The Chool Bus (ch40)

CHAPTER 40: The Forks take a holiday pause while Professor T scrambles to recover from his unfortunate holiday kick in the nads.

In the wake of the judge’s disastrous decision for the plaintiff, Abigail Weiser, Professor T woke up to find the local newspaper’s Sunday Edition had included a report/commentary focused on the absurdity of the matter in stark terms. The author was fairly well known in Professor T’s local area as a razor wit, with very little tolerance for puffery and pretense. He called the affair an exhibition of the great American farce. He said the proceding had offered a spectacle so perfectly distilled in its idiocy that one is forced to marvel anew at the sheer, unadulterated buffoonery of the human animal. That the case of Professor T and Abigail Weiser could stand as a gleaming monument to the contemporary battle of the sexes…a gladiatorial contest wherein the irresistible force of modern female vindictiveness collides spectacularly with the immovable object of male blockheadedness.

Not mincing words…here, read the rest of the column:

Observe, if you have the stomach for it, the plaintiff. Ms Weiser represents that uniquely modern breed of emancipated professional woman who, having loudly proclaimed her absolute equality and fierce independence, immediately retreats to the Victorian fainting couch the moment a bruised ego can be monetized. Harboring a simmering resentment over a romantic rebuff from the good Professor, she did not challenge him to a duel, nor did she simply seek out the company of a man with functioning eyesight and a pulse. Instead, she tripped into the defendant’s arms in his private office, waited for the exact moment of maximum awkwardness, and then summoned the weeping sisters of the Title IX industrial complex. Here we witness the crowning achievement of modern feminist jurisprudence: the magical alchemy that transforms the mundane indignity of unrequited crush into a $350,000 claim for “career stagnation.” It is a grift so transparent, so beautifully cynical, that one almost wishes to applaud her, were she not so entirely devoid of the charm required to pull it off.

But let us shed no tears for Professor Thompson, a man who proves, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that a string of advanced degrees is the surest armor against basic common sense. As a specimen of the American male, he is a pedagogical monk of the first order, wandering through life with the oblivious entitlement of a man who believes the universe is a purely logical mechanism. Confronted by an obvious extortion racket engineered by Ms  Weiser, he responded not with the ruthless cunning required to survive the modern American workplace, but with a naive, bleating faith that ‘truth and justice’ would prevail. What manner of colossal boob still expects truth and justice in an American courtroom? He is a man who absent-mindedly waltzes into a women’s locker room, utterly blind to the absence of urinals until confronted by a towel-clad fury, handing the professional puritans and culture-war hysterics their favorite ballyhoo on a silver platter. He went into a legal knife fight armed with nothing but the belief that his sheer innocence would shield him, neglecting even to prep his own character witnesses. He is the architect of his own public flaying, a martyr to his own magnificent hubris.

The trial itself, naturally, was a carnival of faux-moral outrage, presided over by a judge already emasculated by a spouse who makes her living shrieking about bathroom invasions. Into this circus strode the true masters of the Republic: Francis Scheizer and Brian Bok, a pair of ambulance-chasing pettifoggers who possess all the ethical grandeur of tapeworms. Bok, an Ichabod Crane figure hiding behind his fleshy partner, lobbed cheap provocations while Scheizer wept crocodile tears over the ‘utter villainy’ of a man whose primary sin was failing to return a crush. The legal profession has always been a refuge for scoundrels, but these two mountebanks elevated the shakedown to a high art, preying on the judge’s biases and the gallery’s insatiable appetite for witch hunts.

And so, the gavel fell, and the great wheel of cosmic comedy completed its turn. The judge, functioning less as a jurist and more as a high priest of the prevailing moral panic, awarded the plaintiff seventy thousand simoleons. But the climax of this sordid little drama is where the true genius of the American system reveals itself. Professor Thompson, suddenly locating his spine only after his head had been severed, pledges total financial ruin rather than part with a single dime to this judgement. Consequently, the victorious Ms Weiser finds herself abandoned on the battlefield, clutching a worthless judgment while the jackals of Scheizer and Bok turn their ravenous appetites upon her for their exorbitant fees.

The man loses his fortune and reputation to a phantom grievance…the woman faces personal and professional ruination at the hands of the very bloodsuckers she hired to soothe her bruised vanity. It is a flawless symmetry of mutually assured destruction. The battle of the sexes rages on, and as always, the only clear victors are the lawyers, while the rest of us are left to enjoy the unparalleled comedy of a civilization eagerly tearing itself to pieces over hurt feelings and misplaced faith.

As you might guess, this column was received with whispers and chuckles from Professor T’s hometown “coffee shop congress.” But, as a side effect, the columnist’s perspective gave Professor T an occasion to give Abigail’s motivations some deeper consideration. That said, it was a brief pause. He quickly snapped out of this reverie in the pool of compassion, and so then focused his ire toward the office of Scheizer & Bok. How to confound their rascally deeds… how to get revenge.

These are the conditions with which poor Mork T had approached the holidays. A sad state of affairs, indeed.

NEXT WEEK:
Buck Wellstone offers a different perspective on how Professor T can confound the extortion plot, reconcile with Ms Weiser, and avoid the enormous burdon of the court’s verdict over damages.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch33)

CHAPTER 33: Billie’s speed-bump lesson serves well as the Gang meanders around Arkansas’ hot-spring destinations.

