The Last American Martyr (9 page)

“Look,” I went on, guiding both my palms forward in a slight, half-shove motion, “the bottom line is this. Those with disposable income put money into the stock market. The corporations they invest in are all hell-bent on getting them at least a fifteen, twenty percent return on their investment every year. OK, under the system we live in, that seems all well and good. But how do those companies make enough money to pay those dividends? They cut their workers benefits and sometimes their salaries. They shrink, for example, the cereal box. They fill it with less product. They raise the price, which is nothing short of manufactured inflation. This is the eleventh hour for the American working-class, Arturo. While they’re being forced to cut back on medications, trips to the dentist, and every other conceivable necessity, those corporations are lining the pockets of the haves with yet more tainted dollars.

Please, forgive me for rambling. But once I get going on this subject I get all wound up. And I should, because despite all the other injustices eating at our society like insatiable tumors, the stock market is the most damaging. That and the lack of campaign finance reform—we can no longer allow the selling of what’s left of our democracy to special interests. Whewww, that’s it. I’ve had it, enough with the disastrous effects of greed for one sitting. What do you say we have one more drink? Then I’ve
got to
shove off.”

I spoke with Arturo Giovanni for a while longer. He told me that although the demonstrations and marches had become less frequent, he’d recently seen a few cars with
Enough is Enough
bumper stickers on them. I hadn’t as yet seen any, but just knowing it was so, allowed me a deep sense of achievement. Despite my enormous misfortune, my book was having a positive impact on people. I thanked Mr. Giovanni when I left and gave him my phone number. I couldn’t help but to feel a strong affinity toward this man who I at first shunned. And I sincerely hoped he’d keep in touch with me during the final months of his life.

Arturo did call me—ten minutes after I left Casa Blanca West. I was in another cab, this time heading back to my camper. He said a man he didn’t know had approached him right after I left. The stranger asked him if I was Thomas Soles. Possibly he was just another curious admirer with an unusual aptitude for shapes and no malicious intentions. Possibly he was not. Either way, thirty minutes after Arturo’s call, I was following the camper’s high beams across the dark, deserted islands north of Key West.

As I alluded earlier on, driving a thirty-foot motor home is more physically and mentally demanding than operating a car or an SUV; especially at night, especially after being up and about all day. But that didn’t stop me. I wanted out of Key West and drove six hours into the Florida night.

For the first time since finding those poor slaughtered kittens in our refrigerator, I feared I was becoming delusional. Was I losing it—becoming a paranoiac? Was rushing off the way I just had, normal behavior for somebody in my predicament? Exactly what is “normal” behavior for a person living a hellish nightmare such as mine? Could I keep this up? Would my condition worsen? All these fears and more kept revolving through my mind as I smoked cigarettes, drank coffee, and pushed on.

Finally, around 1:00 AM, exhausted and mentally drained, I pulled into a Fort Pierce truck stop. Another mile would have been impossible. After killing the lights and ignition, I stumbled to the back of the camper, kissed Elaina’s cap, and fell asleep before hitting the bed. I was now a considerable distance
north
of where I’d been the previous morning when I’d left
for
the Keys.

The next morning a brash chorus of hissing air-brakes and grumbling diesel engines had me up before dawn. I’d slept soundly but not nearly long enough. There was no way I could have—it sounded as if I was smack in the middle of a state-wide truckers’ rally. On top of that, there were all the headlights. Continual flashes of harsh white beams lit up the bedroom like the blinding lightning bolts of a ferocious tropical storm. Exhausted as my body still was, my mind was already in high-gear. It picked right up where it left off just a few hours earlier. 

The urge to push farther north was indisputable. Still wearing my sneakers and the same clothes I’d slept in, I ran inside for a coffee, ran back, cranked up the engine and followed the truckers and their million pound loads back onto I-95. I had no idea where I was going but knew damn well it had to be farther north.

The convoy soon left me behind on the dark deserted highway. Alone with just my thoughts I looked toward the eastern horizon. There I saw the first faint glow of light. It was every bit as pink as my bloodshot eyes.

