The Last American Martyr (11 page)

“Whoooa! Relax man, didn’t mean to scare you. Thought I’d just come over and introduce myself.”

“Oh, that’s OK. I’m fine. Just didn’t hear you coming is all. I’m ah, Frank…Frank Reynolds.”

I really did not want to shake this man’s hand, but he did go out of his way to come over and introduce himself. Reluctantly, I extended my hand and was immediately sorry I had. There was an uncomfortable hesitation before he accepted it. The delay had been deliberate, and I damn well knew it.

When we finally did shake he studied my face far more than another man normally would have. “I’m J. Henry Logsdon,” he said, “of Grosse Pointe, Michigan, and Vail, Colorado.”

He then let go of my hand. And I was glad, not only because I didn’t like him but because his was all clammy and soft as a fashion-model’s. He immediately pointed to the front of my RV and said, “I see you’re from Newww Yorrrk.”

He said New York as if it had put a rotten taste in his mouth, as if rolling the R awhile would dispel all its unpleasantness.

“Well … yes, I’m from Queens—Flushing to be exact.”
Oh shit
, I thought, I
didn’t mean to tell him that
.

“That’s a damn good place to be
from
isn’t it?”   

“Excuse me?”

“Well, you know, Newww Yorrrk isn’t exactly the garden spot of the world, if you know what I mean.”

“Where do you get off talking like…you know what, forget all that, who do you think you are coming over here and…”

He interrupted me with a new smirk on his face—this one bigger than the two he’d been wearing both times he said New York. “Who do I think I am? I’ll tell you exactly who
I
am,
my friend
, J. Henry Logsdon.”

This was a man who’d obviously been protected by his wealth and social status all his life. Nobody who lived in the real world would ever dream of giving a stranger such shit—particularly a stranger a head taller and three times as fit. I tried to fight back the creed of the city streets I grew up in—talk the talk, walk the walk. I wanted to give this prima donna a good pounding. My fists balled themselves at my sides, but I held them back. I was just about to really tell him off but he spoke first, and what he said knocked me for a loop.

“Frank Reynolds, huh? I don’t think so. I know who you are, buster. Why the hell do you think I bothered coming over here? I saw the plates on this heap. You’re the only one on this entire side of the park. I figured it just might be you, hiding out. Shit, the whole country knows you’re running scared in an RV. You’ve been all over the news. Last time I saw your picture was just last night. You can run, traitor, but you can’t hide.”

The shroud of fear I’d struggled with for so many weeks tightened around me like an iron straightjacket. I didn’t even notice the driving rain that had begun drumming on the awning, or the sudden drop in temperature. I barely heard Solace going berserk inside the camper. Moving closer now, I went eye to beady eye with him. Speaking slowly, measuring the distance between each word I said, “I want you the fuck out of here little man, right fucking now!”

He didn’t budge. He didn’t flinch. He stayed right where he was. His face flushed crimson with hate, and he started shouting, “Do you have any idea how much money I’ve lost this year because of you and that so-called
book
of yours? Do you have a clue how much that propaganda piece of shit has hurt the market? Do you know how much
YOU
took from me?”

He then paused, shaking his breakfast-sausage finger at me. His entire body began to tremor from all the hate and anger built up inside. Then he erupted. Saliva spraying everywhere he hollered, “Almost two million is how much! Two fucking million dollars,
Soles
!”

Like an immigrant reverting to his native language when blistering anger overcomes him, my New York accent suddenly resurrected from the days of my youth. Nobel Prize or no Nobel Prize, I no longer gave a shit about rolling my R’s or any of the rest of it.

“That’s it, you son-of-a-bitch, get yaw ass outta heah, NOW! I’ll break you in half you selfish little piss-ant! Move it! Get goin’!”

He started backpedaling, fast, and I helped him gain momentum with two palms to the chest.

Solace was yipping and yelping, scratching desperately at the bedroom window as if she was fighting for her balance on a sheet of ice. Logsdon’s wife was outside their motor home now; screaming for him to get inside. “Go on, you low-life bahstad. Keep movin’. That’s it, tell yaw story walkin’.”

