The Man

The man was on stage. He was delivering a spectacular performance for thousands of his fans. It was a political role he was vying for, but all of it was performance. The folksiness, the riling and cracking jokes all came smoothly to him. He believed not in his followers and his solutions were sparse. But his passion was real and he dispersed anger and spittle into the throng. The crowd absorbed it with pleasure and the cameras absorbed it without blinking. His theatrics caught their glassy eyes and disseminated it to the faraway couch-sitters and airport-goers.

He had been trained for hours. He used some of his training but much of what made him great is what football scouts call the intangibles. It was palpable, his possession of the intangibles. He could charm and quip on a dime. He fired up his base and stirred it with fear.

In the final moments of his speech a gun went off and there was commotion. The crowd shrieked in panic. The men in black suits like robots begin maneuvers to protect this wild man. They secured the perimeter with their own flesh willing to sacrifice their own, far less significant, life. The man, himself, grasped for protection.

But, how it made him feel! Immediately he knew he was part of history. They don't try to kill you if you have not become something. And though he had never paid any mind to the complexity of his psychology, to the source of his desires, this feeling of being something gave his life meaning. The warm bodies of the secret service men in close proximity, that which would typically repulse him, now gave him a sense of security, kept his soul warm.

The speech ended and the man was whisked away in his jet. Everyone again wanted a moment with him. Obsequious, obnoxious sycophants. He banished them all and sat with his thoughts, staring downwards, enjoying the memory as the clouds raced beneath him.