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| October 27, 2006 Red Alert by Soren Wuerth 
Frank Murkowski, the embattled Governor, shook my hand
wearily and paused as if holding ajar the door of a refrigerator.“Going to travel someplace warm,” he told me, “and when we get back, I’ve got a place down in Wrangell.” Around us swirled teachers, talking to each other excitedly, unaware of the Governor in their midst. I was in the Governor’s Spartan mansion on a cold Juneau evening last week for an Alaska Writer’s Consortium banquet. I stood in the dining hall nibbling from a plate of smoked salmon and artichoke hearts when Frank showed up. He appeared suddenly, as if from some hidden door, and moved slowly through the crowd hunched over with a downward gaze. He had a fresh cut above his left eye. Beside him was a well-dressed man with a curly beard, and a shorter woman who wore giant, oval, Jackie Onassis glasses—coasters with the centers cut out. “This is Dennis Wheeler, the C.E.O. of Coeur d’Alene Mines,” he told someone. The woman was laughing hysterically behind her glasses and the mining boss was moving through the crowd shaking hands. Frank shuffled around the room as if waiting for people to approach. I was the only one who did. I can’t know how many times I’ve prepared an angry speech for Gov. Murkowski, how many times I’ve leveled curses at the radio, how many acrimonious letters I’ve scribbled after reading his statements in the newspaper. Now, shaking his hand, I could only ask, “What are going to do next, Governor?” We had an amiable chat about Wrangell, and then Frank moved on, circulating and shaking hands until he vanished into an adjacent room. Later, I was engaged in a conversation with Juneau poet Tom Harpel when Frank strode back into the dining hall. He held his hands out in front of him as if measuring an imaginary salmon, a sub sandwich, or a roll of salami. “I just have to say something for everyone to hear,” he bellowed. “We had a bust in a little town called Tok and $300,000 in cash was seized.” He mentioned an “epidemic” of drugs. “Somehow the people have this perception that rural Alaska is poor. Well, let me tell you, this (drug) money is not coming out of the woodwork.” It was Frank at his demagogic best. “You hardly ever get close enough to see spittle flying across the buffet,” Harpel whispered. I was the last to leave that night. It was a humorless place, but I felt giddy after my third glass of Chardonnay (the hostess gave particularly generous pours). The governor stood by the door as the writers left. A mansion host wearing a crisp suit flanked the Governor to his left. I stopped to once more shake his hand. “Governor,” I said, “about your concern for Tok. Don’t you think the name, “Tok,” has a negative connotation?” I held my fingers up as if pinching a joint between them. He raised his gray eyebrows, leaned in a bit and, still watching the floor, slowly wagged his red face. “Tok,” I said, “Tok! It sends the wrong message.” Frank’s butler began to chuckle. Then, cautiously, the Governor asked, “What name did you have in mind?” “Well,” I said. “In honor of our distinguished and honorable U.S. Senator Stevens, we could change the name to “Ted, Alaska.” The man to the left of Frank pressed his lips into a smile. Frank looked confused. “Ted?” “Has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?” I shook the governor’s hand one last time and found my coat. At the door I didn’t turn to see Frank’s reaction. I just put on my jacket and walked away, grinning, into a soft evening rain. Soren Wuerth is perhaps Alaska's best known community activist, and is the winner of the Alaska Press Club's 2006 'Best Columnist' award. He resides in an undisclosed location in rural Alaska and can be reached at soren@insurgent49.com. |
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Reserved. in-sur-gent (in sur'jent), n. 1. a member of a group which revolts against the policies of its leadership. |
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