient.”

So Jack passed the hat, ordered up the special, and the party began in earnest. Around the time this impromptu group started giving way to slurred conversations, a small team of federales entered the cantina. They spoke with the manager in hushed tones for a moment, then left abruptly for the next-door business. Presently, the manager made an announcement that there had been a raid in a nearby town where the government targeted a narco-kingpin, killing him and his family and others. The response was spreading like wildfire. Buildings were bombed, vehicles torched, rival gangs were joining the chaos, and battle was breaking out all over the land.

“Damas y caballeros,” the cantina’s public address system amplified the manager’s voice. The waiter translated for the Forks’ table… “We have been advised to encourage everyone to shelter in place until this wave of retaliation subsides and it’s again safe to go out on the streets.“

“Holy crap!” Buck seemed almost excited about the development…scanning the Cantina for escape routes and hiding places. He decided to save the beers for later when a loud explosion shook the table.

Buck made his way to the window to see if he needed to go into fast-action mode. But the smoke was several blocks away.

Just then several pops, like black-cat fire crackers cut through the din, and Buck saw a couple of dark figures a couple blocks away. It looked like they were exchanging fire with a group of federales taking cover behind a black SUV. This is where someone from the New Zealander party directed the gang to hide in a dry goods pantry. A couple other parties joined them and twenty-five souls huddled together among the bags of pintos, cans of tomatoes, and bins of dried peppers. No one was feeling safe and everyone was sobering up, fast.

“Relax, everyone.” said one of the New Zealanders. “They won’t attack the cantina. They don’t want to hurt the tourist trade. I asked the manager if there were any cartel types hanging around. He didn’t think so…hopefully he’s right and we can get back to the ship unmolested.”

After a couple hours of tense waiting, the manager announced the danger had passed. The attacks in or around the area were few, but the gang passed a couple burning vehicles and there was evidence of gun play, spent casings, pools of blood, crime-scene tape, and local emergency responders running to and fro.

The Forks made their way back to the bus… feeling fortunate the action hadn’t got closer. It was a tense ride back to the RV park in San Diego and no one slept easy that night… definitely one to remember.   

NEXT WEEK:
After a hair-raising taste of narco-politics and street carnage, the Forks finally make it to Vegas. But none of them survived that day unfazed.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch21)

CHAPTER 21: The Forks interview folks in Redding, Sacramento, and San Francisco before taking some time in Monterey, enjoying the Steinbeck vibes on Cannery Row.

The gang enjoyed some pizza and a couple beers with Professor T’s relatives in Redding before getting a good night’s sleep ahead of the next grueling leg of the tour. Sacramento, and San Francisco would challenge Billie with their traffic. She learned a thing or two about urban congestion in Portland and the lessons stuck…they were no longer having to apologize for late arrivals. Of course smoothing things over would be much easier if Professor T could take his diplomatic approach up a notch or two, but it’s all in the rearview as Billie was getting real good at choosing alternate routes offered by Siri’s drunk sister now programmed with Rosanne Barr’s salty voice.

“Are you blind AND deaf?”
Roseanne barked at Billie whenever she missed a turn. 

***

It took a full day to finish at State University in Sacramento, then it was off to one of the most storied, cosmopolitan cities in the US. The interviews were to take place at the University of California, Berkley, and this was an eye-opener for the flatlanders riding in the Chool Bus…oh yeah. See, weather in the Bay area is famously mild, a fact that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the nation’s many…many unfortunates living out of cars, vans, and motor homes. 

Buck Wellstone could hardly get his jaw off the floor as the Chool Bus past block after block of hovels lining the sidewalks. Vacant lots filled with RVs and tents…small cohorts of unhoused individuals tightly clustered in pungent slapdash micro-communities. It’s a bit much for a Big Sky Texas cowboy to take in.

The mix of folks appearing for the interviews was as diverse as the city itself, and once the final round was complete, the gang was more than happy to be moving on. Not out of any fear or loathing for an overwhelming presence of the nation’s down and out, rather the unsettling juxtaposition of some of the best and brightest cohabitating a mere’s security door from the nation’s doomed, not simply there because Mother Nature’s wrath is less prominent, no…it’s San Francisco…one of the world’s most celebrated cities.

At the end of the day in Berkley, Billie met some of what she considered the most interesting people she had yet to encounter in all her years on the high plains. One was preparing an IPO for his artificial intelligence development company, another impressed Billie with wisdom beyond years, and nearly penniless. She and her rescue dog had been living in one of those tent cities for the past several months. Not sure what to do next, but inclined to hop a cargo freighter to Viet Nam. Clear-eyed about the downsides of life in a communist country, but at the same time, done with the zero-sum, social Darwinist hunger games of capitalism. 

“Why Viet Nam?” said Billie. 

“Not one hundred percent sure,” said her new companion. “I’ve always felt we Americans should try to do something…anything to help folks in South East Asia recover from the devastation the American war did to their land. So, i signed up with an international NGO to help the locals plant a billion trees.  

“Trees?” said Billie.

“Yes. Even though there’s no way for us to mitigate the human losses, we certainly can help to repair damage to nature’s oxygen-generating forests and urban greenspace. So… we’ll see. Right now looking to get myself and my dog, Buddy, vaccinated for the stay, however long it may end up being.”

Billie smiled. “That sounds like a worthy adventure.”

Billie’s new companion continued: “Proud to be an American, land of liberty within the confines of total freedom and absolute justice.” She went on. “And so, if total freedom ends in anarchy and absolute justice to tyranny, i choose a little of both…liberty. I plan to give way to contrition with mine, and not just for the people of Southeast Asia, but to the land we shredded with our bombs and weaponized herbicides.”

***

Later, on the road to Salinas, Professor T was reacquainting himself with John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row characters and settings as the gang agreed to spend the next day in Monterey soaking in the atmosphere, trying to overlook the touristy vibe and really get immersed in the world created by this great American storyteller.   

For one, Professor T, contemplating the tent enclaves in Berkley’s vacant lots, couldn’t ignore a sense of Deja vu. How there must be similar stories in there. On Cannery Row the nation’s doomed found ways to thrive through interconnection and mutual support. Necessity giving folks on the waterfront row and in the Bay Area canvas-roof enclaves license to give in to the better angels of human nature. Prostitutes, drifters, iconoclasts, and rebels forming surrogate families protecting inhabitants from the devastating isolation of the modern world.

***

Presently, Professor T turned his thoughts to the brewing storm waiting for him back home in Kansas. His anger was beginning to temper a bit. He thought about the lessons taken from the pages of Cannery Row. Could he beat back the legal attack with angry defiance? Should he put his back into a fight against the natural flow of the universe, or could he defuse Abagail’s attack with acceptance? Regardless of the outcome, could he just simply let things be? He would find out soon enough as he was summoned to appear in court back home because Abigail’s attorneys had filed a suit to collect damages. 

The Zoom conference outburst had not helped his case at the University. He was written up for “chronic low performance,”  a bureaucratic prelude to being subject to an unfavorable post-tenure review, one step closer to being dismissed. Scheizer & Bok will use this bit of unfortunate news in their case for damages. 

“You have ARRIVED, dummy!” Roseanne Barr’s voice barked as Billie steered the Chool Bus into the Salinas RV park where the gang would spend the night.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks head south (SoCal) venturing close to LA via Santa Barbara and Moorpark, then, a taste of the Bakersfield sound at the Merle Haggard Museum.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links