An Old Mentor and the New Times

Mushca did not want a mentor. He never really thought about it and he didn’t specifically not want one either. When he was about 32, an aging young man, he spent time in England. America and Canada tired him. He needed a change in his political career and he had no expectations. He didn’t expect outer influence. That influence appeared in the form of an old man who’d lost his hat. Mr. Hans approached the grey old man knowing he needed some assistance. He looked up with faded brown eyes and a frowning look, then he smiled.

           Mushca said he’d bring him the hat if he found it. “No matter”, the older one said, “it’s my lost hat, it’s my business. I’ve no need to trouble you. Really.” He was an old Brit and he could handle himself. The hat blew over Mushca’s feet as he walked towards some gray avenue. He forgot where he was in but it looked like a city and was north of London. The old man’s hat, he thought, as he picked the cap.

He stood somewhere behind Mushca, walking up the same walkway. Mushca turned, hat in hand, and approached the other. “My hat! Thank you, dear boy.” Mushca hadn’t been called “boy” in 12 years. He took kindly to this man, asked his name and then he said something very kind, the man said the best thing to Mushca about his spirit. This was a trip indeed.

Mr. Hans felt he’d found a true teacher. This man’s name was Nathaniel Fox: his friends called him Nate. When he was a professor his class called him Mr. Nate. They talked at a very plain-modern local pub called Westbureau’s Cross (flagged with the old drawn image of a cross shield standing on a pole in a woodland). The man ordered his friend and himself two red ales and a fare. Mushca didn’t like the cod but he found the beer to be incredible. “All things are in the past, Mr.…” “Hans”, Mushca said, “call me Mr. Hans.”

This worn down man reminded Mushca of something essential. It had been too long since Mr. Hans thought about his childhood. He didn’t miss or very much remember his teachers. They’d been cruel and American and very agonistic. Mr. Nate Fox told Mushca, “it’s hard to go through school and not be changed. But that’s what the adults wanted you to think. They didn't strip you of your confidence or will. I find students malleable but often better than they are led to think.” Mushca asserted, America strips people of their individuality despite worshiping it. It’s all about the conforming and mean politics.

Then there was this man, this situation. Mr. Fox did not just encourage Mushca, he drew his honesty. He looked the young man right in his eyes and noted every detail, his bright skin, his square face and average looks. ‘There’re people who’d look at you and say you are so unleaderlike. They’d call you a fraud or a weak-faced man. But not me. I see you and view you as a champion, a champion of social work or politics or anything.’ “Politics”, responded Mr. Hans to this man’s compliment.

He didn’t mean anything to young Mushca at first, how could he? Mr. Nate loved many things in life but wasn’t foolishly enchanted by whatever new or odd little thing he saw. He was just a happy, peaceful guy who wanted to spent time with someone.

He had begun thinking about his parents, his German father, his passive Polish mother, everything they’d gone through. The war they survived. How he came to be, how his childhood was, what he wanted originally. Did this aged, wise Englishman bring all those past times back? Was something curious lurking inside him? Mushca felt odd, worried, curious, and liberated.

           He would see this man several other times, but not often, during his time in 1970s London. It was a very dynamic time and not all good or all change. A lot of people fought to keep their old status, even viciously. It felt like the whole world divided between traditional conformists and hippies. Mushca had mixed feelings about drugs. It’s drug culture and bad addiction that turned him off. This “Mr. Nate” was different, that’s why Mr. Hans liked him.

When he saw Mr. Nate again, a lot had changed. This time he was sitting near where Mushca and him first met. He looked tired, perhaps half-awake, and deeply lost in thought.

           Nathaniel Fox was old. He felt the pains and inner burdens of this reality upon him. Mushca wanted to talk but the man didn’t seem to recognize him. His eyes were even more faded. The wrinkles on his tired face looked less, he shined like a ghost in the sun but his new brown suit looked very sharp. Something about him jammed against reality. The man gestured to Mushca to sit down. Time was right for the sitting and a talking.

           This time was a different moment during a day anyone could describe as dull, half cloudy and with a slow, cool atmospheric draft. This time the man seemed too far-off to talk for long. He said, “the day is gray but we shan’t talk long. I’d hate to waste it away…”

Mushca didn't get it. The old man was older but he looked not a day over 60. He had pains of war in his eyes, old love and love lost in his skin, his face and hair showed 1000 little memories and 100 special pains. He’d lived long and accumulated all the strife he faced. Mushca said he wanted to live, be happy and not just force himself to be good with life: he said he held ambition and wanted to change the world, for the better. “Be careful, my boy”, Mr. Nate exclaimed subtly, “I am not angry at you but I am worried you’d go far and perhaps do too much. Life is about decisions, Mr. Hans… but, it’s also about living with the result.”

