LDS

The Chool Bus (ch12)

CHAPTER 12: The Chool Bus survives a torrential downpour and Buck is treated to a personal data colonoscopy.

It was late afternoon and storm clouds were gathering, a June rarity in Salt Lake City. So the Forks rode together to a designated brewpub near the capital. After some post-interview observations discussing the unique character of the locals, appetizers and beers were ordered and the Forks endeavored to dig into the personal history of their fuckin’ new guy as Billie would put it, FNG for short. It was going to be a long year and Buck Wellstone had some catchin’ up to do with this tight-knit trio. So Jack kicked the game into play with the first question. “Tell us about yourself, Buck, and give us a sense of your personal influences,” Jack anticipated a painful norm of reciprocity exercise as he expected everyone to be as reticent as himself.

“Sure,” Buck began. He was grinning as if he had endured this kind of personal colonoscopy before. Taking on a subtle shift in affect, perhaps channeling campfire moments among his early adulthood classmates and friends back home, he launched into a lyrical monologue. 

“Likely as not, you’ve got me sized up already, ‘account of me hailin’ from South Texas and puttin’ in my time up there in Wyomin’. Fair enough. I don’t much hide the way i was raised. But i’ll tell you straight… i ain’t never crossed trails with a man who looks a lick like that fella on the billboard. You know the one… stiff-jawed, a smoke hangin’ just so, and a sunset that looks like it was painted on by someone who never broke a sweat in his life. The truth of the matter is, a modern cowboy doesn’t just sprout from some fancy marketing scheme. No, sir. We’re a uniquely American gumbo… a rich stirrin’ of traditions that surely don’t require the blessin’ of a Madison Avenue suit to know who we are.”

This piqued the interest of everyone. Professor T remembered his childhood, watching all those black & white westerns on one of the only TV channels that came in clear, Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Bonanza, and Rawhide. Jack was partial to the Coen Brothers’ take on the 1970s classic True Grit, and Billie’s schema of American cowboys came from movies like The Urban Cowboy, The Midnight Cowboy, The Power of Dog, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

The pints and bites had arrived, and as the Forks split rapt attention between sips, nibbles, and Buck’s verbal tapestry, the minutes flew by between distant peals of thunder. “You see, when it comes to rodeo culture and cowboys in general, there are two flavors. You’ve got the ones who take it all quite sober, lookin’ at a steer like a geometry proof that has to be solved in less than eight seconds. Then you’ve got the others… the devil may care thrill seekers in it for the grins, giggles, and enough cold beer to drown a water buffalo.”

Buck took a long, thirsty pull from his pint of pilsner, dipped a fried mushroom in the ranch dressing provided and resumed. “I find myself reminiscin’ about a particular gentleman… a steer roper by trade… who held the firm conviction that every livin’ soul on God’s green earth, whether man or beast, ought to be tempered as stout as a well-worn saddle. One fine afternoon, he invited a rather refined city fellow out for a ride through the brush. They journeyed until the shadows stretched out as long as a California Sequoia, at which point our prankster looked that dandy square in the eye and said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost our way, friend. It appears we’ll be beddin’ down beneath the stars tonight, much like the range riders of old.’ And indeed they did. They made do with naught but sweat-dampened saddle blankets for their pillows and their covers. That poor fellow endured the night, tremblin’ with the chill and feelin’ a mite worse for wear, likely contemplatin’ the series of unfortunate decisions that led him to that patch of dirt. When the sun finally graced the horizon, they crested the very next rise… and lo and behold, there sat that scoundrel’s bunkhouse, not a mile’s distance away. It is, i suppose, a rather stern lesson that the ‘good ol’ days’ were often seasoned with a generous helpin’ of most disagreeable circumstances.”

