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The Chool Bus (ch13)

CHAPTER 13: The Forks and Buck witness the nation’s fibrillating heart a little more directly than anticipated in the Pacific Northwest.

The Forks had a few days to make the trip to Coeur d’Alene where the next set of interviews were scheduled to be conducted at the University of Idaho. After breakfasting at a Salt Lake mom & pop pancake house, they set off for Missoula, Montana. It would be nearly eight hours on the road, but Billie was up for the challenge as some of the nation’s finest hot springs are located there. She was excited to check out some of the less developed spots for a truly unique communion with mother nature. 

Toward the back of the Chool Bus, the hypnotizing hum of rubber and asphalt lulled Professor T to some fitful napping. He remembered at least three moments between sleep and wakefulness where the dream, or nightmare, stuck to his conscious memory like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth when there’s too much PB and not enough J. One of these, in particular, had the good professor sort of dreading this push into the Great American Redoubt (GAR), an area of the country deeply steeped in apocalyptic religious fundamentalism.

Now, Professor T is a live-and-let-live secular humanist at heart, one hundred percent in support of the 1st Amendment’s explicit provision of religious practice free from government involvement (for or against) but the folks in the GAR of Northern Idaho, Eastern Washington/Oregon, had been slowly creating a space where their brand of apocalyptic Christianity was seeping into a cultural dominance. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, thought Professor T, as long as they don’t try to draw everyone into their oxygen deprived world view. He wasn’t worried for himself so much as for Billie’s safety as a person of gender fluidity. 

It didn’t help that Professor T was watching a documentary on YouTube about the GAR, drifting in and out around the point where some of the worst extremists urged followers to seek out and identify Communists, Jihadists, Antifa & BLM. When responding to a critique over the white nationalist flavor of their apparent political goals, they loudly declared their token black pastor negated all claims of their wish to establish a white ethnostate set to secede from the union like those southern states in the mid-19th Century. Of course, that separation led to a bloody civil war and the radical element of the GAR seemed anxious for a rematch. 

In that misty state between wakefulness and dreaming, Professor T heard voices declaring California and the i25 corridor in Colorado the playground of the devil… spiritual warfare … good-vs-evil. There’s mention of a manifesto that reads like the Anarchists Cookbook for prepper GAR compatriots… lots of tactical advice. For example, in The Biblical Basis for War: A Plan For Creating a New Theocracy Through Violence. First, “Make an offer of peace before declaring war.” This offer would not be a negotiation or compromise of perceived righteousness. Non Christians MUST surrender on terms of the GAR’s brand of justice, including the halting of all abortions, same sex marriage, idolatry, occultism (read: no Wicca, or anything resembling paganism), no communism (whatever that’s supposed to mean), and all must obey biblical law (like the Taliban in Afghanistan). Those who comply must pay the GAR’s taxes and those males who refuse… will be killed… read that again… they. will. be. killed!

“Comply or die.” Jack was hip to the irony of folks displaying Gadsden Flags with a snake expressing a desire that tyrannical government entities refrain from stepping near them… the folks who trumpeted warnings of a nationwide gun confiscation and establishment of concentration camps by the previous administration were now silent as their own political party’s federal government was snapping up abandoned warehouses for the stated purpose of facilitating mass deportation of illegal immigrants. As well, sending divisions of armed goon squads into cities run by political opponents.

“Irony is dead,” Jack mumbled as Professor T voiced his increasing apprehension approaching the GAR. 

“Yes, dead, but unacknowledged irony doesn’t mean mixing with the folks in the GAR could be dangerous… yet.” Professor T cued up an interview featuring a librarian from the Coeur d’Alene area who had spent time in law enforcement during the bad old days when Neo-Nazi groups had set up compounds in the area, some taking their views to extremes with the murder of 1980s talk radio personality, Alan Berg. She said she was certain Idaho would not allow that sort of militant activity again. 

“But still,” Jack’s 6th sense was tingling. He was worried they might run into some trouble poking around asking questions of the GAR locals. 

“Not to worry,” Buck was listening to Jack and Professor T’s conversation. “I know plenty of rodeo dudes from Northern Idaho, and they say all of that great secessionist redoubt talk is empty bluster. You know, like in Iran when they chant ‘Death to America’. Really, all they’re saying is they don’t like our one sided approach to Middle East diplomacy. It’s how they express dissatisfaction.”

“Take the goddamn next exit,” Sam Jackson barked from Siri’s Drunk Sister’s bluetooth audio link.

“Well, i don’t much care about politics, but i am hungry,” Billie had to weigh in as she steered the Chool Bus into a truck stop somewhere around Idaho Falls. “Let’s get some truck stop food.”