           His words sunk in, hit hard. Mushca felt the wave hit him like a wound – if he let his ambition drive him, or crumble, he could become an amoral man. Dictators are borne on the winds of fancy and great hope. They just want for their desires for greatness, or to lead others, to be real. Sadly, the achievement of such greatness can mean subjugation or worse for many people.

Mushca dreaded the day. If he followed power blindly he might never have it. Or he’d claim it but misuse it. The old man truly didn’t have long. He didn’t explain it but he had heart issues. Mushca found out later that old man Nate went on to see a physician. Even if that man suffered some unmentioned conflict, he had done enough. He made the younger one think. Thoughtful men in power can check themselves and prevent any dumb misdeed. This was the start of something deep.

           Present Day.

           The old man in brown with faded eyes and gray hair was no more. His hat blew in the winds of Mushca’s aged mind. So many years passed since then – so much time and now so much to show for it. Mushca did well with his years, they made him strong and wise. But the old Brit said things Mushca never forgot yet didn't fully care for. He wanted something for Mushca.

Beyond his advice and stories, he gave pure words of hope and encouragement.

“I want you, young man, to never make the mistakes of me. I’d never tell you if I didn’t admire you, and I think you can go far. Just be careful. Many good men went wrong selfishly. Do what you can for the world, not how you can trick it or convince it to privilege you.” Privilege is a curse. Of course.

That was true.

Mushca had grown so political, sitting in wealth and with great power over his city, he almost forgot those words. Despite a lack of Greed, the head of state had great aspirations unseen. Yet he never thought he'd be remembered in history, not after his life. He would conquer the world if he forgot his morals, his past, and the influences who made him. What that old man did he would never forgive: it made him feel and know his inner heart. But the human heart goes wanting.

Now Mushca wakes up to his life as president in his political office in the rounded dome of his neomodern state capital. This is his city but he's just presiding over; it’s where he has his eagle’s roost. This is where he plans and writes, and makes calls, doing the hardest desk job in the living city.

After almost five weeks of planning, fielding external information and working with allies to manage a financial situation involving five city mayors – Mushca finally has time off to rest. He’s been yearning to have freedom from his work. Being a leader of leaders is not easy. His eldest godson wanted to visit him so he invited him and several friends to his fine apartment.

The few guests sit lazily in the grand room, all look out the window or watch the games on the screen. It’s not trivia most of his political fellows follow sports. Mushca was a tennis fan and liked golf and board games. Judo looked over at him, giving a weaselly look, and asked rudely for the whiskey. He had been drinking though never drunk. Mushca still saw him as a son.

           Mushca relates his story to Max Roller, Judo, Suzuki and another friend named Rachel (who’s speculated to be a former lover). Only Rach knows of this, he told her before. She smirks as Judo comes with a tawny glass of port-wine. “My old friend Nate told me in London – ‘never stop being yourself. A lack of self-love is the cause of selfishness. You must serve others, better the world, but do for yourself too’ – I must say we met a few times. But in those few meetings I learned more than all my life. Nate mentored me like a grandfather: teaching me so much about life and more about myself, who I was and how I could improve.” He trailed off. Judo was seeking another glassful. Suzuki and Flint’s relative sought to talk with Judo, maybe in private. Two other guests, a plain aging married pair, were the only ones who listened.

           “I’m at a loss”, Mushca said. He stood up straightly and called attention to himself. They all came to him, sat in the spaces of chairs and the sofa, and listened. He asserted his story, repeating 50% of it once again. They listened but did not fully hear. Perhaps they knew of this man, his effect on Mushca. “Here we go again with your life-journey crap”, stated Judo. Suzuki, his young wife, put a hand around her brown-eyed husband. She warned him to be nice or she’d drag him away. She had ways to make him suffer. They listened and Mushca even got a rare apology.

Mushca’s old mentor is no longer around. His latest circuit of company doesn’t respond well to hearing about his old friend. It’s the kind of forgotten platonic friendship that is so much more than the petty simple relationships. All of his fellowships now feel like petty games, social alliances and positioning. Mushca was told to check himself but he never once checked others. He didn’t like penalizing or hard discipline. It never served him. Consequently, he didn't hold people to a standard.

           Going back to it, he thought about the second occasion he met Nathaniel. It was a grayish day in a far country. Later, after a deep and ominous talk, the old man excused himself. He suffered from a progressive heart condition. That time kept coming back to Mushca like a parasitic ghost.

