Flywheel Society - Assignment Two (Analogy)

All it took was one.   The long-standing tradition at my high school of the girls asking the guys to walk with them at graduation had no formal timelines, and so it seemed that when the first girl thought it time to ask, the rest would quickly follow lest the available pool of boys shrink uncomfortably small.  Wearing gowns that would make most brides-to-be envious, the women of my tiny prep school would be escorted by their chosen tuxedo-clad classmates down a grassy aisle in the aptly named "Graduation Grove."  A small orchestra would play.   Stunning, really.  Usually it would be senior year before that first young lady thought to break things open, but sometimes a girlfriend confident in the ongoing trajectory of her relationship would jump the gun and create the frenzy early.

My junior year I was like an small upstart nation who had just purchased a nuclear warhead on the black market and was awaiting the status now rightly deserved.  Young and undersized for my class, I had slogged through the brutal years between seventh grade and junior year: the braces, the haircut, the clothing choices, the profound lack of athleticism.  But now I was coming into my own and felt that I was poised to launch from the middling second tier into the truly popular group.   Somehow I had shaken off the near-fatal misstep of asking out a girl who had been dating our mutual classmate for years (was she really so kind as to not spread that information and destroy me?).   I had yet to attend a single social event with anyone from the popular group, but it seemed like any minute, the phone would ring (my wife would later explain to me that in high school the phone never rings; you hear about a party and just go).  I had closed the gap in average height for our class and now weighed over 100 pounds (but just barely).  My potential was limitless.

Sir, the news just hit the wire, within the hour, the whole world will know we've got the bomb.  "Excellent.   They won't have the luxury of ignoring us any longer, will they?"

She walked up to me in a calm moment before the first bell.  Someone from my own caste; someone undesirable in my plans to social escalation.  It didn't occur to me then, but this was probably a well-rehearsed moment for her.   A decision which had required a great deal of that, perhaps some discussion with friends.  There may have been courage involved.  No small talk, just straight to the point.  "Andy, would you walk with me at graduation?"

I was in shock; frozen for a brief moment before quickly recovering and answering in a brutal and ungracious way, "Oh WOW, that's starting already?"   Not an answer.  That's not an answer.   I changed the subject, but the real one stood over us like a dense cloud until the bell rang and the five-minute timer until the next bell, burned into our subconscious over five years, began ticking - and sending us in opposite directions.

Sir, we've received a message following our press release about the new bomb.   "Excellent, I assume the Americans have invited us to join the G20, or perhaps take a permanent seat on the UN Security Council?"   Well, sir, actually.... it's an invitation to attend a summit on shipping lane security.   From a junior congressman.   Out of Rhode Island.

As I saw it, ignoring this request - if possible - through the summer would mean some sort of reset.   The girl would grow impatient or get the hint, and I would be free to ascend and take my rightful place: arm in arm with the prom queen or, at worst, one of her ilk.

Sir, I'm afraid I have more bad news.  The bomb was a fake.   We've.... we've be fooled, sir.  "Very well, very well.   Let the good people of Rhode Island know that I've always hated piracy."