Stopping on the other side of the road, standing in the downpour, he shook his fist and hollered, “There are millions of us, Soles! We’re going to get you, you son of a bitch! You don’t believe it … turn your computer on. Check out soleswatch.com, you’ll see.”

Wiping the rain from his face, his last words before retreating were, “You haven’t heard the last of me, you loser! I promise! Remember my name…J. Henry Logsdon!”

With his name still echoing through the sprawl of rain-drenched trees, I dropped the single-finger salute I’d been pumping madly. I turned around, picked up my cigarettes and empty beer can then climbed back into the camper.

I let Solace out of the bedroom. She sped right back to the passenger seat, still carrying on. I fell into the sofa and turned on my laptop. With shaky hands I lit a smoke, took a long draw, and then laid it in the ashtray.

Sure as hell, soleswatch.com came up. In bold black letters across the top of the first page it read, “PUBLIC ENEMY NUMBER 1.” Just beneath that was a row of five sketches—every one of my face. Graphic looking depictions of how I might look with a mustache, a beard, or both. They had me with long hair, short hair, and even a shaved head. The text beneath the pictures ranted about how I was single-handedly costing the U.S. economy billions of dollars. Of course, there was no mention about how their stock market had just finished a banner year when the rest of America had been wallowing in another recession. There was no mention of the hundreds of billions of taxpayer dollars that shored up Wall Street’s stellar returns, while virtually nothing trickled down to those who had footed the bill.

Fuck it
, I thought,
I can’t read any more of this crap! Where’s their blogs section?

But before clicking on that, I saw something called Soles-sightings. I clicked on it, and what I saw made me feel like the camper’s walls had instantly shrunk and were closing in around me.

Just that quickly, I felt trapped, as if I was constrained in a small box. I was mortified. My palms became sweaty, and I suddenly wasn’t getting enough oxygen. My heart stuttered; then missed a beat. When it kicked back in, it felt as if it might shatter its ribbed cage.

I jumped to my feet in a panic and rushed for the door. I had to get outside— fast. I needed fresh air. I tried to breath but couldn’t. It was as if I’d swallowed something too large or too sticky, and it had blocked my airway. I was becoming light-headed.

When I got outside I just stood there, hands on my hips. For I don’t know how long, I sucked, gasped, and labored to get my breath back. Finally, I did. The respirations were shallow at first, but they soon became full-blown breaths. I stayed outside for a while longer after that and tried to compose myself. When I eventually did, I went back inside to the computer.

Again, I saw on the screen the map of the United States. Again I saw a route traced from the Northeast south—the exact same route Elaina and I had taken since we’d left home two months earlier. A footnote beneath the map said the path of my “retreat” was based on information provided by anonymous individuals who had sighted my camper. Just above the footnote was a small picture of the Winnebago—sitting in the Jersey dealer’s lot before we’d bought it. Next to that was another picture—a photograph of my New York license plate.

At the very bottom of the page was an obscure, fine-print disclaimer. Only two lines long it read, “This web site is in no way meant to encourage anyone to bring harm to Thomas Soles. He has not broken any laws that we are aware of, and to the best of our knowledge, is not a fugitive from justice.”

Less than twenty minutes later the awning was rolled up, Solace had done her business outside, everything inside was secured, and we rolled out of The Carolina Oaks Campground. That was now the second time I’d rushed out of a campground. Again, I didn’t even stop to ask for a refund of my site fee.

Chapter 11

As Solace and I motored down U.S. 17 in the gray rain at dusk, I tried to shove J. Henry Logsdon away again—this time from my mind. When he and all my hate and anger began to fade, I vowed to somehow keep my head together. I could not allow myself to fall to pieces again. I could not suspect that every car behind me and all those coming at me were would-be assassins on the hunt. But that wouldn’t be easy. Knowing what I did now, about that website, added a lot more black paint to my dark, dangerous predicament.

While trying to fight back all the unfriendly scenarios lined up outside my mind, I made my way through North Myrtle’s business district. Miles of light, from miles of free-standing businesses and strip-malls, splayed a spectrum of colors on all the puddles and wet concrete. My wipers, now set on low, easily kept up with the surrendering rain. Exhausted as she was from all the chaos at the campground, Solace slept soundly beside me. An RV in front of me stopped for a red light, and I followed suit. As my headlights illuminated his Florida license plate, the orange and all, I suddenly got an idea. I thought of something that just might make my Winnebago a tad more anonymous.