Just then a bolt from Zeus’ quiver slammed into something not but a few blocks away. The thunder crash rattled the custom mugs hanging from hooks above the bartender’s head. It was like a jump scare moment in a horror movie, but Buck was unfazed. “The cowboy itch hits everyone different. Like me, some apply to the University of Wyoming after catchin’ the fever at Frontier Days in Cheyenne. Now, that’s a tradition that started back in 1897 when the cattle barons wanted to lure in some new blood and get their city noticed. They organized a little get-together, a few thousand folks showed up, and a century later, the cowboy games show no sign of lettin’ up. Today, you’ve got young people and city folk comin’ for the buzz, all united by stubby-bottle banquet beer, coiled ropes, and lonesome hopes.”

“I’ve heard a little about the Cheyenne Rodeo. I’ve always wanted to go, but haven’t made it yet. Tell us about it, Buck.” Professor T wanted to hear it from someone with actual experience.

Buck took a measured breath, offerin’ a polite nod as he gathered his thoughts. “Well now,” he began, “it all commences with a grand parade, much like that very first gatherin’ back in eighteen-hundred and ninety-seven. The thoroughfares are fairly teemin’ with… well, pardon my bluntness, but there’s a fair amount of hoss apples and a great deal of ranch finery polished to a high shine for the occasion. You’ll see the Miss Rodeos from every state in the West, perched high in their saddles, sparklin’ in sequins and Stetsons, callin’ out to the crowds with the most marvelous, wild enthusiasm. But, you see, a rodeo simply isn’t a rodeo without the livestock. Behind those chutes, there lies a labyrinth of what one might call restrained fury. You’ll find bulls that possess the sheer, muscular presence of a behemoth wrapped in rawhide, and broncs that seem to be patiently waitin’ for some unsuspecting tourist to lean just a bit too close… providin’ them the opportunity to make a quick meal of a fine straw hat.”

Another not so distant peal of thunder, then the sky opened up like the Jolly Green Giant dumping a bucket on the roof.

“It’s a partnership of sorts.” Buck was unshakable. “Though a violent one. Half a rider’s score depends on the animal’s performance. These bulls and broncs are athletes… and believe me, they’re just as keyed up for the clash as the riders are. The cowboys themselves? They’re friendly, they’re nervous, and they ought to be scared shitless to be strappin’ themselves to a ton of fury that wants ’em gone by any means necessary.”

“BOOM!” bellowed Mother Nature.

 “Should we be checking the bus for leaks?” Professor T was worried.

“Naw.” Billie saw the storm coming. She made sure all of the windows and ceiling vents were closed before retiring to the pub. “I did an idiot check, and the roof fixtures are made with the latest weatherproof sealant. It better not be leaking. Please, Buck, continue.” Billie was riveted by Buck’s back story.

“Anyway…” Buck was sufficiently warmed up. “The gate swings, the announcer’s voice twangs over the PA, and high-energy rock music blares loud enough to rattle your fillings. If the cowboy hangs on for the required eight seconds, they might get a commemorative belt buckle. If not? They get lashed, whiplashed, and finally just throwed.”

“I’ve seen video of modern rodeos, the cowboys wear kevlar vests and face masks to guard against getting gored,” Jack remarked.

Buck took a moment, his expression softenin’ with a touch of gravity… he’d seen too many good men broken by those temperamental beasts to ever treat the matter lightly. “Now, you must understand,” he continued, “these measures were put in place followin’ some truly somber tragedies. More importantly, we must consider the modern bullfighter. And i beg of you, don’t go doin’ that man the disservice of callin’ him a clown. He is, in every sense that matters, a soldier draped in denim and cleats. He performs a most perilous dance between a thunderin’ bull and a fallen rider, actin’ as a courageous decoy. He moves with the nimble grace of a varsity halfback, pivotin’ and spinnin’ away from those brutes… creatures that acknowledge no rules of engagement, possessin’ naught but pure, unadulterated fury. He’ll willingly place himself in harm’s way to shield a man he might’ve only just met over a cup of coffee at the snack bar. They may well paint their faces and employ a few colorful barrels for the sake of the children’s amusement, but mark my words: their true callin’ has precious little to do with provokin’ a laugh.”

