The Chool Bus (ch18)

CHAPTER 18: The Forks crash through dense Oregon forests dodging Sasquatch and Mother Nature.

As the research tour meandered through Pacific Northwest territory, the Forks made their way to scheduled stops from Seattle to Tacoma, from Portland to Eugene, and Oregon’s Lane Community College…a last stop before taking some time to visit Jack’s cousin in Coquille. The pace was frenetic as Portland’s traffic congestion affected the itinerary in ways not accurately factored by Jack and Billie. And though she was able to stay calm, Billie was hard pressed to hit all planned destinations on time. The stretch from Corvallis to Eugene was a welcomed respite…the gang was ready to let their hair down and enjoy some down-time in Coquille. 

From Eugene, they made their way to Florence and though running late, they decided to push on down the 101 Coastal Highway to Coos Bay where they could settle at the local 24-hour fitness club. Again, the gang was running late. The sun slowly disappeared, a soupy fog/biblical downpour rolled in, visibility inched ever closer to nil, and Billie was obliged to nudge the Chool Bus through this leg of the trip slowly, hazard flashers blazing. It was a white knuckle stretch for Billie but Jack was snoozing in his sleeping berth, Buck was in the passenger seat providing moral support, and Professor T was anxiously staring out the window hypnotized by the downpour, the claustrophobia-inducing tree walls persisting for miles and miles.

In this somewhat nightmarish crawl through the sodden darkness, Professor T’s thoughts ran wild with replays of conversations involving Abigail’s attorneys and the court-appointed mediator. On one hand, Professor T understood the #metoo movement was a necessary seismic correction in gender relations. It wasn’t just about high-profile takedowns… it was a fundamental demand for dignity and the right to exist in professional and private spaces without the threat of predatory behavior. It forced long-overdue conversations about consent, power dynamics, and the invisible labor women have historically carried. 

On the other hand, the rise of the “Manosphere”…the world of Alpha-grindset podcasts and “bro” influencers…seemed a bit more than a random backlash to Mork Thompson. More like a symptom of deep-seated identity metamorphosis. Professor T recognized traditional roles (provider, protector) were becoming less tied to economic reality. Where many were feeling disempowered at best, their very existence increasingly viewed as inherently problematic at worse. He felt his fellows were looking for a script that could provide purpose, strength, or at least, a sense of belonging.

He considered himself savvy to this dynamic and viewed himself sympathetic to the plight of women. He recalled John Lennon’s song, Woman is the Ni***r of the World. Professor T’s take was that, due to their willingness to sign up for nature’s demands in the process of proliferating the species, they should be more accurately be considered heroes of the world. Not to mention the monthly pain of simply existing. In short, Professor T considered himself in league with the ladies. 

Abigail surely knew this about him, so all things considered, Professor T concluded Abigail’s campaign was a setup. He suspected she was caught up in a nefarious plan hatched by the ethically challenged duo, Scheizer and Bok. In the beginning he experienced self-doubt, he truly wondered if his outlook had been so out of whack that her case was legit, but then he recalled an encounter with the shysters where they appeared to be provoking him. Scheizer, with his fragile and bony constitution always ended up standing behind Bok, pasty, bloated, and shabbily dressed.

It seemed they were trying to provoke Professor T to assault one of them. He even thought he heard Scheizer say something to the effect of, “Does this inquiry anger you? Perhaps you would like to give my partner a shove, or maybe a poke in the jaw?” 

Of course, Professor T could only look on with astonishment. In his thinking, members of the professional class, doctors, teachers, lawyers, etc. were always well intended and professional in their day to day interactions. When it appeared someone with the privilege of representing clients in a court of law was exhibiting grasping and corrupt behavior, he experienced a shock of cognitive dissonance. Always wary of falling into a trap of fundamental attribution error, Professor T’s response, when encountering corruption, was quick to explain it away by acknowledging everyone has their share of battles, telling himself he must be misinterpreting motives of those who appear to be behaving in less than ethical ways. 

