The Chool Bus (ch28)

CHAPTER 28: All agreed, the backtracking detour to Lake Tahoe was worth the trouble, but it was time to get back to business. Eleven punishing hours to Flagstaff Arizona for the next round of focus-group interviews… then, a trip to the deepest crack in the USA, the Grand Canyon.

Passing through Vegas on the way to Flagstaff, Billie agreed to turn the wheel over to Buck as eleven hours was about, “three more than i can stand.” Billie knows her limits and Buck was more than happy to help. So rolling into the Las Vegas area after seven plus hours with Billie behind the wheel, the Forks pulled over to get some fresh air, stretch their legs, and catch a meal before pushing the rest of the way to Flagstaff with a new pilot. Just a little more than three hours and they’d climb above the punishing heat of the desert to the cooler climate at seven-thousand feet. The smell of pine, the lush green lawns… Flagstaff Arizona. Focus-group interviews at Northern Arizona University were scheduled for the next couple days, so they couldn’t afford to dawdle.

Professor T spent a considerable chunk of road time working with the data so far gathered and catching up on administrative tasks. Occasionally he would confer with Jack over themes emerging in the data. These conversations were often quite spirited. It’s not that they were at odds over their perspectives, but they did have sometimes diverging ways to interpret what the participants were saying. Which is fine, these interviews can’t be used to draw objective conclusions, but they do provide an interesting “why” behind the numbers revealed in survey data. The surveys show what people do or think on a large scale, and the focus groups allow Professor T and Jack to hear how people explain these choices in their own words.

Merging onto Interstate 40 in Kingman Arizona, Billie got a jump-scare when Jack slammed his fist on the table making a particularly passionate point in one of those “spirited” conversations with Professor T. But Mork just laughed and brushed it off with a shrug. They’d have to agree to disagree. And Billie was awake now and rather impressed with Buck’s cool demeanor as the Bus encountered road construction and slowdowns. So much so that she began to quiz him over this uncanny ability to bring tempers down in situations that look like certain escalations to violence. This was refreshing for Billie as she is famous in her home town for a short temper and a withering vocabulary. Her method of de-escalation has always been to wear her opponents down with withering truth-telling generously seasoned with caustic, paint peeling accuracy.

“How do you do it?” Billie piped up out of nowhere.

“Do what?” said Buck with a sly grin.

“How did you turn that raging drunk in Fort Collins into an agreeable bystander?” Billie had marveled at the swift turn of events that day when Professor T appeared to have triggered a drunk and paranoid bar patron into a brawl, one that looked like it was going to land several bystanders into the urgent care clinic, at best.

“Well, it’s really simple when you look closely. I picked it up from a friend. He was a civilian contractor working in Afghanistan in the late stages of US involvement. Apparently he had spent some time with a detachment of special forces soldiers. And one of them taught him a way to defuse potential deadly confrontations with the locals. He boiled it down to an acronym, D-E-F-U-S-E. First, you have to short circuit your own “fight or flight” impulse, by remaining completely calm, and avoiding a defensive or argumentative stance. So ‘D’ is for de-escalate. After all, we are at bottom, animals. And this version of the mammalian animal is all et up with the hubris to consider themselves “civilized.” We’ve really only had a few thousand years to evolve from slithering in the grass to finding sanctuary in the trees, to walking upright, to developing food production for communities, to splitting the atom and other methods of habitat destruction. Not even a blip in geologic time. So, anyway, gotta tame the instinct. Most freeze in the face of an in-your-face threat. They don’t know whether to fight, or run. But the right thing to do is to remain calm no matter what.”

“Is that hard to do?” Billie was tumbling… catching her breath.

“Well, it may look that way, but considering the alternative, especially when others are involved. Others you care about and don’t want to see hurt, it really is a no-brainer. So… what’s the next letter in the DEFUSE acronym?” Buck was bringing Billie along.

“Well, we did ‘D’ so now we need ‘E,’” said Billie.

“Right.” said Buck. “‘E’ stands for empathize. You have to acknowledge and validate your opponent’s feelings or frustration. You gotta show ‘em that you recognize their emotional state. Anger, humiliation, wrath, whatever. Empathize with the prevailing emotional winds coming from your would-be attacker.”

“Ok…what’s the ‘F’ stand for?” Billie was eating this up. And they had plenty of time as Flagstaff was still hours down the road.    

