The Last American Martyr

by Tom Winton; Rolffimages

  “Sure, you’re calling me because I’m such a beacon of cheer. You want me to tell you my secret for making new friends I’ll bet. OK, hon…all kidding aside, what’s up? Anything I can help with?”

  “No, no! As a matter of fact after I tell you what I have to say, I’m not so sure you’d help me if you could.”

  There was an uncomfortable silence. I quit fumbling with my cigarette and lit it. I would have looked out the window into the night, but the camper curtains are always closed. After taking a deeper than normal hit, I exhaled and said, “Um, hum, what’s going on, Denise?

  “I’ve rehearsed this over and over, Tom, for three days now. I still don’t have a clue as to how I should tell you this, but here goes. We’ve got a problem, a serious problem. Broadstreet International wants to buy our house out.”

  “Oh shit! Are you kidding? No! Anybody but them! They may be the biggest, but they’re the most restricting bunch of clowns out there.”

  “Yes, I know. And that leads to a bigger problem…oh, God, I’m really hating this. Are you sitting down, Tom?”

  Nooo, I’m thinking now. No more bad news. I don’t think I can handle it. But I braced my mindset the best I could and said, “Yes, go ahead.”

  “The deal is all but signed, but it gets worse. Broadstreet has one last stipulation. Tom … they want to drop Enough is Enough. They say it doesn’t fit in with the rest of their list. They also said …”

  “Forget it, Denise. You needn’t go on. I get your drift.”

  “Please, let me finish. You should hear the rest, in case you don’t already know.” There was another pause and long breath before she continued, “Through no fault of your own, your book has fallen off the charts, Tom. It’s no longer even in the top hundred. Franklin and Hines is the third major retailer to take it off their shelves. They did it last week, and when they did it tanked. Broadstreet, of course, is saying that’s the reason they want to drop it. They say it would be a losing proposition to hold on to it.”

  “You and I both know that is bullshit.”

  “Of course we do. With Franklin and Hines dumping it now, it cannot survive in the mainstream. And just like the other two chains, they also removed it from their online list. Hell, Tom, we’re sunk.”

  I stubbed out my cigarette, searching the bottom of the glass ashtray as I did; looking for my next words. When I finally found them I said, “I don’t know why I’m so damn shocked. I knew all along that one way or another they’d get rid of it. What a shame. That book has staying power. It would have kept on selling for a long time. A lot of good things could have been accomplished with those future royalties.”

  “I know, Tom,” Denise said, her voice beginning to crack now, “You’ve done some wonderful things with your money. You’ve helped many, many people.”

  “Yeah…thanks, I know. But what I’ve done is just a drop in society’s cruel, cold, needful bucket.”

  “Call it what you want, but I don’t think there’s a soul alive who would have done what you have. And look…look what you’ve gotten in return. You’ve got to run, hide out. You’ve had threats on your life, and my God…poor Elaina. We both know what they did with her mold. I’ve never met a human being who could come…”

  “I know, Denise, thank you, thank you very much,” I interrupted, “but what about you? Have you run into any flack from the outside? Has anyone threatened you in any way? Anything out of the ordinary occurred in these last two years?”

  “Oh, I’ve gotten a few calls at the office, a few emails questioning my principles, that kind of malarkey. Other than that, no, there’s been nothing serious. As I’ve told you before, in all my years in the publishing business, I’ve never once handled a book that’s had nearly as many positive responses as yours. There were times, before the mega-retailers dropped it, that I was inundated with calls and emails.”

  “Well thank God for that. So what’s next? What are you going to do now? Are you willing to work for those censors—those propagandists? Are they even going to let you?”

  “Being you and I have had our relationship for two years now, I seriously doubt it. They’ve already told all the editors at a meeting they’re going to strengthen the staff. You know what that means, right?”

  “You bet. Heads are going to roll. They’ll be bringing in their like-minded dullards.”

  “Everybody in the industry knows they only lean one way. I’ll be the first to go.”