NEXT WEEK:
Professor T steps in it again, and Billie arranges a mineral hot spring rendezvous with a kindred spirit.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

Audiovision: Damn Hippies

The air above Bethel New York, on that muggy June afternoon, hung thick and viscous like raw maple syrup, but with a distinct, cloying undertone that set Roland’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t the sweet, innocent scent of verdant fields or the faint, hopeful whisper of a summer breeze. No, this was the unmistakable, unholy reek of patchouli – a pungent olfactory assault, clinging to the very molecules of the atmosphere like desperate, unwashed barnacles. Roland, a man whose befuddlement had, with each passing year, calcified into a semi-permanent state of bewildered indignation, felt a familiar tremor of primal loathing course through his very soul. He’d embraced post-hippie Americana with the zeal of a Trappist Monk. Glad to have purged himself of the “Happy Days” and “Leave It to Beaver” plastic conformity and suburban blandness. But a patchouli come-back? That was a bridge too far, a community sensory violation of the highest order.

Roland was on break from managing a fairly obscure death metal band on tour (hey, it’s a living). And since the band’s last stop was near Bethel, New York, he was on a pilgrimage of sorts to the hallowed, if now slightly commercialized, grounds of Woodstock. He walked with the determined, slightly off-kilter gait of his youth hero, Raul Duke (Hunter S. Thompson’s alter-ego)… his mind a furious, churning maelstrom of conflicting philosophies. He’d always championed the counter-culture’s crowning achievement: calling bullshit on the whole ghastly charade of using deadly force as the default geopolitical negotiation tool, specifically, the War in Vietnam. By God, those flower children had a point! Turning teenagers into stone-cold killers, risking life and limb for some phantom anti-socialism cause, all before they could even vote or legally drink a damn beer! That, he understood. That, he respected.

Feel the energy, man?
Eric loathes hippies.
Welcome!
Don’t eat the brown acid.
Forever Young
Loopcircus Was Here

But then, the mutation. The festering, unholy blight that had slithered out of the psychedelic garden and into the crisp, digital air of the 21st century. The same crunchy-granola crowd, now with eyes glazed over by YouTube algorithms and a disturbing reliance on memes as verifiable truth, had morphed into the right-wing, conspiracy-obsessed, anti-vax movement. And that was Roland’s personal hell. That was the unholy alliance of utopian delusion and outright, fact-averse idiocy that made his blood boil like a forgotten stew on a low flame. He, Roland, the man who couldn’t fathom anyone seriously considering themselves “researchers” simply because they’d skimmed a few vax-skeptical tracts, was now face-to-face with the horrifying reality: formerly eradicated diseases, like Polio, was threatening a triumphant, macabre return.

Polio, for God’s sake!

His internal monologue was abruptly shattered by a voice, strained and vibrating with the nervous energy of a hyperactive squirrel on a double espresso. “Hey, brother! You feelin’ the energy of this place, man?” The voice got even more strident, “…the REAL energy… not what THEY want you to feel!”

Roland turned, his gaze falling upon a figure that looked like a bad acid trip had decided to grow a beard and buy a t-shirt that screamed, in distressed, tie-dyed font: “TRUST YOUR GUT, NOT BIG PHARMA!” The man was a former hippie, no doubt, but the peace-sign tattoo on his leathery forearm seemed to twitch with a manic, Meth-fueled intensity. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, darted around like desperate moths trapped in a jar, and strapped on his shoulder was a woven, multi-colored man-purse, embellished with some vaguely occult symbols. The patchouli, Roland realized with a fresh wave of nausea, was emanating directly from him. A walking, talking, perfumed monument to everything that had gone wrong.

“Excuse me?” Roland managed, his voice a tight, strangled rasp.

“The mandating, man,” the QAnonner railed practically vibrating with indignation. “They want to mandate our very bodies! The CDC, man, they’re just puppets for the globalists! It’s all connected! The RONA, the ‘vaccines’—” He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath, thankfully, less patchouli and more stale coffee and weed. “—it’s a control mechanism! A depopulation agenda! Do your own research!”

“Do my own research?!” Roland exploded, his composure shattering like a cheap vase dropped from a great height. His face, already a patchwork of indignation and bewilderment, now mottled to a furious shade of beet-red. “My ‘research’ involved listening to doctors, to scientists! Not some basement dweller with a Wi-Fi connection and a penchant for YouTube conspiracy theories! What about Polio? What about the millions who’ve died from ‘the RONA’ while you’re babbling about ‘control mechanisms’ and ‘depopulation agendas’?” He was fuming, a human pressure cooker teetering on the brink of catastrophic breach. The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated stupidity of politicizing public health, of weaponizing fear against the very tools designed to protect us! This was no longer about geopolitical chess games; this was about basic, communal survival! Roland was teetering on the precipice of falling into a sort of “Incredible Hulk” rage. He was on the verge of running amok.

The QAnonner, startled by Roland’s sudden eruption, recoiled slightly, then squared his shoulders, a glint of self-righteous fury in his meth-charged eyes. “You’re a sheeple, man! Blinded by the mainstream narrative! You just follow what they tell you, like good little consumers! The truth is out there, man, but you gotta open your third eye—”

That was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back, then stomped on it, then set it on fire. The “third eye” drivel, the smarmy condescension, the reek of patchouli – it all coalesced into a single, unbearable affront. Roland’s hand, almost independently, shot out like a startled cobra, snagging the QAnonner’s flimsy man-purse. The man yelped, a high-pitched squeak of surprise, as Roland yanked him closer, fumbling with his other hand into the deep pocket of his cargo shorts.