“”F’ is for focus. This is where we direct our attention completely on our would-be attacker and the specific problem that seems to be driving them. This requires us to overlook our opponent’s attempts at provoking us with insults or threatening postures, personal attacks, or simple incoherent noise.” 

Billie was silent pondering the implications of the discipline it would take for her to ignore those personal attacks. She nodded solemnly.

“After that,” Buck went on. “You have to genuinely understand where this person is coming from… the ‘U.’ Again, this takes mental discipline for those of us used to throwing hands, or in your case, withering truth-bombs. So… the ‘U’ is a difficult state to arrive at when all you want to do is turn this person’s face into a pudding.” Buck winked and Billie laughed out loud.

“So now,” Buck was warming up to a conclusion. “Now it’s time to ‘S,’ solve the problem that brought the threat up to your face.”

“Solve?” Billie was incredulous. This all seemed somewhat fanciful. “After all,” she went on. “Some people just want to hurt others. They aren’t always interested in accepting reasons to keep their hands to themselves.”

“True story,” said Buck. But, there’s going to be a bottom-line reason for this irrational wish. And depending on your luck in the previous phases of the DEFUSE model, you may be able to tap into that wellspring.”

“C’mon…” Billie was struggling with these ideas.

“Bear with me,” said Buck. “Remember the reason for the dust-up in Fort Collins?”

“Yes. I believe he was angry with the world over a perceived, or literal loss of privacy… modern digital life.” Billie remembered actually identifying with the drunk’s complaint. “He saw Professor T’s audio recording rig, and that triggered a vengeful response. He was going to take this general feeling of violation and loss of control out on good ol’ Mork T.”

“Right,” said Buck. “But i was able to get him to face the absurdity of punishing a well-meaning, but absent-minded civilian for his general feelings of helplessness with the DEFUSE method.”

Billie nodded.

“So, to review,” Buck was sounding more like Professor T with every sentence. “We started with the ‘D.’

 “De-escalate!” said Billie.

“Right,” said Buck. “We refuse to allow the heat of the moment raise our emotional temperature.”

“Then you empathized with the guy.” Billie was playing along.

“The whole time, i remained focused on the fella’s problem,” said Buck. “That, right there, was almost enough to end the trouble.”

“But WAIT… there’s more!” Billie was starting to let some sarcasm show.

“Right, we’re not done yet,” said Buck, totally unmoved. “And keep in mind, these things don’t necessarily happen in sequence. You have to stay focused through the whole process, you have to remain empathetic start to finish, and understanding may take a little while to set in, but you have to keep digging for it.”

“So…what’s the ‘S’ for?” Billie was impressed with Buck’s ability to parry her jabs.

“Well, ‘S’ and ‘E’ sorta come together. ‘S’ is for solving the problem. Once the Fort Collins fella understood Professor T’s recordings had a purpose other than spying on hapless bystanders, he calmed down. Now, ‘E’ is for end the encounter. But it isn’t as simple as it sounds, there has to be clearly articulated next steps, and these next steps, when done right, are always voiced by our would-be attackers. In other wards, the confrontation is defused and the other person walks away feeling vindicated, the stable, positive outcome conceived by them.”

“So, BOOM! Resolution appears to have been conceived by the person that was threatening you in the first place?” Billie purred in amazement.

“Of course,” said Buck. “It doesn’t always end so cleanly, but fortunately for you and Jack and Mork T, the DEFUSE method worked like a charm in Fort Collins.”

Rolling southeast on historic “Route 66,” they passed lots of interesting potential pullovers. But duty calls. The Forks and DEFUSE-Master Buck Wellstone, needed to be on campus in the morning. With the sun at their backs and receding fast, the gang was fading. Parks Arizona, the Bellmont, then the interchange at the Navel Observatory… they had arrived. 

“Don’t miss the Route 66 interchange, Dummy,” said Roseanne’s gravley voice.

Buck acknowledged Siri’s Drunk Sister instructions, pulled into the RV park, and all made their way to bunks in their own time for a good night’s sleep before getting back to business on the NAU campus.   