  Stroking Solaces head now I asked, “What are you going to do, Denise? What’s your next move?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I’ve got a close friend at a small publishing house. I’ve talked to him. He seems to think they might be interested in me. I should know more by next week. I’ve been in this business twenty-three years, Tom. It’s all I know. It’s all I really want to know. But times are tough. Most publishers are culling their lists instead of adding to them.”

  Denise cleared her throat. Then, in a voice laced with hundred-proof, genuine concern, she said, “All right, enough about me. What about you, Tom? How are you holding up? I don’t want to rub salt in any wounds, but my God, how are you getting by with all that’s happened?”

  I filled her in about Soleswatch.com and a few of the incidents that had occurred, but that was it. I didn’t want to overload her with my problems. She had enough liver on her own plate.

  She did give me a bit of encouragement that took some of the sting out of all the bad news. She said she was confident that, if she landed an editor’s position at her friend’s place, there was a good chance they’d pick up Enough is Enough. The downside was, if they did publish it, they’d probably only do so in paperback.

  She also told me, considering the bind I was in, she’d fully understand if I didn’t think such a move would be prudent. As the conversation drew to a close, she asked if I thought I’d want to put the book back onto store shelves; would it be worth the risk. My answer was a resounding, “Hell Yes!”

  Chapter 14

  At five AM the next morning it was as dark and still inside the camper as it was outside in the Rocky Mountain foothills. As always, no matter where we were at first squint, Solace the bed hog had me pinned to the mattress edge. Slowly reentering the here and now, my first thoughts were the same ones I’d taken to bed—my finances. With the book being thrown out by yet another mega-retailer and Broadstreet International dumping it, it was time to get serious about tightening my budget. With my dreaded sixtieth birthday still three weeks away, I still had two more years before being eligible for my social security pittance. Even with my usual monk-like spending habits, I’d need twice what that “security net” was going to pay.

  Elaina and I had always squeezed every penny we spent. For as long as I could remember, we’d been tearing paper towels in half; using them twice when possible. We were always one-light-on-at-a-time folks, and many years ago, I cut two pieces from a foam rubber doormat to fit inside my bargain basement sneakers. To this very day, I still put them inside my footwear every time the inner soles lose their cushion. All I wear on my back are those four-dollar tees or sweatshirts that don’t cost much more. Sure, I had a dress shirt or two for special occasions. But I’ve always had trouble fighting back a wry smile whenever I saw another man with one of those cutesy little logos embodied over his heart. Knowing he’d paid three times what I had for a very similar shirt, and that he believed it to be an all-important status symbol, time and again made it hard for me to keep a straight face.

  We’d always clipped coupons and loaded up on sale items—even before mayonnaise went up to five dollars a jar—a plastic jar at that. As for those rebate doohickeys hardly anybody bothers with, Elaina always made damn sure she sent them in before they expired. If the supermarket was out of the generic mustard, laundry detergent, pink salmon or whatever, we would never pay more for the name brands. We’d do without because we knew well and good that “shrinking inventories” is no accident. Often, the stores we shopped would be out of a product
two, three weeks straight so that customers would have to shell out more for the expensive brands.

  Yes, lying in bed that early morning I knew it was time to plan a strategy. With my future royalties on the verge of disappearing, I had to figure out how much money I’d need behind me to get through whatever was ahead of me. Before making my next donation to charity, I had to figure out how much I’d need to subsist on. That would not be easy because I didn’t know if I’d be above the dirt for another two hours or twenty-five years.

  The decision to buy a small place in Maine had already been made. That was a done deal. A little later, after my jog and coffee, I decided I had to get rid of the New York apartment. Financially the decision was easy; emotionally it was a killer. I’d lived there almost forty-four years and was as comfortable as an old squirrel in his favorite tree. I knew every neighbor, shop-owner, and alleyway shortcut. But once I called Manny Ruiz and cancelled the lease there’d be no going back. Because it was a “rent-controlled” building, and I’d been there so long, I’d never again get a place for a third of what I’d been paying. If by some chance I happened to have a future, it would not be in New York. It could not be. And that hurt deeply. I’d now arrived at a point where I’d not only lost my wife and my freedom, but I was about to lose my past as well.