“I love to watch the rodeo clowns… they’re like clairvoyants anticipating the animals’ play.” Billie appeared to be a closet cowgirl, something she had yet to reveal about herself as country music was mostly the subject of caustic ridicule in the Grunge-Metal community.

“Anyway, my dad is the most influential person in my life, and he loved the cowboy mythos. I’m more than happy to follow in his bootsteps.” Buck was winding down. “It’s a bizarre world, this modern West. We’ve got city dandys in snakeskin boots browsin’ ropin’ tutorials on YouTube and TikTok. Sorta like that movie Billie mentioned, the one with that disco dancin’ dude, what’s his name?” This rankled Jack as one of his favorite movies is Pulp Fiction, and EVERYBODY knows John Travolta, right? 

“You mean Urban Cowboy John Revolta, don’cha?” Professor T was starting to get a little tipsy.

“Nobody’s expectin’ any of this to make any sense,” Buck said. “And when the dust settles and the games are played out, there’s usually nothin’ left to do but get drunk and talk about what might’ve been. See, my dad says the mythical cowboy will be with us for a long, long time. Like the outlaw biker, he’s here for the perpetually alienated to appropriate, defy, or reclaim as we all squint against the fog of this ongoing culture war… what does Professor T call it?”

“The fibrillating heart of our divided nation,” answered the good professor.

Buck, eager to dive into the food, put a lid on his monologue, “For some reason… maybe it’s the dirt, maybe it’s the danger, or maybe it’s just the hat… we just can’t quit the cowboy mythos. And it’s a long way from 1897, but the spirit’s still the same… life is tough, the ground is hard, and ya better hold on tight.”

“Here here,” Professor T hiccupped. 

“Thank you for your patience,” said Jack. “I have a greater appreciation for cowboy culture. Maybe we can catch a rodeo somewhere on the tour. There’s one in South Florida in January. That ain’t a bad place to be in the dead of winter.”

As Billie and Jack conferred over the next leg of the tour, Professor T motioned for the check. Mother Nature had finally let up on the rain, and the Forks plus Buck would make their way to the campground for a good night’s rest, providing they don’t find puddles in their sleeping bunks.

NEXT WEEK:
Idaho enroute to Washington State

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch8)

Chapter 8: The Forks prepare for a long swing through the western states, Professor T ponders a vivid dream, and Abigail Weiser takes advantage of his unsuspecting nature. 

Mork T’s eyes popped open around midnight. He hadn’t felt this giddy since The Forks’ early days. That is, before the charms of his post-punk song & dance routine began to wear thin. After an obligatory visit to the toilet he would try to get right back to sleep as tomorrow would be a long day of travel along familiar highways. Sometimes however, the call of nature sings subtly, not loud enough to force an immediate nocturnal trip to the commode… just enough to invoke that foggy state of consciousness where textures, moving objects, interactions, and colors are vivid as ever with your waking mind present enough to recognize the dream state and, depending on the desirability of the images, works to keep it going. In this straddled state, Mork T witnessed a stunning tapestry of swirling figures, all moving in color-streaked spirals around his awareness. A hurricane of sensation where the locus of observation was like the cockpit of an aircraft in the eye of a category-5 storm. He saw artifacts of human progress; he saw the icons of religious tradition; he saw labs of scientific inquiry; he saw spires of great cathedrals, microscopes, holy books, high-tech weapons, bottles of communion wine, communication satellites, pipe organs, advanced medical imaging machines, and gilded pulpits swirling around him in an ever expanding spiral. And just as Professor T’s awareness worked for a finer focus at these swirling shapes, the dream state evaporated like so much morning fog. As he reached for the flush handle, he tried to focus his bearing toward slipping back into a cozy position in bed in order to get right back into the dream state. Before pulling the covers and placing a pillow between his knees, he made a mental note to take up the dream impressions for later ponderings.  

