It Tolls for Thee...

The parallels were clear to him.

Not fictitiously funny or manufactured like previous ones. There was truly dynamite paralleled with his mission. And he was on a mission, just like Robert Jordan in the Hemingway novel "For Whom the Bell Tolls", which he was reading. Also, like Jordan, there was both an intermediate mission and a much more critical final mission. This trip to Maine, with the unexpected side trip to Boston, became a setting as inspiring as the mountains of Spain.

It even occurred to Michael that, while others slogged through the week, placing tally marks on their calendars to mark the passing of another identically exhausting day, he was having an experience. A literary experience. A deeply moving time of quiet introspection and appreciating inner strength. And he remembered wise words which reminded him that "it's not what you do, but who you are while doing it". Once removed from the grind of working successive 15-20 hour days (he worked those long hours, but just stopped considering them a "grind"), he appreciated the experience for the boot-camp feel and challenge to fight through mental exhaustion to see what material he was made of. He drew strength from the beautiful rocky beach, the beech trees, the people around him. He rose above it all.

But he also appreciated the focused single-mindedness of those in the trenches who didn't have the inner strength to rise above it. They got bogged down and started flaking out. But isn't that the common response?

The intensiveness and long hours reminded Michael of the young boys of the American Indians who, in a rite of passage, went into the woods without food for many days in order to be accepted as a man. Not a bad idea, he thought.

The master of the course, Simon, drunkenly wandered over at 2:00 AM while things were winding down one day and sat, his whole body swaying, next to Michael. He wasn't just drunk, he was almost completely out of control. He pointed a quivering finger and flung it around in the general direction of a group of exhausted people, almost like a quasi-paraplegic with limited motion control, flopping the finger back into his lap.

"These people are all naked" was all he said.

Damn, he's smarter completely wasted out of his mind than I am when completely sober, Michael thought.

In addition to the critical missions resembling wartime duties, the cast of characters lined up startlingly well, practically attesting to the universality of Hemingway's novel design. The interplay is timeless.

Pilar was here, bruta, que va! She openly stole french fries from his plate across the table and would brutishly slug him in the arm occasionally while making an embarrassingly loud point. She was the senior ranking official in the band of compatriots, and here to help, but she couldn't enact everything that needed to be done, only lend her lip-service to support it. Pilar was likeable enough, but rough. Our Pilar, like Hemingway's, was a professional politician.

Pablo. He laughed to think of Pablo. Herb represented Pablo in our little band of misfits. He had worked with Herb before as an employee of the same company--indeed, they had landed a huge sale while working together, but, exactly like Pablo in Hemingway's novel, he had "gone bad". He had developed a negative attitude and had subtly turned against our company, defecting for a different company who was still associated with our product. As a result, Pablo was still in close association but had to be observed carefully...

Pablo was a traitor who would viciously turn on you when you least expect it-in a moment of weakness.

El Sordo was his friend Laura, who led the band of girls that worked side-by-side with him all week. Competent and fierce, they were truly heroes who fought like lions as El Sordo did on the side of the mountain.

Even lesser characters were there: Fernando, who talked much but did precious little. Anselmo, the reliable but ignorant old man who fights valiantly but dies in the mission--our Canadian rep who came and worked relatively hard but was slightly in over her head. And the gypsy, who leaves his post to hunt rabbits but lets an enemy into camp--we had one of those, too. She answered Email all week and never lifted a finger to help in any way. Just like the gypsy, she skated through untouched by the mission, focused on the wrong things without even realizing it.

And, of course, Michael, being the Greatest American Hero, represented Robert Jordan in this parallel scenario. The omniscient author of the tale. His initial mission was to teach the workshop, but switched almost immediately to preparing for the very important meeting in Boston that came about suddenly and unexpectedly as a result of his presence in the region. That was his bridge--he must blow it to pieces. Destroy the enemy and gain a victory for his side. He mulled it over and over in his mind all week.

Then there were the introspective thoughts which also paralleled Jordan's inner voice. Thoughts of romantic love. Disappointment in his father's self-destruction. Worries about the future. Reminiscences of the past. Were these original thoughts, or inspired by reading the novel in parallel with living through the events of the week? At this point, it was impossible to separate the two.

Michael went out to dinner with Pablo and almost got dragged into a fight with the entire Bar Harbor rugby team! Pablo had had enough of the 18-year-old, overgrown, obnoxious, roughneck idiot clanging in and out of the fence gate behind him on the patio--instead of asking him nicely to go through the "real" entrance, 15 feet away, Pablo grabbed the gate, roughly slamming it shut in front of him, and turned to the kid: "Enough of that-Go around!" Just then, five other equally gorilla-shaped guys rose around him from the table that Pablo had his back to and couldn't see. Great, Michael thought, time for my ass-kicking now...and all I wanted was to eat a meal! Thankfully, they backed down after just a little bit of backtalk, but it revealed that Pablo's volatile nature was still there, barely under the surface.

The initial mission, like Jordan's winning over the band of guerillas to help him with the bridge, was to make a good impression during the workshop--and he succeeded in this part of the mission. But blowing up the bridge was his focus, now. And, just like Pablo stealing the dynamite in the novel, the bridge did not go as smoothly as he wished. Despite receiving multiple documents describing what needed to be done at Harvard, "Pablo" led the customer into the realm of confusion by introducing undiscussed options that were inferior to the original design. "Jordan" wondered why the hell did he ever let him come along in the first place? Yes, his new company was involved in some ways with this design, but it was foolish to place your trust in Pablo. To turn your back on him and let him have access to derail your project.

Damn you, Pablo! Why didn't Jordan see it coming? Hemingway left a warning from so many years ago, but the clue wasn't unlocked in time...

The fuse is lit--will the bridge blow? I'll keep you posted. But life is about lighting the fuse--regardless of the results.