           The second time Mushca met Nate was weeks later. They just sat on a bench and talked about life and responsibility. “Life is about decisions, Mr. Hans… but, it’s also about living with the result. So many people care nothing for their effect on others.” That was the time he warned and guided young Mr. Hans. It was the end of a decade, about 1977 or 78.

This tall gentleman with his thin ways and humble spirit had been a warrior. You could compare him to an native warrior who’d fought the worst of the white men: mystical, spiritual, a warrior or formerly one, kind, intense, morally cloudy yet good, kind inside and also true, telling those harsh words many don’t want to hear. Nate warned him of what men can do wrong. The third time they met was important, it seemed within a week of the bench chat, Mushca just couldn’t remember that well. He tried. Soon it would return to his mind. Such memories are a terrible burden. He felt it. Soon he’d know what he had to, the important advice hiding in the deep pit of his brain.

           When Mushca finally went for a walk down the Riverside St. (which was once called 3^rd St.) and found it a pleasant view. Colorful metallic towers formed the city core east of him. Whiter and more office-like buildings and companies hung on the other side, the west bank. The river was walled and contained. People could do anything. The leader of the city spent weeks as a glorified secretary. Time for a break. By Monday he’d face 1,000 phone calls and 2,000 neglected weekend messages. For now, he ignored all duties. Politics, calls and favors, and his job of presidential directorship, all fell into a pit of not-today. There was a another matter. He had a big talk to deliver.

    Before a date at some business eatery with an old ally, Mushca has an important midway speech to give. Before about 2 million, mostly on their screens or radios, he gives it. –

"We have walked a long way. We avoided the struggle of civil conflict and braved the storm – now we must deal with new issues, many of them more easily handled. ... I had an old friend years ago. I can tell you all what he told me back then: 'you need to think and understand who you are, what you want and what needs doing. Be careful, for you can go too far or become part of the problem. Truth is, Mushca reasoned, "We are all capable of great good but we can do evil, we can be our own worst foe. ...

As he concluded his 5 minute soundbite, he felt resounding peace. He did always listen to that brave old man who changed his life during those chance meetings... but millions of his countryman listened to him. It was positively unfair. Yet this was one moment he knew he'd change history. People around the world would know his wisdom and sound politics, leadership in war and peace and his ability to calm a crowd and inspire the People. His country heard him now... tomorrow America would, and then: the world.

It was a major responsibility to be such a leader... and wield the hammer softly. Soft power and the ability to build up a place made him the leader they all wanted. He didn't feed mass egotism or greed or lies, or the rich and their schemes – he put the workers and middle class first. Everything else seemed to fall in place. Max liked the speech but didn't love its contents. Men like him are soft greed, they are to Mushca what a cheap overpriced car is to a real high make vehicle. Maybe Mr. Hans was more loving, empathetic and deep. His friends were less meaningful now than the masses who loved him. Yet it could all change... and he knew it.

***

So much can go wrong. A little too much force or aggression could turn potentially millions of desperate refugees against Mushcan Army. Inaction is also a risk: it would make Mushca look weak, and those who need help would see him as untrustworthy. Reports arrive telling of another rising city: an Emerald city. “Paint my shoes red and give me a twister.” Max Roller pipes up with a snazzy fake voice. He’s always had inappropriate timing.

But it is odd, and suspiciously familiar. Maybe there is a wizard in that city too.

Mushca fears and suspects meeting another like himself. It will be a pretty serious affair to deal with these Survivors. Mushca sends spy planes, drones and four helicopters – just a light brigade. This was just a strategic scout-and-scan mission. Communication could help. They had a radio tower array and their own ground forces. This would be interesting. Inside Mushca's State, the burgeoning new conflict was unseen under a clean blue sky, within an artificial crystalline dome. People in here thought they were free. The most aware knew a war could be beginning.

A man in a beige suit went for a walk in Platinum Point. A few college kids and local frat boys thought he didn’t look rich enough to be who he was. Mushca did not bend to eyes glancing at him or prying into him. They’d think what they wanted to believe.

One moment later, a green flag flew flapping in the wind. With it came a brown old hat, flying in the tense wind.

Mushca recognized it as a sign, something supernatural but good. The flag was a miniature from a shop. The state emblem fell besides the tattered old brown cap. The flag was a bit torn in three places. ‘Hat looked beaten but what’s worse, it had blood on it. A silver bird shrieked through the air, heading higher but not too high. This too was a sign: not one to be missed. A strange new wind began to moan. ...