And now, in the department office, taking care of final details, Abigail Wiser, long-time office administrative manager, approached Professor T with Buck Wellstone’s application paperwork. Just a couple more signatures and the process would be complete. She approached him with a Mona Lisa smile. Had Mork T been more aware of his surroundings he would have noticed Abigail’s attire was a tad more provocative than usual. She knew the rest of The Forks and Buck Wellstone were to meet in the office at noon. They would grab a lunch in the university cafeteria one last time before boarding the Chool Bus and striking west for Salt Lake City by way of Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Abigail was hovering a bit closer to Professor T than usual, but he thought nothing of it since he believed their relationship had settled into a strictly professional mode years ago. Little did he know, but Ms Wiser was setting him up to be caught by his traveling companions in the act of misconduct clearly prohibited by the policies of Title IX.

As Billie, Jack, and Buck entered the closed door of Professor T’s office, what they witnessed would be hard to interpret as purely innocent.

She tripped, fell against him, he caught her, hands around her waist and just as the Forks were entering the room, Abigail struggled against Professor T’s hold as if to escape an unwanted groping. As the Forks stood there, jaws agape, Professor T tried to maintain a dignified countenance, but Abigaile played her part with great panache. “This isn’t what it looks like,” said Professor T looking wide-eyed at his companions.

“Have a great trip,” said Abigail with a cold sneer as she elbowed her way out of the office.

After an awkward, silent beat, “Well… who’s hungry?” Jack enthusiastically inquired, eager to get past the chilly silence. 

“Right… shall we?” Professor T gestured toward the open door, leading the gang toward the cafeteria.

It was a perfect day for a road trip… evening was approaching as Billie steered the Chool Bus into Silverthorne Colorado. It was time to pull over for some rest before pushing on to Salt Lake City where their next focus group interviews would be conducted on the campus of the University of Utah. 

In a quiet reverie, with the hypnotizing sound of rubber to the road, Professor T recalled images experienced in the early morning hours of this day. It seemed as if his unconscious was sending him messages related to the research he was conducting. For most of his adult life, Professor T would be dismayed at the behavior of his fellow Kanoradians. Staunchly conservative in rural areas and moderately progressive in the population centers. Even so, there was much in the way of rancorous discontent between neighbors, even family. Some folks driven to the point of insisting the only solution to this stubborn culture clash would be a rematch of the Civil War. And with the rise of Social Media’s dominance of the Internet, these divides grew worse with each passing year. Professor T dubbed this the fibrillating heart of our divided nation and he hoped his findings would help people see a way out of this corrosive state of affairs. And so, the image of a swirling vortex of science and religious icons spinning around as if attracted and repelled simultaneously held some hinting charm in his mind.

Then the memory of Abigail Weiser, someone with whom he had years of shared professional experience, inexplicably forcing a close unwelcome physical encounter within eyeshot of witnesses had him puzzled. He knew she had crushed on him many years ago, but believed she had grown to accept the fact that he was not open to that kind of relationship, especially with co-workers. The encounter caused no great consternation and so his thoughts drifted back to the research project.

The sound of Sam Jackson berating Billie for missing a turn in Silverthorne broke Professor T’s reverie. Jack and Buck were finishing a chess match when Billie pulled the Chool Bus into the RV park where the gang would rest for the night.

“Check?” cried Jack with an almost surprised tone.

Buck took a moment to confirm, but sure enough, “I think it’s mate,” he mumbled. “Well played,” Buck congratulated his new colleague for an interesting match.

Next Week:
Professor T ponders mental residue of the previous evening’s dream and the newly expanded Forks make sightseeing plans before resuming research interviews.