Crossing the Arkansas state line Buck resumed the effort of introducing Billie to “Old-timey” roots music. The song he cued up as they crossed the state line was a portrait of abject poverty. My Name Is John Johanna, famously recorded by Kelly Harrell & The Virginia String Band in 1925. The song is also known as The State of Arkansas and tells the tale of a traveler’s hard luck:

My name is John Johanna, i came from Buffalo town. For nine long years i’ve traveled this wide wide world around. Through ups and downs and miseries and some good days i saw, But i never knew what misery was ’til i went to Arkansas.

Boiled to its essence, the song is about a great human grift known as the “bait-and-switch.” Advertise one thing and deliver another.

“Sounds a lot like the fabled ‘American Dream,’” Jack piped in from the galley.

“Ah yes,” said Buck. “Maybe the song can make its way into Professor T’s analysis of the nation’s ‘fibrillating heart.’” Buck hadn’t intended to start a serious discussion. He just wanted to set the mood as the Bus rolled into Arkansas.

Billie wasn’t concerned with any of that. She had read somewhere about the condition of Arkansas’ meandering roads and kept her eyes peeled for those famous vehicle-wrecking potholes. 

“Be careful, i have family here,” said Billie keeping her eyes on the road. “My North Little Rock relatives are a hearty bunch. Their hospitality is legendary, and their dry wit never fails to put a smile on my face. They’ll welcome you with open arms, but don’t be surprised if they also give you a sideways glance and a knowing smirk. Folksy wisdom and modern cynicism coexist with these guys.

“Some say Arkansas is one of the most beautiful states in the union,” said Billie. And following the meandering highways toward North Little Rock proved her right. Endless green rolling landscape. It kept Billie on her toes and provided no end of fascination for Professor T as it reminded him of the dense wooded areas of Oregon. He kept his eyes peeled for Sasquatch. 

For hot springs action, Arkansas has it in spades. It’s home to several natural hot spring sites, and they were headed for the most famous of them all, Hot Springs National Park. 

But first, the work. The gang met Billie’s relatives for dinner at the North Little Rock Cracker Barrel. “Comfort Food Central,” said Professor T. 

“Well, sure…we, won’t knock ‘em for that.” Billie had made the introductions all around, and now, her aunt, who had never met a stranger, was singing the praises of the many mom & pop restaurants serving authentic southern cuisine for the budget conscious. 

“Billie knows,” said her aunt. “You remember, darling, when the family gathered for Great Grandpa’s funeral, after most of the attendees had gone, we walked to a diner near our house. The one they opened in the early 1960s…remember?”

“Oh yeah, I remember the biscuits and gravy. It was divine,” said Billie. “I still don’t think I’ve experienced any better.”

“But Cracker Barrel is fine,” said Billie’s aunt. “I don’t think your bus would find a place to park at the diner, anyway.”

“It’s all good,” said Jack. “Sometimes you just have to work with what you have.”

“We’re heading to Shorter College in the morning. It’s our next stop for focus-group interviews,” said Professor T. “We’re doing our best to visit a wide diversity of campuses, the big public and privates, the medium size state comprehensives, the Ivy Leaguers, and the small faith-based non-profits. We can’t visit them all, of course, but we want our data to come from a wide variety of perspectives.”

“Well,” said Billie’s uncle, “Shorter is super small, but i’ve heard good things…a community college actually revered by the community.”

The next day, room reserved, snacks obtained, recording equipment in place, Buck, basically a spectator, chair wrangler, and snack custodian, settled on a metal folding chair that felt about three sizes too narrow. He watched as Jack and Professor T, with clipboards on their knees, prepared to capture the data. 

Suddenly, Buck was aware of how loud the creak of his boot leather sounded in the quiet room. Lord, don’t let us look like interrogators, he mused. He watched several participants file in: a grandmother with a worn study Bible resting on top of her nursing syllabus, two young men with tired eyes who probably just clocked off a third-shift warehouse job, and a few teenagers with bright, nervous energy. On the wall behind them the portrait of the college’s founding reverend right beside a framed print of the Jordan River.

Keep your mouth shut and your ears wide open, Buck thinks to himself. We’re here to listen, not run the fence line.

As the conversations got rolling, the rhythm in the room caught Buck off guard in the best way. Back home in Texas, folks talk slow and guard their words like water in August. Here, there’s a music to it…a cadence of soft assents, nods, and the occasional quiet “Amen” when someone speaks a heavy truth. When a young woman started talking about how hard it is to pay for gas to drive across the county line just to make an eight o’clock lab, something inside him ached with familiarity.

That’s the same hill my cousin has to climb, he thinks. Different dirt, same damn hill.

Yet beneath the common ground, he catches the distinct weight of their stories…the generational pride tied to this specific patch of Arkansas ground, the sacred duty they feel toward ancestors who weren’t able to read a book, let alone earn a degree. It isn’t just ambition…it’s stewardship. Faith isn’t just Sunday best here…it’s an engine.

He sees Professor T scribbling notes furiously, catching himself smiling when the grandmother laughs and calls the group to order before he even has a chance to intervene. They didn’t need us to build a bridge, Buck realized, feeling smaller in the best possible way. They just need us to document the truth of what they’ve already built.

As the gang packed away gear, picked up trash, and replaced tables and chairs wrapping up the session, Buck quietly wondered what the singer of that old-timey song about Arkansas would think about the state now. Still strikingly beautiful, but also still plagued by poverty in the south delta, scarce access to public services, and health care.  But after meeting Billie’s relatives and the focus-group session, Buck came away impressed by the folks in the “Natural State” for their razor wit and their built-in resilience. 

NEXT WEEK:
Red Rock, Texas. Then back home for Buck… Corpus Christi

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links