It was a Keystone Cops moment of pure, unadulterated slapstick. Roland’s fingers scrabbled, missing the canister once, then twice, before finally wrapping around the cool, metallic cylinder. The QAnonner, still yelping, tugged at his man-purse, an absurd tug-of-war unfolding on the very ground where Hendrix once wailed. Then, with a decisive grunt and a theatrical flourish, Roland aimed the nozzle.

Pssssshhhhhhhht!

A thick, orange cloud erupted, engulfing the QAnonner’s face. He shrieked, a sound that could curdle milk, his hands flying up to his eyes. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own Crocs, performing an impromptu, flailing dance of agony and confusion. He spun around, arms windmilling, looking for all the world like a psychedelic dervish suddenly possessed by a swarm of angry bees. He crashed to the ground in a heap, kicking and gasping, his protests dissolving into a series of moaning gurgles.

Roland stood there, breathing heavily, the pepper spray canister still clutched in his hand. A thin sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, but a strange, savage satisfaction bloomed in his chest. “Go home,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but firm. “Go home, and reevaluate your damn life choices. And for God’s sake, take a shower. And burn that goddamn patchouli.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him, even in his befuddled state. He, Roland the Roadie, who applauded the youth of ’69 for standing against forced participation in global carnage, had just used a weapon designed to hurt other lifeforms, on a man who once probably preached peace and love. But this wasn’t about bullets or bombs; this was about basic, societal survival, about the return of ancient scourges, ushered in by the very spirit of individual enlightenment gone horribly, batshit crazy wrong. And sometimes, even a bumbling tired death metal tour manager had to put down the decibel meter and pick up the pepper spray.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter VI (class bamboozle)

America, that grand experiment in democracy and greasy cheeseburgers, has split in two. It’s a nation of Penthouse and Outhouse, caviar dreams and dumpster diving. And in San Francisco, the poster child of this cracked reality, the divide slices cleaner than a Zuckerberg algorithm.

On one side of the looking glass, you have the Tech Titans. Think smooth-faced whiz kids who probably still get carded for rated-R movies, but their bank accounts have more zeroes than the national debt. They cruise around in their self-driving Teslas, sleek as chrome beetles, sipping twenty-dollar green smoothies. Their fortress-like penthouses look out on the city like bored gods on an anthill. At night, they gather at fundraisers you couldn’t buy your way into with a suitcase full of pirate treasure, nibbling on edible gold and discussing the colonization of Mars. It’s enough to make a regular Jane want to scream into her tear-stained pillow.

Then, there’s the other side… the sidewalk crew. These are the folks who exist in the blind spots of the digital aristocracy. Tents sprout like poisonous mushrooms along cracked concrete, faces etched with a lifetime of hard luck, and eyes that mirror the dull sheen of discarded iPhones. They push their worldly belongings in shopping carts, a symphony of rattling wheels and despair that no noise-canceling headphones can drown out. The smell of unwashed bodies and stale urine hangs heavy in the air, a constant reminder that while some worry about stock options, others worry about their next meal.

The great irony, one that would have Kurt Vonnegut cackling into his cornflakes, is that these two Americas need each other. The tech overlords, for all their billions, would be lost without the army of delivery drivers, baristas, and dog walkers that keep their designer lives running like clockwork. And let’s not forget those poor souls who clean up the aftermath of their all-night coding binges fueled by energy drinks that could power a small nation.

Meanwhile, the street folks are an endless source of moral hand-wringing for the penthouse set. They fuel charity galas, anguished blog posts, and the occasional guilt-ridden donation tossed to a panhandler like a bone to a stray dog. It’s a sick kind of symbiosis, the way their high-tech kicks need the muddy puddle to prove just how awesome they are.

H. L. Mencken, the old cynic, would have a field day with this mess. We can practically hear him snorting into his whiskey highball: “Democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard.” Ouch.

The thing is, nobody seems to be doing anything about this chasm that grows wider with each passing Uber Eats order. Politicians, as usual, are flapping their mouths like beached fish, some spinning promises about fixing a broken system that’s been cracked since before iPhones were a twinkle in Steve Jobs’ eye, others still blaming the poor for not pulling on their bootstraps hard enough. Both sides, with a few rare exceptions, not even trying to hide the fact that they are bought and paid for in a system of abject corruption. They’re too busy eyeing their campaign donors in those sterile fundraisers to actually do anything that might rock the boat.

So it goes. While the tech wizards dream of space colonies and the sidewalk crew prays for a dry patch of pavement, the rest of us stand somewhere in the middle, bewildered and nauseous from the whiplash. The great American experiment, once a beacon of hope and hotdogs, now resembles something more like a Salvador Dali painting… melting, distorted, and just plain bizarre.