These stories were told out loud before they were written down.
Some came from porches.
Some from kitchens.
Some from the long way home.
Mornin’, y’all.
You didn’t miss nothin’.
You just arrived when you were ready.
This is WBRD — Radio for the Restless Spirit, broadcastin’ from a VW bus that don’t believe in straight lines or tight schedules.
If this your first time ridin’ with us — welcome aboard.
If you’ve been here before — glad you came back.
I’m Nicky Butler. I tell stories the way Pop Squally taught me — not loud, not clean, not perfect. Just honest. Passed hand to hand like a hot plate on a cold night, somewhere between a laugh you needed and a lesson you didn’t see comin’.
My ride’s a ’71 VW Microbus — bay window, teal and white. Curtains in the back. Heater don’t work. Seatbelt held together with duct tape and hope. Ain’t much, but it rolls. And so do the stories.
That van? Keep your eyes peeled. Sometimes it shows up where the story’s headed before I even know where we’re goin’.
Before we get too far down the road, a quick look outside the windshield: low clouds sittin’ heavy over the basin tonight. Fog rollin’ in off the water. Roads slick in places, so take your time. If you’re drivin’, keep both hands on the wheel. If you’re listenin’ from home — pull your chair a little closer.
I try to listen more than I talk. I carry the kind of tales that ain’t always polite — but they got good bones.
Now — Pop Squally. Born Jean-Baptiste Dupré, out in Lawtell, Louisiana. Blind as a bat, but sees more than most. When the world gets foolish, he don’t preach. He cooks. That skillet of his? It ain’t just for fryin’. It’s a compass. Follow it long enough, and you might learn somethin’ you didn’t even know you were missin’.
Quick station note, while that settles in: if you’re new here, we don’t rush things on WBRD. We don’t talk over the quiet parts. And we don’t sell you nothin’ you don’t need — except maybe a little patience.
So here we go.
This first one’s called The Tao of Fried Chicken.
Starts out like most of us did — covered in questions, seasoned in doubt, and tossed straight into the sizzle.
The VW hums across the Atchafalaya Basin Bridge, swamp stretched out on both sides like it’s listenin’. Cypress knees rise out the dark water. Headlights carve a tunnel through mist. Inside the bus, a cassette clicks into place and zydeco slips out the windows, playful and restless, like the road itself.
That bridge? It ain’t just concrete. It’s a crossing — one of those places where stories decide whether they’re gonna stay put… or keep movin’.
And for those of y’all just tunin’ in — you’re ridin’ with WBRD — Radio for the Restless Spirit. Don’t worry. You ain’t late. These stories know how to wait.
Up ahead, the night opens. And somewhere down that road — though I didn’t know it yet — Pop Squally was already waitin’. Not rushin’. Not hidin’. Just listenin’ hard enough for the world to tell on itself.
And if you blink… well. You might miss him.
Remember, y’all — some stories don’t start at the beginning.
They start the moment you decide to stay on the road a little longer than you planned.
We’ll come back to this.
First told live at The Whirlybird, July 2025 — music, voices, and a room full of listeners.
Oh, you weren’t there? You didn’t miss a thing.
You’re still with WBRD — Radio for the Restless Spirit.
I’m Nicky Butler.
Sun ain’t up yet — but it’s thinkin’ about it.
If you’re drivin’ early this mornin’, fog’s still clingin’ low over the water. Bridges slick in spots. Slow it down. Ain’t nobody givin’ out prizes for arrivin’ tense.
Some places echo.
And some echoes tell you it’s time to move.
This is one of those stories.
Now — before we met Pop Squally, before the skillet, before the road really started talkin’ back — there was a quiet place. Stone walls. Old prayers. A young man tryin’ to solve the whole world with his mind.
This part happens about an hour before you heard the tires crunch on gravel.
— Honora, first whisper:
Fog advisories in effect.
Not the kind that lifts.
The kind that teaches you how to walk slow.
Moonlight spills across a monastery courtyard — pale and patient. The kind of light that don’t rush you, but don’t let you hide either.
Brother Matteo kneels in meditation. Cassock crisp. Satchel packed and set beside him like a promise he ain’t said out loud yet. The Senior Monk stands nearby, hands folded, watchin’ the way only someone who’s seen this moment before knows how to watch.
“You’ve packed light,” the monk says.
“I’m not goin’ far,” Matteo answers. “Just… somewhere I haven’t been.”
You ever notice how folks say that right before they change their whole damn life?
The monk walks slow, sandals whisperin’ against stone.
“You’ve been restless a long time, Brother Matteo.”
“I thought knowledge would quiet that,” Matteo says. “A Jesuit life of contemplation. Books. Doctrine. History. I buried myself in it all — Saints, Sutras, Sufis, the Upanishads. Thought maybe if I could map the whole thing, I’d understand God.”
“And now?”
“Now I know maps are not the terrain. And dogma is not the truth. I’ve read about enlightenment in ten thousand words, and still I don’t know what it feels like to be awake.”
That’s the sound of a man hittin’ the edge of his own thinking.
The monk studies him, not unkindly.
“You’ve read everything we have. Argued every paradox twice. Meditated on more mysteries than most men twice your age.”
“Yes,” Matteo says. “And still none of it feels like enough.”
He stands now, face to face with the monk.
“Lately I’ve been readin’ about the Tao. The Way that can be named is not the True Way. Water that yields — but still carves stone. I think maybe what I’ve been callin’ faith… was just structure. Words stacked on words. What I want now is somethin’ I can feel move through me.”
Careful, son. That’s how stories start.
“I used to think laughter was a distraction from the path,” Matteo says. “But it ain’t. It’s recognition. A flash of clarity dressed in joy. And there hasn’t been much of it here. I think I need to be around people who laugh loud — the kind who’ve seen too much and still choose to stay soft.”
The monk folds his arms.
“You believe you’ll find that in South Louisiana?”
“I don’t know where it is,” Matteo says. “Just know it hasn’t been here — not for me.”
“And what if all you find out there is confusion? More dust?”
“Then I’ll bless the dust,” Matteo says, “and keep walkin’.”
Silence. The good kind.
“The Tao you speak of,” the monk says, “ain’t somethin’ you chase. It’s a current. You don’t run to it. You fall into it.”
“I’m tired of not fallin’,” Matteo says. “Tired of holdin’ balance just for the sake of it. Tired of ideas that never touch the ground.”
The monk nods.
“We trained your mind. Not your doubt. But we Jesuits believe doubt itself is holy. Go. Not because you’re angry. Go because you’re ready to be wrong for the right reasons.”
“Where should I start?”
“Wherever the questions don’t echo back.”
Matteo lifts his satchel.
“Thank you, Father.”
“No need to thank me. Just write when you forget what you thought you knew.”
He walks toward the open gate.
He wasn’t leavin’ to find answers.
He was leavin’ ’cause the echo kept soundin’ the same no matter what he asked.
WBRD station note:
Any resemblance to your own doubt is not coincidence.
Outside the gates, the VW bus pulls away. Gravel crunches. The road takes him without askin’ for credentials.
Some folks leave to find answers.
Matteo left to forget the ones he’d been handed.
Down here, truth don’t wear no collar. It simmers low. Shows up when you learn the difference between flippin’ chicken too soon… and lettin’ it get just right.
And if you’re wonderin’ where this is headin’ — don’t worry.
So was he.
You’re listenin’ to WBRD — Radio for the Restless Spirit.
And we’ll be right back… once the road says it’s ready.
WBRD — still holdin’ the door.