Why not take off the front plate? Why let anyone approaching me see I’m from New York? A lot of states only require one in the back, Florida’s not the only one. What are the odds a cop is going to notice? This thing is thirty feet long! If a cruiser comes toward me, what’re the odds whoever’s inside is going to turn his head after passing—notice a New York plate, and say, “Hmmm…where’s his other plate. He didn’t have one on the front, did he?” I don’t think so! That’s never going to happen. Not only that, but wherever I get a site, I always back in. If a park only offers drive-thru sites, I don’t stay there, simple as that. When I do find the right place, anybody walking by the front bumper won’t have a clue where I’m from. The benefits hugely outweigh the risks. Done deal! I’ll stop at the next gas station; as long as it’s not one of those two companies I boycott. I’ll fill up the tank, then pull in back and take off the plate
.

That’s exactly what I did. When I finished, I put the plate and screwdriver away, swung onto State Road 501, and headed toward Florence in the darkness. Much of 501 is desolate and very eerie at night, and I was damn glad to be on it. I decided that well before picking up I-95 South again, I’d drive only under the cover of darkness for a few days.

That night my new travelling partner and I ate up more than six-hundred miles of road before giving it up near DeFuniak Springs, Florida. Yes, believe it or not, Florida! Time and again, while driving those wee hours beneath the southern stars, I looked at Solace sleeping beside me. I can’t tell you how comforting it was to have her company. No longer did I feel so alone. I now had a compatriot who, despite her size, would willingly fight to her death alongside me. I also had something else to
live
for, which I badly needed. Think about it. What were the chances of ever finding a semblance of normalcy in my future? Any hopes I had left of improving my sense of well-being were all but gone. They seemed to be dwindling with every passing day, hour, and minute. I
needed
another reason to live.

A few times, when I glanced over at Solace that night, I felt another emotion. Right alongside comfort,
envy
kept shouldering its way into my psyche. Not jealousy of course, just plain old envy. Each of those times I couldn’t help feeling like Frank Baum’s cowardly lion in The Wizard of Oz. When I looked at Solace those times I couldn’t help but to wish I had half her courage.

* * *

The reason I doubled back to Florida was because it was warm and there were two full months of winter left. I’d thought about Arizona, but didn’t think the desert would be for me. I entertained thoughts of Brownsville, Texas, on the Mexican border, but realized I needed to hole up somewhere away from the beaten path. Knowing that the Florida Panhandle is a heck of a lot more like Georgia than it is South Florida, I hoped to find a small out-of-the-way town.

It was still dark out, around five AM, when I rolled into a convenience store/gas station fifteen-miles east of DeFuniak Springs. Not only was the needle on my fuel gauge flirting with the “empty” mark, but the windshield was enshrouded with DOA insects. There were so many bugs that when I hit the windshield washer and turned on the wipers, the result was a solid smear across the glass. We’d been on the road twelve hours, and I was beyond tired.

A forest of pines—black as the pre-dawn sky—surrounded “Jasper’s iffy Stop” (the J was missing); and on the other side of the deserted two-lane, was more of the same. This was logging country and not much more. It was no surprise that the pump area and parking lot were also deserted.

I climbed out of the camper on uncertain legs, inserted the gas nozzle, and walked Solace beyond the glow of the station’s lights. On a spit of grass alongside the dark pine forest, I waited for Solace to do her things. Listening to the incessant chirp of a nearby cricket congregation, I tried to focus my blurred vision on the stars overhead. A nearby turkey gobbled in the woods, a real treat for an old city boy to hear. But then I saw something. And it was far from a treat.

A mud splattered pickup truck with four huge wheels pulled up to the storefront. The tailgate was open and there was a flat-bottomed aluminum boat sticking way out the back. After killing the headlights, a tall, hulking figure slowly got out. He stood there a few seconds staring at my RV. He then adjusted his ball cap, hitched up his jeans, looked side to side once, and sauntered over to the Winnebago. Scratching his behind a couple of times, he slowly walked alongside it; inspecting it closely.