The Week of Living Dangerously
In 1965 he was your foreign correspondent in Jakarta covering the political machinations of a desperate dictatorship in decline. He looked a lot like Mad Max back then and his squeeze, Sigourney, was his reminder of the power and yet fleeting nature of empire as she tried to use the British Embassy as her base station. Those were the days when you had a whole year to play out your dangerous life. Time accelerates and shit happens more and more quickly now. This week he has lived a lifetime. Sigourney has been replaced by Kimberly and his dwarf Billy now has a distinctly Hispanic accent. His mission is no less perilous, but his path is nowhere similar.
He began the week by taking a beating. In a word, he got thumped for two hours straight. How could he have held sway over such a disaster as the one over which he presides? Oh the deceit and the misrepresentation, the waste and the pillage, the recklessness and abandon. Had he no shame? Where was the Max of yesteryear with his Mel Gibson good looks and his blood in the eye of the tiger? The only thing he could do, good man that he is, was walk away with his head bowed in disgrace.
Don’t let them see me like this, he thought. His team came before him one by one and looked into his eyes. They were all of an age and growing long of tooth and short of cash. They needed him to carry on. Don’t they understand, they all said? Can’t they see that we are just this small step from greatness? A step that only a giant could make without falling into the abyss. A step that was crafted by Medusa herself to lure unwary sailors into the void. A small step for man but a giant leap for a lowly journalist. The odds favored retreat, but the heart is a lonely hunter and hunt it must.
Fifty years ago this week the supposed moon landing had allowed Richard Nixon to wag the dog of Americana in the face of a world turning post-Soviet by the minute. Would you believe Buzz Aldrin? Michael Collins thought he knew what he saw. Neil Armstrong prayed for redemption and sought Jesus on the steps of Temple Mount. He died in Cleveland under mysterious circumstances before any recantation was possible. Truth is a secondary consideration. Victory is all that matters. Means and ends are synonymous. We win, they lose. That has become the American way. None of this is lost on Max.
So Max does what a Road Warrior is supposed to do. He stays calm and carries on. He outfits a tanker with spikes and booby traps. He makes it look like a hydrogen atomic bomb on steroids. It is, indeed, impressive. There lies ahead, across the lonely and barren desert, an oasis, shining like either a beacon or a mirage, to which he must make his run. The run is all. It’s about the journey not the destination, stupid. The grinning demon behind the leather mask with steel barbs for teeth and a careless tuft of hair on the crown, awaits. The gauntlet is organized such that all of the interested parties have a place in the line from which to cast stones, slings, arrows and lawn chairs at Max and his band of misfit toys. They seem to fail to realize that whether they hit Max or miss Max, they will likely harm one another, but that is irrelevant to the sport of it. The game is played by menacing the gauntlet runner and the consequences be damned. Max shifts into first gear and the engines or the machine rumble to life.
Before Max can move his rig into the desert, he must fill the tank, which is funny to him because his tanker is built for gathering liquid gold, but he needs liquid gold to move the tanker forward. Priming the pump may be the most dangerous and uncertain part of the challenge when the gauntlet goons are gathered and ready for blood. With a slight twitch of unease, Max inches forward and shows his hand. There is a cache just over the horizon and to maintain and prolong their fun, the gauntlet needs to put ever so little into the tank to keep this juggernaut in play. It is a tricky maneuver with the hordes amassed and holding their studded maces and dragon whips, eager for the games to begin. One player breaks ranks in Max’s favor while the others appear united in their defiance. Max has ridden many rodeo circuits like this so he knows not to trust anything anyone says or does. There are few straight shots to the pocket and mostly two and three-cushion shots are used to deceive and dazzle the crowd. The gauntlet natives are restless and grinning at Max with all the evil intent they can muster. Mostly they are scared of one another rather than Max. They know the Road Warrior will walk away unscathed and unconcerned. They can all afford life without the win, but none can bear the indignity of the loss.
The rig rumbles at idle by the side of the road. The gauntlet is on the ground. Max waits patiently with his acolytes buzzing hither and yon asking all too often for updates, of which there are none of any meaningful import. The gauntlet players joust with one another as they tend to do. The stage is set. The table is set. They’re all dressed up and waiting for somewhere to go. The battle paint on their face (dare I suggest it is a Braveheart blue?) is starting to crack and peel ever so slightly from all their smiles and frowns. Max must keep a lid on the team’s desire to flip up their kilts and show their bare arses to the enemy. Lots of foot stamping, spear pounding and shield scraping going on as the clock slows to a loud and pronounced tic-fucking-toc.
As the end of week approaches, the silence is deafening. Max knows that silence is the enemy. And then it happens. Word from the heavens. The Gods, which clearly must be crazy, have sent down an edict from the high exalted commissioner of patents and decrees. The science of liquid gold is awarded an official and magisterial ordination of excellence. It puts no liquid gold in the rig, but it shines a blight and godly light on the ground before the rig and says, “Go forth my sons and daughters and make it happen!”
You cannot make this stuff up. This is the pathway of the gods and man. All Max can do is bow to the heavens and look to the gauntlet for guidance. He steps up into the rig, more determined than ever to find that oasis in the desert. His mission is noble and the gauntlet looks to be dispersing with a grumble here and a warning there. The gauntlet is not gone forever, merely dispersed for the moment. There is now a trickle of gold in the tank, but Max has gone far on trickle before and the cheers of the misfit toys is enough to spur him to action. Onward to the next week of living dangerously.