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

This Land: Utah

REMINDER: This isn’t a typical state travelogue, loopers. This is a kaleidoscopic nightmare funhouse of experience, brought to you almost live from the Pike’s Peak Library’s flickering Wi-Fi. Remember Steinbeck in “Travels with Charlie”? Similar deal. We’re all peering at the world through our own warped lenses. We might bend facts from time to time, maybe even invent a story or two, just to get a point across or, hell, maybe just for a laugh.

Our mission: all 48 contiguous states in a year, a whirlwind tour fueled by hot springs and busking (the jury’s still out on the busking, frankly). This is entry number ten, and truth be told, we’re about hot-springed out. But hey, maybe when the snow flies and the world chills out, those pools of scalding water will look more appealing.

Speaking of the fickle finger of fate, this Utah entry is coming to you courtesy of a rogue trucker and a windshield that looks like it went fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson. First crack? We figured we could live with it, a battle scar from the road. Second crack? Sounded like a goddamn gunshot, leaving a gaping maw in Rocinante’s once-pristine view of the world. Check, and mate. We limped into Vernal, Utah, a dusty outpost seemingly populated entirely by paleontologists. Turns out, the magic replacement glass for our noble mount was not in stock. Combined with the fact that we had another technical problem waiting in the wings. Specifically, Rocinante’s power station link to the motor’s alternator is subject to a factory recall. That problem had a roughly 3-week lead time. So, the options? A: Become one with the Utah outback until the all the tech. planets align. B: Hightail it back to Hays, regroup, knock out a few repairs, catch up on snail mail from the PO box, and maybe, just maybe, have a beer (or three) with some friends. Option B, it was, and a good time was had by all… 😉

Now, back to Utah. Ronnie Hays, our intrepid (and slightly befuddled) explorer, first encountered the Beehive State back in the halcyon days of y2k. A freshly-minted network administrator for a Denver architecture/engineering firm, he found himself wrangling computers for their new Salt Lake City satellite office. Governor Mitt Romney was at the helm then, prepping for the 2002 Winter Olympics, a future success story veiled in construction dust and post-9/11 security paranoia. Ronnie, meanwhile, was juggling the network buildout and a blossoming romance with a lovely darling from Spokane with roots in the Church of Latter-day Saints (LDS).

Fast forward to a potentially career-ending decision. Ronnie, bless his naive soul, packed a yellow Ryder truck – yeah, the same kind that delivered fiery doom to Oklahoma City – with office equipment. Remember those angry militia types? Yeah, not a good look. After unloading the gear in the SLC office, Ronnie decided to grab a Godiva treat for his Spokane sweetheart. Parking spot of choice? Right next to the main LDS temple. Picture this: Ronnie, shaved head and all, looking like a skinhead with a bomb plot, abandoning a Ryder truck in temple proximity. Post-9/11, loopers! Here’s the kicker: No interrogation. No raised eyebrows. Just Ronnie, oblivious to his near brush with disaster, feeling strangely confident about the competence of the Olympic planners, particularly Mr. Romney. Measured and calm, that’s how Ronnie saw it.

Over the next decade, working with the loopers in SLC, Ronnie solidified his impression. These were some of the nicest, most genuine people he’d ever met, rivaled only by the deeply Mennonite denizens of Hillsboro, Kansas. Religious communities, Ronnie learned, are a mixed bag. Some, like the Mormons and the Mennonites, seem to genuinely strive for those good old-fashioned moral values and decency. This coming from a card-carrying secular humanist, mind you.

For the homegrown loopers, Utah’s a paradise sculpted by a celestial stonemason. Think towering crimson cliffs spilling out like a kaleidoscope on fire, and enough outdoor activities to make a grizzly bear envious. Hot springs bubble up like nature’s Jacuzzi, with Monroe Hot Springs a favorite amongst the locals (though let’s be honest, loopers, a quick Google search reveals a whole smorgasbord of options).