***

Breaking Professor T’s reverie, a thunder crash rattled the cabinets. Billie confessed later it gave her a good jump scare. But just before the crash, in that instant of bright illumination, Professor T could have sworn he saw a lumbering, hairy figure in the trees. And for the rest of the stretch to Coos Bay, he scanned the fog and rain obscured dense tree belt for more evidence of forest dwelling wookies. Of course nothing more would appear in the good professor’s visual field. He decided to keep this sighting to himself as it would never do to have a respected academic confessing belief in the Sasquatch mythology. It was difficult to hold his tongue, but he was traveling with friends so he resolved to make a joke about the sighting over dinner once the Chool Bus was parked for the night…a trial balloon to check his traveling companions’ reaction.

NEXT WEEK:
The White-Knuckle Storm Crawl Continues… Tales of Ghosts, Toxic Waste Contamination, and GOLD in Coquille.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

Audiovision: Korisne Budale!

The rusty gears of JR Murgatroyd’s consciousness ground to a halt, then lurched violently into motion. He wasn’t in Rothpal Moneybags’ tricked out, self-driving cybertruck anymore. Or, rather, he was, but also… not. The plush upholstery, once a tasteful (if conspicuously rich) Corinthian leather, now writhed with crows, each pecking at tiny, glittering golden tickets. The air, thick with the slightly sweet, “fruity” smell of leaking electrolyte chemicals and trauma, now carried a distinct whiff of… straw?

“Brain,” JR croaked, his voice a dry rasp. “Need… brain.”

He looked down. His blue power suit, once the envy of every political climber in Ohio, was now a patchwork of burlap and twine. He flapped a straw-stuffed arm. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “am i a… a scarecrow?”

A chorus of cawing erupted from the upholstery. The crows, their eyes gleaming with malicious amusement, seemed to be chanting, “Korisne Budale! Korisne Budale!”

“I resent that,” JR declared, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I’m a man of principles! Flexible principles, perhaps, but principles nonetheless!”

He remembered Rothpal Moneybags, the man with a glare that could curdle milk and the promises that were, upon closer inspection, suspiciously vague. “Think of the influence, JR! The access! The… the gravy!” Rothpal smarmed, his eyes glittering like a raven’s hoard. JR, ever the pragmatist, had thought, “Gravy is good. Especially when one has spent one’s formative years subsisting on… well, not gravy.”

His journey to this… scarecrow state, now a little clearer, seemed to contain the following: a wrong turn on a one-way, a frantic attempt to override the autopilot, a sudden, snap of the airbags, the sound of sirens, and then… this.

“Ah, the brain,” a tinny voice echoed. A figure, clad in gleaming tin, clanked into view. “You’re looking for one, are you? A brain? In this sector of… the multiverse?”

“Indeed,” JR said, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity while stuffed with straw. “I seem to have misplaced mine.”

The tin cyborg wannabe chuckled, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Misplaced? Or traded for… political advancement? Moneybags has a talent for such transactions.”

“He said it was a ‘strategic partnership’!” JR protested. “He said i was ‘instrumental’!”

“Instrumental in what? Filling his pockets while he sells fascist exceptionalism to the gullible?” The heartless Tin Man retorted. “Look around you, JR. You’re in a dimension where ‘Korisne Budale’ (useful idiot) is a viable career path.”

A yellow brick road, paved with golden tickets and broken promises, stretched into the distance. A lion, sporting a meticulously quaffed combover, cowered behind a pile of Kremlin-backed IOUs. And a witch, wearing designer yoga pants and holding a clipboard, was barking inane missives into a megaphone. “They’re grooming children! Federal workers don’t deserve a paycheck! The Gazpacho Police will throw you in the goulash!”

“This is… distressing,” JR admitted, his straw-stuffed head drooping. “I thought i was climbing. I thought i was… succeeding.”

“Succeeding at what?” The Tin Man asked. “Being a puppet? A pawn? A scarecrow with delusions of grandeur?”

“But the gravy!” JR wailed. “The gravy!”

The crows in the upholstery erupted in a fresh wave of cawing, their voices a cruel, mocking chorus. “Gravy! Gravy! Korisne Budale!”

JR, the man who once believed he could outsmart destiny, now knew the bitter truth. He wasn’t a master of his fate. He was a scarecrow, desperately seeking a brain he’d traded for a fleeting taste of gravy, in a multiverse where “win at all costs” usually meant losing everything, including your dignity. And, maybe, your actual brain.

To be continued… Rohlfie