NEXT WEEK:
Cruel Shoes and the glory of Mother Nature’s geological wonders.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

This Land: Maine

Ronnie, aboard Rocinante (his trusty mount), felt the thrum of steel belts and asphalt as they rolled over the state line. The final stickpin on their quixotic “Hot Springs or Busk” tour… Maine! Land of sprawling nothingness peppered with the occasional Dunkin’, or so Ronnie imagined… Time for some lobster rangoon and a few more chapters of “Journey to the End of Night” from his audiobook.

Upta camp!” Ronnie yelled to Rocinante, who responded with a disconcerting hesitation. Celebration was, as usual, premature. It smacked them in the face like a rogue wave of rockweed and kelp. Outside a dilapidated general store smelling faintly of woodsmoke and looming dread, a specter materialized. Tall, gaunt, skeletal, seemingly woven from the shadows, it pointed a bony finger.

“You ain’t from ’round here.” The phantom croaked, its voice like dry leaves scraping together. “This here’s puckerbrush country. Ya can’t get there from here, not really. Not without payin’.”

Ronnie scoffed. “Paying who? The moose mafia?” He’d heard this kind of backwoods hokum before. An encounter with a kooky pair in Derry, New Hampshire, with their whispers of clowns and floating balloons, had been similarly dramatic. They said they were from Bangor, and they seemed quite hesitant to endorse Ronnie’s wish to visit the home of that town’s famous resident, Stephen King. The woman had a pale anti-witch sort of countenance, like viewing a photo negative. White hair, fairly translucent skin, and a wry, knowing grin that gave Ronnie the stumbles. Her companion was a tall brooding figure reminiscent of one of Ronnie’s favorite childhood television programs. He was a dead ringer for Lurch, The Addams Family’s butler. The couple had a dog on a stout leash who took stock of Ronnie in a manner not typical of canine pets, a more sophisticated intelligence, not anxious, but not willing to let Ronnie pass without a proper olfactory inspection.

This motley bunch seemed to be warning our heroes away from Bangor, but the ever-rational Ronnie wasn’t willing to reroute the tour. He considered himself immune to such provincial spookiness.

But Maine… Maine hummed with a different kind of weird. Twelve thousand years of human habitation, the rumble of ancient glaciers, the ghostly echoes of birchbark canoes and longboats full of grumpy Vikings who probably just wanted some mead and a decent pillage.

Upon arrival, our heroes found Bangor a bust. Rocinante, usually welcome in the most unlikely parking lots, was met with glares. The traffic was a Gordian knot of SUVs and pickup trucks, each driver seemingly mainlining black coffee and simmering with a quiet, territorial rage. Ronnie felt like a single, tangled strand of dental floss in a Sasquatch’s beard. Downtown, brick and shadowed, felt less like a literary pilgrimage and more like the prelude to a particularly grim Edgar Allan Poe story.

Then he heard it. A voice, omnipresent and resonant, seemingly emanating from the very asphalt. “Get OUT!” Ronnie didn’t wait for a second opinion. They needed to skedaddle, but not before soaking up a bit more authentic provincial dread for the upcoming loopcircus.com post, “This land: Maine.”

Their escape route twisted through a labyrinth of densely wooded backroads, the “puckerbrush!” A claustrophobic embrace of pine and shadow. Every rustle of leaves like spectral footsteps. Every twig snap prelude to a jump-scare directed by a particularly malevolent George Romero on a sugar rush. Coastal Down East Maine, advertised as a haven for artists, felt more like a haven for things with too many eyes and teeth and not enough discernible flesh.

The meander back south was a blur of paranoia and close calls… a shadowy figure by a deserted lake that turned out to be a very large, very still loon. A guttural snarl in the woods that was probably just a disgruntled beaver, but still… Maine had gotten under Ronnie’s skin, a splinter of ancient fear he couldn’t quite dislodge.

Finally, the familiar, slightly less but not completely un-haunted bramble of Tewksbury, Massachusetts, appeared through the pines. Rocinante practically sighed with relief. Boondocker-friendly! And the library! Sweet, glorious, digital-nomad friendly WiFi. Ronnie parked, the tension draining from his shoulders. He could almost smell the lukewarm coffee and the comforting sight of the open laptop. Time to finish this damn story and forget about Maine if only for a little while. The unsettling, unforgettable vibe of a state where one truly understands why you “can’t get there from here.”

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

The road to Bangor…
Lined with puckerbrush…
The ancient glaciers…
The rocky coast…
If you can hear…
The Viking ghosts…
They’ll say… you can’t…
Get there from here.