  You see, in many ways, the place where you grow up is like a lover. You can leave that place or you can stay in it. You can love it more as time passes, or you can come to hate it. You can be proud of it and sometimes, not so proud of it. If you leave a place, the memories you take with you may be fond, tragic or anywhere in between. But one thing is for sure, unlike discarded lovers, there is no divorcing the place you called home. That place will be with you wherever you venture. It will always be an integral part of you. And at some point in your life, it will beckon your return.

  The place where I became most of who I am was not beautiful. There were no rolling verdant hills. No pastures, forests, lakes or streams. The sky, what I could see of it, was often gray. The people there didn’t say hello to strangers—they were wary of them. But none of that mattered. I still felt the incessant pull of “home.” I knew that if I survived, I would someday submit to that pull, even if for just a short visit.

  Solace’s sudden barks, followed by a sharp knock at the camper’s door, yanked me out of my ruminations. Looking out the window, I saw the same strictly-business, forty-something redhead who’d checked me in at the office the afternoon before. She’d reminded me of a short Lucille Ball in a cowboy shirt. Since she was still wearing it at eight in the morning I assumed she was the owner, putting in long hours.

  “Just a minute,” I said as I grabbed a hold of Solace and whisked her off to the bedroom. “I’ll be right there.”

  “Yes,” I said a moment later, after opening the door.

  “Mister Frances, I just received a very strange phone call,” she said as if she’d just caught me breaking six of the campground’s most hallowed rules.

  “Okayyy,” I said, pushing my hair back from my eyes.

  “Someone, some strange sounding man, called and said I should give you a message. He said to give it to Thomas Soles in site 6-B. I knew I should have checked your driver’s license.”

  “Hold on, I can exp—”

  “I don’t want you explaining anything,” she ranted, “just take this damn message and get out of here. I don’t know who the hell you really are or what you’re into, but I don’t want your kind around here. I’ll give you thirty minutes, that’s it. Within thirty minutes you’re outta here,” then she yanked her tiny thumb.”

  “But I…”

  “Forget it, buster, if you’re not gone, I call the sheriff. As a matter of fact, I think I’ll call them anyway … right now. Take this goddamn thing.”

  I took the envelope; she spun out of there, leaving small clouds of arrogant dust with her boots.

  Back in the camper, I didn’t even sit down. Solace was still going crazy in the bedroom, but she could wait a minute. With adrenaline-fuelled, shaky hands I opened the white envelope. The message was short and to the point. It said, “If you’re still there at sunset, Soles, you and your dog won’t be around to see midnight. Leave Colorado now! You sorry son-of-a-bitch.”

  With Solace still barking in the background, I shot right out the camper door to disconnect the hookups. I yanked the plug from the site’s power source and hastily stuffed the cord into its outside storage compartment. As I hurriedly unscrewed the water hose, my eyes clicked from one direction to the next. I hadn’t yet opened the awning, so there would be no need to screw with that. I dashed back inside; let Solace out of the bedroom and double-checked Elaina’s ashes. The Velcro was secured. I chucked the ashtray and my coffee cup in the sink and made sure everything else had been secured.

  I did all that in less than five minutes. I also took the Glock out and placed it on the console, within reach. Then I pulled out of that site so fast, I forgot there was a dip where it met the unpaved road. When my front wheels bounced in and out of the depression, I heard a loud, disheartening crunch. I flung it in park, raced around the camper and saw that, in my haste, I’d forgotten to raise the side door’s metal entry steps. The bottom step was creased in the center, but luckily, I was still able to fold them up.

