doomed – Loopcircus

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

People love stories! Coherent frameworks for making sense of the often-unintelligible chaos of existence. If a truly good story is unavailable, a vapid stinker will do. And this desperate embrace of the easily digestible is what we might call the Deification by Default… the human brain settling for any compelling fiction, no matter how empty.

And the believers… they congregate in concrete echo-chambers, modern-day amphitheaters for a new kind of spectacle. Their gaze is fixed on an angry face projected onto a giant, 16k screen, a digital idol spitting vitriol like a croaking raven or territorial baboon.

They see our guy up there. And what a Guy. He is not merely human… he is a creature of pure, unadulterated id, a walking monument to the most cherished American religion… Getting Away With It. He is a living testament of the belief that consequences are for them. That rules are for suckers, despite the fact that he’s been tried and convicted of transgressions that would usher lesser mortals into country club prisons. And so on. The universe, in its indifference, allows such animals to prosper. This particular specimen has been fined millions for frauds so brazen, so loud and brassy, they transcend mere criminality and achieve a perverse kind of art. He’s the zero-sum game personified, a playa whose existence dictates that for him to win, others must lose. He is a babbling font of perpetual-grievance, forever the victim, endlessly fueling his sad tale of victimhood and defiance. He can’t even stand up straight, a physical manifestation of his moral scoliosis. He is covered in a fine orange paste, a desperate veneer masking the gray, clammy, countenance of a moldering corpse.

And the people… the God-fearing, the church-going, the hands-praying people, look at this babbling, orange vessel, and astonishingly proclaim: “Yes. Him. He is our champion.” Not so much admiration as an act of religious conviction… a leap of, what Mr. Bierce’s sarcastic dictionary might define as: “FAITH, n. The acceptance without evidence in the words of one who speaks without knowledge of things inexplicable.” It is the suspension of critical thought in favor of comforting delusion, the embrace of narrative that fills a void, regardless of its factual basis or internal consistency.

The human brain is funny about credulity. It needs reasons, rationalizations, even if they’re entirely bogus. The brain conjures prestige labels to slap onto zircon-encrusted baubles in order to justify worship. So, in this desperate search for legitimacy, the people dug up a relic from the annals of biblical history. They found Cyrus the Great. Cyrus! The Persian! And they told themselves, with remarkably straight faces, that this tangerine-hued Nero… was the new Cyrus. They called him a “flawed vessel,” which is precisely what you call a boat that has already sunk to the bottom of the sea.

Very well: “VIRTUE, n. In a king, that quality which keeps his subjects from sharpening their knives.” It is not necessarily about moral uprightness or inherent goodness, but about the practical efficacy of governance, the ability to maintain order and loyalty through action, not just rhetoric.

Cyrus II was a profoundly practical man, a shrewd statesman and a brilliant conqueror. His actions were dictated by strategic advantage and pragmatic necessity. Tolerance? It was not a deeply held philosophical conviction but a calculated policy. He observed the Jews moping by the river, exiled and dispossessed. Click-click-click went the imperial abacus, weighing the costs and benefits. He permitted them to return home. He didn’t smash idols or persecute local religions. Why? Because it was simply cheaper than cleaning up the inevitable riots and rebellions that religious intolerance would provoke. Mercy? A merciful conqueror, in Cyrus’s view, was one who spent less on garrisoning ruins, who avoided the costly and protracted business of subjugating a rebellious populace. Generosity? A king who hoards all the gold for himself, who starves his populace and his armies, soon finds his head in a basket, a grim lesson in the economics of power. Cyrus understood math, the cold, hard logic of imperial administration.

And now, our guy. The Cyrus of the Golden Commode, a man whose reign is marked by ostentation and vulgarity rather than strategic brilliance.

On Tolerance: Cyrus the Great managed a vast, multi-ethnic empire, understanding that stability required a degree of accommodation. Our modern Cyrus, however, manages a cable-news cycle, a perpetual loop of manufactured outrage. His entire machine runs on intolerance, a relentless jihad against phantom gremlins labeled “wokeness,” creating divisions rather than bridging them.
On Inclusivity: Cyrus the Great let diverse peoples in on the grift of empire, integrating them into its functional framework. Our Cyrus, conversely, wages a cultural war on letters… specifically D, E, and I (Diversity, Equity, and Inclusion)… and openly dreams of an America built solely of pale, northern European peoples. He welcomes an imagined homogeneity while demonizing actual diversity.
On Compassion: Where Cyrus the Great understood the practical value of a measured mercy, our guy’s philosophy can be succinctly summarized as: “Fuck the doomed.” There is no pretense of empathy, no concern for the less fortunate, only a brutal, unvarnished disdain.
On Wisdom: Cyrus the Great was a strategic genius, a master of statecraft. Our guy’s intellectual prowess, by his own proud admission, extends to being able to identify the difference between a camel and an elephant.
On Fortitude: Cyrus the Great was a formidable warrior and empire-builder. Our guy’s most celebrated display of “fortitude” was his aggressive and ultimately successful war against the Vietnam draft.
On Generosity: Cyrus the Great understood the strategic importance of a king’s generosity. Our guy’s much-vaunted “generosity” extended to giving billions to Argentina… a country, not coincidentally, where many unhappy Germans went for a long vacation in 1945 and conveniently forgot to go home. Astonishing Coincidence?

So, what is this comparison, this desperate attempt to link a modern figure with an ancient legend? It is not history… it is a pet-rock fad, a shabby attempt to pass off an empty metaphor as genuine good, to assign a false provenance to something entirely unworthy. It is a magical story for magic junkies, a comforting fable for those who have abandoned the pesky demands of reality for the soothing embrace of fantasy. It gives us a new definition, a diagnosis of a collective delusion… sound familiar?

Now, back to our Bierce-esque sarcastic dictionary: “CYRUS-COMPLEX, n. The political hallucination wherein one mistakes a bankrupt casino boss for a Persian philosopher-king.” It is the fond, almost childlike belief that a man who cannot manage a golf score without cheating can, in fact, be trusted with an empire… a testament to a complete divorce from logical reasoning. It is a bedtime story for those who, having consciously abandoned reason and critical thought, must now shop for their saviors not in the marketplace of ideas, but in the remainder bin of historical analogies, grasping at any discarded narrative, no matter how ill-fitting or absurd.

It is all very, very silly. And so on. The endless, circular dance of self-deception continues, with profound and often tragic consequences for the bewildered animals who crave a story, any story, to light their way.

And… there it is… warts and all.

I got a black bomb…
It’s tickin’ away…
Gonna take it out…
…on the Blue Highway!