The Last American Martyr (15 page)

Had they followed me off the interstate I, at the very least, would have reverted to the street tactics I grew up with. I may have been only a month away from turning sixty, but I still knew how to use my fists. That would have been bad enough. But I knew I was capable of far more drastic measures. Troubled as I had become, I might very well have opened the glove box and resorted to what I’d learned in the Asian jungles. I could see myself snapping. After all, these people—right here in my own country—had become my worst enemies. Forget the North Vietnamese, the Iraqis, and most of those in the hills of Afghanistan. The way I saw it, those selfish, bitter people on these highways, and the legions of others just like them, were my only real threats. They were the ones out to seize the last shreds of so many tattered American Dreams. Any one of them might jump at the chance to kill more than just my dying spirit.    

At about eight o’clock that night, after some of my anger dissipated, Solace and I were hooked up in a campground near Evergreen. She was lying alongside me on the sofa as I finished recording the day’s events in my journal.

One entry expressed the disappointment I’d felt not being able to go into downtown Denver. I really wanted to knock around there a little. I would have parked the camper and had a few cold ones at Charlie Brown’s; where Jack Kerouac hung out during the summer of ‘47. I would have traced his steps up and down Larimer Street just like I did Hemingway’s in Key West. For a while, I would have hung out on the lawn of the Capitol Building. Hopefully, I could have exchanged ideas and thoughts with like-minded individuals just as Ginsberg, Cassady, Kerouac, and all the other beats had back in the day. Just like folks continued to do a generation later, in the sixties.  

But none of that was possible for me. Being the marked man I was, all that was out of the question. After all, I’d been labeled “Public enemy number 1” by some. And that nasty belief was rapidly spreading across certain social circles like a ravenous wild fire in a windstorm. The insane, spiteful notion that I and my convictions were treasonous was quickly evolving into a full-blown consensus.

What did I expect? Hadn’t it been decades since all my childhood beliefs and ideals had been shot to hell? Executed? Hadn’t I finally realized justice and fairness no longer meant a thing? That the strength of those virtues had been slammed aside by greed, chicanery, and power?  Didn’t I know that the days when the good-guys in white cowboy hats always beat the bad guys in black ones were long gone? Sure I did. For thirty years I’d watched with fearful eyes as Corporate-America and their political cronies plowed down everything in their path; just like that dark, ominous Texas tornado had done two days earlier.

While wallowing in the middle of these thoughts and disappointments the cell phone chimed for the fourth time in as many months. As I fumbled with the thing I again vowed to learn how to change the ring. Every time Elaina’s favorite song—All You Need Is Love—played, it made me wince.

As if it was a question I said, “Hello?”

“Hello, Tom? How are you?” It was Denise Solchow, my sweetheart of an editor.

“Oh,” I said, reaching for a cigarette, “I’m as good as can be expected, I suppose. How about you? How are you doing, Denise?”

She drew a deep breath as if preparing for a long underwater swim. I could tell this wouldn’t be good news even before she said in a tired, defeated voice, “Not very well, not very well at all. As a matter of fact that’s why I’m calling you, Tom.”

“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.