Outsiders, those poor bastards lost in a Greyhound bus-induced fugue state, stumble into Utah for the same reasons: the scenery’s a knockout, a visual uppercut that’ll leave you breathless. The “Mighty Five” National Parks – Zion, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Arches, and Canyonlands – are a crown jewel collection fit for a psychedelic king. And hey, those hot springs add a touch of surreal serenity after a day of dodging rattlesnakes and “Mormon Crickets” (more on that later).

Now, about them institutions of higher learnin’. Utah’s got a decent spread of small-to-medium colleges like Weber State and Utah Valley slinging affordable educations. As for famous literary landmarks? Well, that’s about as scarce as a decent mojito in Salt Lake City. Though Robert Frost’s little stint at Brigham Young does add a curious footnote, like a stray haiku scribbled on a napkin in a Denny’s.

But hey, who needs Dostoevsky when you’ve got a community spirit stronger than moonshine and a work ethic that’d put a Puritan to shame? Utahns are a hardy bunch, the kind who’d build a log cabin with their bare hands and a smile (probably because they can’t drink a decent cup of joe in this state, but hey, more for the rest of us, right?). Sure, there’s a whiff of social conservatism clinging to the air, thicker than hairspray at a Miss Utah pageant. But Ronnie here, your fearless guide through this geological wonderland, can tell you this: it ain’t the in-your-face Bible-thumping you get down South. More like a politely phrased pamphlet tucked under your windshield wiper.

Speaking of windshields, let’s talk about the real star of the show: Utah’s natural majesty. Picking a single “best” spot is like picking a favorite flavor of crazy – you just can’t. But Zion National Park, with its towering red cliffs and slot canyons that look like they were carved by a deranged sculptor on peyote, is a definite contender.

Regarding Utah’s general vibe, their motto is “Industry”…? Now, this seems a bit too generalized to draw any meaning, but when you juxtapose the motto with their famous “beehive” iconography, it makes wagon-train loads of sense. In order for the early settlers to carve out a niche of civilization from the Great Salt desert, it would require singularity of purpose and cooperative action to get ‘er done. Very much like the machinations of bees all working for the interests of their hive in real time.

And the famous loopers? Utah’s got a surprising number of them. There’s Robert Redford, the man with a face that launched a thousand swoons, the Osmond family with their wholesome brand of earworms, Philo T. Farnsworth, the goddamn inventor of television (thankfully, he’s not around to see the logical Kardashian conclusion), and the whole Sundance Film Festival bringing current and future celebrities to Park City every January.

Now, the state’s bread and butter? Tourism, obviously, but mining, tech, and the government sector all play a role in keeping the gears of Utah turning. And for the average Joe (or Jane) punching a clock? The cost of living is reasonable, and jobs are plentiful, making it a prime stomping ground for young professionals still reaching for that “American Dream”.

Finally, a word about Vernal, a desert oasis that popped up like a mirage after we took a rock half the size of a golf ball to the windshield (thanks, Utah!). The desolation was epic, man. On the way there, we saw what looked like a stampede of miniature bison migrating across the highway – turns out, those weren’t tiny bison at all, but Mormon Crickets, these hoppy little buggers that look like something out of Gulliver’s Travels gone bad. Not exactly a threat to humans, but a surefire way to make any halfway curious road tripper slam on the brakes.

So there you have it, loopers. A taste of Utah, the state that’ll leave you with sun-bleached memories, a renewed appreciation for wide-open spaces, and maybe, just maybe, a hankering for a good cup of coffee (because seriously, Utah, what’s the deal?). Until next time, we’re hitting the road again, hoping to appease the windshield-exploding rock gods and delve deeper into the fibrillating heart of our divided nation.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

And now… more with ongoing apologies to Mr. Guthrie.

I saw a stampede…
Cross a Utah Highway…
I felt a calm vibe…
From a Beehive family…
But don’t you worry…
You’ll get your coffee…
Utah peeps can bee and let it be.