Free A Truck Full of Money by Tracy Kidder Page A

insane gun culture. On the following morning, various friends of his found a Google document in their email. It was time-stamped 5:09 A.M. and labeled “Preliminary.” It announced the creation of something called the American Gun League, the AGL. It read:
The AGL is a new 501(c)(3) association of American gun owners who believe in common sense laws for gun safety. The AGL will become the other seat at the table (other than the NRA) at all national discussions of gun owner policy positions and changes to gun laws.
    Paul seemed to suggest amazing progress already: “We are raising millions of dollars and are forming a team of nationally known military leaders and celebrities and we will be backed by pro-bono work by top marketing, legal and social media companies.” He closed: “Others have created alternatives to the NRA, but all of them have sucked in terms of brand. Ours won’t suck.”
    The idea seemed rational, but the fact was that the AGL didn’t actually have 501(c)(3) status yet, and not a penny had been raised from anyone, nor had any military leaders or celebrities joined the nonexistent board.
    In the days and weeks that followed, the pace of Paul’s life seemed to accelerate. It wasn’t an increase in the fullness of his days, already packed, but a rise in their pitch, as if there were an ever-swelling soundtrack accompanying him. You could hear the brass when he spoke up at meetings he convened—in Boston, New York, and Washington—to create the AGL: “This is fun, taking out assholes.” “I bet the NRA doesn’t have any idea what’s about to be unleashed on them.” “I’m going to go to my billionaire friends and say, Dude, you need to give one percent.” He told one AGL planning meeting that at Kayak they had competed successfully with the company Expedia. “But the NRA’s tougher than Expedia. Expedia doesn’t have guns.” You sensed that he was trying to make this challenge more inviting for himself. As if it weren’t daunting enough already—to take on one of the most successful pressure groups in American history, a group that was lavishly funded, clever, ruthless, single-minded.
    “Do you agree with one of my interim goals, ten million members?” he asked an ally at another AGL meeting. Then he added, in a tone that made it sound as if he really thought he was being cautious: “Maybe five million is enough.”
    The New Year holiday came and went. It had been weeks since Paul had talked about his tech fund for international health. On a January morning in 2013, he dreamed that it was light outside and awoke to see his windows dark at five, and was surprised to see it was still winter. That evening, driving home in the early darkness, he turned off Road Wars so as not to lose points for cellphone use, and made a brief phone call to a person he’d been recruiting to help create the Kayak-like medical search engine. “I’m really reckless in entrepreneurship,” he said over the phone as he drove. “I’m not saying that’s a good way to do things, but this isn’t moving fast enough.” Just like that, he killed a project months in the planning. Then he turned Road Wars on again. In the latest round of competition, Paul was in second place, which was unacceptable. And so—saying, “ExxonMobil should be my sponsor”—he left the highway much sooner than usual and took a very long way home, amassing roads and bonus points, his phone, mounted on the dash, acknowledging his gains—emitting the sound of coins cascading from a slot machine.
    Back in November, when Kayak’s sale was made public, Paul had said wistfully, “As of tomorrow morning when I wake up, I’m now an employee.” Since then, he had given some bursts of energy to this new role, but it had been weeks since he had talked about finding a new office in Cambridge for Kayak, or about the “video wall,” or about much of anything else to do with Kayak, except to say, “I have to show my face there once in a