  Crazed as I was, my forehead furrowed deep as plowed rows, I rushed out of there, casting hateful, suspicious stares at every camper I saw. When I reached the campground’s open gates, I fired up a smoke and headed toward the highway. It wasn’t easy, but I held back and forced myself not to speed.

  Who knows, maybe there was no message. Maybe she made the whole thing up. Maybe it took her a while to realize who I am, and when she did she concocted this scheme. Maybe that’s bullshit, and some head case really did leave the message. Maybe he was dead serious. Maybe he actually was going to try to kill me. Maybe he figured he’d be better off waiting till after dark. I don’t know if he was a camper staying at the park or he followed me in there. Either way, he knew exactly which site I was in. He called in that threat. Who knows what somebody like that is capable of? My God, there are thousands just like him out there. Probably tens of thousands! I’m sure more than a few are nut jobs who’d jump at the chance to put a bullet in my head. Fifteen-thousand murders a year in this dumbed-down, berserk country. My God…what do I do now?

  With that last question center-stage to all the others jamming my mind, my eyes shifted from the windshield to the pistol on the console. I realized then and there that I had no choice; wherever I went I’d have to start wearing my shirt outside my pants. I was not going to wait for death or accept it peacefully.

  Chapter 15

  Fighting valiantly to maintain a semblance of composure, I headed north on Interstate 25. I mean, how much could one human being take? Just three years earlier, I could have been the poster boy for this country’s obscure masses. An inconsequential doorman from Queens, New York, I had about as much notoriety as a discarded cigarette butt smoldering outside a rush hour subway entrance.

  Would I, you might ask, have still written the book had I’d known my life was going to devolve into such a hellish existence? You may think I’m farther over the top than I really am, but even as I was high-tailing it out of Denver, I would have said yes. I’m one of those fools who would die for their principles. I hate more than anything living in a world full of half-truths and lies. No citizen or society should be subject to that. But the only way I’d write that book again, is if I knew Elaina would remain alive, and only if she agreed to it. Sure, if she said yes, and I knew what I did now, I would have handled things differently. I’d have taken her straight to Maine. We’d have bought that little place deep in the North Woods and hopefully grown old together.

  Tragically, it was too late for twenty-twenty hindsight. Nothing could bring Elaina back. All I could do at this point was try to keep myself alive, and that wasn’t going to be easy. It seemed everyone in America with a stock portfolio or hundred-thousand-dollar
income had their sights set on me. But ironic as it is, what scared me even more than those barracudas were the Soles-haters who’d never had an extra twenty bucks in their lives. The same poor unfortunates who’d been brainwashed since first learning the Pledge of Allegiance were the ones who worried me most. And to think they were the exploited, neglected unfortunates I’d most wanted to help. Unfortunately, they were, and still are as I write this, part of the growing, misinformed herd that’s constantly bamboozled by hokey, TV-propaganda machines, masquerading themselves as “news shows.”

  Before making it out of Denver that harried morning, I encountered yet another of those misguided souls. A big, burly Bubba type driving a beat pickup with a serious muffler problem pulled alongside me. With my window closed and the racket his truck made, I couldn’t hear what he was yelling, but I sure could read his lips. What he said wasn’t pretty, neither was the plump, wingless bird he kept pumping at me.

  Still, this frazzled, moving target pushed his Winnebago north—at speeds that would have earned me a reckless-endangerment charge, had I been caught. With all the panic-induced clutter pinging inside my head, I wasn’t thinking of the possible consequences. I just wanted out of there. Had my mind been coherent I might have envisioned the very real possibility of being thrown in some small town pokey—with an angry mob and plenty of tar and feathers waiting outside for my release. But that didn’t enter my mind. All I knew was I wanted to keep driving. It was the only thing that made any sense.

  After clearing out of Denver, Solace and I made it over the Wyoming border in less than sixty minutes. I not only logged eighty miles that hour, but shot hundreds of backward glances as well. My eyes constantly ricocheted from one rearview mirror to the next. If it had been possible to transform fear into heat, the terror in my eyes would have shattered or melted all three of them.