Jesus
, I thought,
why does it have to be this way? What did I do to deserve all this? All I did was write a book of truths. I wonder if they sought revenge on Orwell after 1984 came out. Did they try to enact it? Shit…nobody should have to live this hell. Where do I go next? What do I do? How long can I keep this up? Is it better to face the music; go back to New York; let the chips fall where they may? Should I just pull into the next rest stop and put the Glock to my head? I mean … what the fuck do I have to lose? If I don’t, where will I be in a year, next month, tomorrow, two hours from now? What’s left to live for? There’s a sign—thirteen miles to the next rest area! What does that tell you? Thirteen’s unlucky. Is that an omen of some kind? Is that you, Elaina, calling me? Should I end it all? Are you still alive, in a better place? You’re calling me, aren’t you? Well…I’m coming. Ten minutes, Honey. Just give me ten minutes and I’ll be with you
.

Before I knew it I was turning into that rest stop.

“Good,” I said aloud after spotting a sign out front that read, “NO SECURITY GUARDS ON DUTY.”

Slowly I idled around the block building to the farthest space in the back lot. The only other vehicles there were an eighteen-wheeler and an aging camping van; both parked a good distance behind me, near the restrooms. I nosed the RV close to a low fence that cordoned off a small pond and a scattering of thin pines, then I killed the engine. Like a deranged criminal about to embark on a wicked misdeed I shot quick looks side to side and out the rearview mirror. Then I leaned back into the seat and let my head fall against the headrest. I filled my lungs with air and let it out very slowly.

That’s it. Here goes
.

I stood up, leaned way over to the passenger side, removed the Glock from the glove compartment then sat back down. Looking down at the pistol, I massaged the handle.

Forty-one years had passed since I’d fired a gun. The last time had been in Nam while exchanging fire with
enemies
I didn’t even know. Doing what I was told that night, fighting for my life and absolutely nothing else, three of the seven human beings I killed that year took their final breaths. I cannot tell you how horrible I felt, how indescribably hollow. But somehow, when it rose the next morning, the sun still shined a semblance of hope on my spirit. That hope was diluted of course, but as always, the new dawn still promised better things to come.

But this time—this day—was different. I looked up from the pistol in my hands to the new Florida sun before me. There was no hope in what I saw. Its light held no promise.

I raised the barrel and put it inside my mouth. The metal felt alien as I pointed it up, toward my brain. My heart battered the inside of my chest like it never had before. As I slowly increased the pressure on the trigger my tired eyes began to close. But then something happened. Just before my eyelids met, something stole my attention. Something flew out of one of the pine trees before me. My conscious mind unable to register what the odd shape was, I allowed my eyes to widen, just a tad. It was a bird. A large bird. It was flying straight toward the camper. My eyes rolled toward the top of the windshield as it flew closer. It was a pileated woodpecker, only the second one I’d ever seen. And just like the first one that morning with Elaina in Asheville, this one was making a racket. It seemed to be scolding me from the time it left the tree until it disappeared over the roof of the camper. I was stunned.

Slowly, I withdrew the gun from my mouth. I set it on the console alongside me, and I said, “OK Elaina, I won’t do it. Not yet.”

Chapter 9

To say the two days after the Glock incident were trying, would be like calling a tsunami a ripple in the ocean. As I drove north toward the South Carolina coast, I also drove myself half mad. With the two sides of my brain pummeling each other with opposing thoughts, all I could try to do was keep steering the camper and hope the wrong side wouldn’t win. Yes, with what I truly believed was Elaina’s help, I had managed to fight back the suicide, but I was far from at ease. Part of my subconscious kept telling me I should have ended it all. Another part, the rational part, told me I’d done the right thing by not going through with my self-assassination.

But in all honesty, finding those good thoughts amongst all the negativity muddling up my mind, and then holding on to them for awhile, was not easy. There were times on both days that I was so close to panicking, I had to pull the hulking camper onto the highway’s narrow shoulder. And that, my friend, is not only a tight fit but a very dangerous proposition as well.

The Winnebago was so close to the road that every passing car caused it to shimmy and every tractor-trailer made it shudder. But there was no choice. I was so mentally damaged, I literally could not see straight. When driving, I could not concentrate on anything in front, beside or behind me. After coming so close to killing myself in Florida, my own mind seemed alien and my body felt like it was someone else’s. Each time I pulled off the road, I felt as if I was outside; floating high above and far away from the windshield, looking down into the camper, watching somebody that seemed only vaguely familiar. For obvious reasons I could not trust myself.

But I did survive those two days on the road. And with forty-eight hours and hundreds of miles between me and that Florida rest stop, my mind finally felt a little less fragile. On top of that, lady luck actually found the time to flash me a quick smile. She must have known how badly I needed to recreate myself, because when I reached my destination in South Carolina, the campground I rolled into was the most serene I’d yet to come across. The place was just north of Myrtle Beach and all its hoopla, but you’d never have known it. It afforded as much privacy as I could possibly have hoped for. As soon as I came through the gate, I knew I wanted to spend the entire winter there.

One side of the grounds was nearly deserted, and each site had a buffer of dense trees and heavy underbrush. Making things better yet, I had no problem securing a spot on the farthest end. I could open my awning up, sit alongside the RV in the afternoons, and not a single passerby would be able to see me. Sure, it was warmer in Florida, but it is tolerable along “The Grand Stand.” Many northerners on tight budgets happily spend the entire winter there. I know I was plenty happy to have found a place that felt both comfortable and reasonably secure.

Just before sunup most mornings, I’d lace up my jogging shoes and do three trips up and down the park’s nature trail, which worked out to be just short of three miles. I rarely saw anybody back there at that time of day, and always considered it an added bonus when exchanging glances with the resident owl or a deer or two or three. Most days I tried to keep my mind occupied the best I could. I’d read, tinker with my lap-top, and nurse a few beers beneath the awning most afternoons.  

Though I remained far from being a gadabout, I occasionally exchanged pleasantries with some of the other campers. Most of them were very nice retirees, older than me. Though I heartily believed none of them could possibly pose a threat, I forced myself to keep all conversations short. The only person I ever spoke to for more than a few minutes was an eighty-seven-year-old lady from Richmond, Virginia. Her name was Dixie Mae. She’d been employed at the same dry-cleaning store for the last twenty-seven years of her working life and had buried five husbands—the first when she was but seventeen. After a few weeks, she started calling me The New York Yankee, and I called her the black widow, which she thought was hilarious.

Dixie Mae had two small poodles named Beauregard and General, the latter of which was short for General Lee. Dixie could see I was lonely and kept suggesting that I should get a dog. At first I just blew off the idea, but as time went by, I kind of envied her for having two sidekicks to share her life with. I also thought it might be a good idea to have a little watchdog for when I headed west in the spring. At any rate, when I told her I might get one, Dixie Mae suggested I visit the animal shelter in Myrtle Beach. She told me where it was, and the next morning, after my run and requisite two cups of coffee, I unhooked the camper and headed down Highway 17.

Being I pretty much live in jeans, tee shirts, and sweaters I don’t shop often, other than for groceries. When I do need to replenish my tees or sweaters, I drive myself crazy looking for a good deal and just the right fit. Knowing that, you can only imagine what it was like for me in that shelter. Adopting a dog would be no small commitment. The only thing I knew for sure was I wanted a small one. I was up and down the four long rows of cages I don’t know how many times. Twice, I even snuck into a section where the dogs were not yet ready for adoption and the public wasn’t allowed. I must have spent three hours poking around in that shelter. After a while the attendants started looking at me funny.

But there was one dog I kept coming back to—a two-year-old Jack Russell mix. She had the face of a tiny doe and the coloration of one also. But she had a questionable history. The paper notice on her cage warned:

My name is Penny.

I am not good with children, strangers, or other animals.

Though I haven’t bitten anybody, I can be very aggressive and am best suited for a patient, mature owner.