We’d all heard it. It was almost deafening. Solace; with her hearing capability twice that of ours, was totally out of control now. It was the dreaded roar of a runaway freight train. Airborne tree branches were now slamming the camper. One shattered a plastic roof vent. Rain was coming in. The massive tornado before us was two hundred yards across—at the base. Leaning toward the camper’s oversized windshield again, I could no longer see the top of this gray, burgeoning, whirling monstrosity.
A moment later I jerked the Winnebago onto the shoulder and pulled beneath the overpass. Slamming the gearshift into park, I shut off the engine. The entire camper was rocking back and forth, protesting on its springs.
“OK, come on, we’ve got to get out of here! I’ll go out first with the dog, you follow me!”
“Are you crazy? No fucking way! We’re not going out there! We wouldn’t…”
“It’s our only chance! Come on! When get outside climb the abutment, all the way to the top. Come on!”
With the three of us crouched over and me nearly squeezing the life out of Solace, we fought our way up the concrete abutment. The women were in front of me shrieking and wailing like a thousand grieving mothers. The roar was absolutely ear-splitting by now. We were being battered with debris. My long hair flagged skyward in the incredibly strong updraft and right before my eyes, so did both women’s skirts. This vision was so glorious that, under normal conditions, even a man in mourning wouldn’t have been unable to turn away. But it meant nothing now. With poor Solace being crushed in my left arm, I alternated my right palm from the behind in pink panties to the one in black, pushing, forcing each of their owners forward. When we finally reached the top, just beneath the road, they stopped screaming as all four of us pulled into the fetal position.
Nobody said anything. All of us isolated in our own thoughts and fears, we just waited. They whimpered. Maybe they prayed also. I don’t know. But during the most terrifying moments of this most horrific ordeal, I had an Epiphany. Beneath that bridge, clinging for my life alongside that Texas highway, I realized, without a doubt, that I was not ready to die. With all I’d been through, and all that might lie ahead, I was not ready to pack it in. The human will to survive in the face of peril can at times be a remarkable, dauntless force.
Suddenly the wind and rain began to subside; the train had moved farther down the tracks; and somewhere above our cement ceiling the sun had broken through the clouds. Solace turned toward me, and she licked my face. I rubbed her head, and one of the women behind me said, “Oh thank you, Jesus!” Neither of them had looked like the religious types, but possibly that had now changed.
After making our way back down the abutment, we all climbed into the camper. It was still standing but the front wheels had been pushed, or lifted, five feet from where I’d left them. She cranked right up, and I threw it in reverse. With still not a vehicle in sight, I put on the emergency flashers and backed up. After my guests assured me they were alright, one told the other, “Wait till next Sunday’s luncheon! Will we have a story for the girls?”
Their car was covered with wet leaves, but other than that, it looked fine. I told them I’d go outside and open the camper’s side door; it would be easier for them to climb out. After they did, and their Benz started up, they both thanked me. They reached through the now open window and shook my hand. They had called me “suh,” and it was meant to be a sign of respect, but it made me feel like an old, tired lion.
As I walked away from the car the driver’s ears must have still been ringing, because I heard her say something louder than she’d intended. It certainly wasn’t meant for my ears when she said, “I just figured out who he is, Sherry! I knew he looked familiar! That’s that guy … Rolls … Coles … no, Soles! Yeah, that’s his name. He’s the one who wrote that fucked up book.”
Chapter 13
After the tornado ordeal, we backtracked to Huntsville and paid for a site at the beautiful state park there. Even before hooking up the water hose and electric, I walked around the outside of the camper and assessed the damage. There were a few hairline scratches on both sides: three tiny chips in the windshield—none in conspicuous places; one cracked plastic reflector near the back; and the broken ceiling vent. Damage from the vent was minimal—just a wet area on the carpet between the stove and kitchen sink. I solved that problem with a handheld hairdryer, and the broken vent with some good old, dollar-store duct tape I had lying around.
Cool and clear as the next morning was, I knew it would be safe to wait until reaching Dallas before replacing the vent. We made good time and were just outside the city limits in just over two hours. I wasn’t looking forward to sitting around some strange waiting room while the RV was repaired, especially with Solace and her attitude possibly drawing more attention, but I had no choice. Number one; I didn’t have the tools to do the job myself, and number two; I wanted to get the oil changed.
Fortunately, being a Monday, they took me right in. Of course, when I explained to the serviceman what had happened, he recommended a full inspection of the vehicle. Perfectly aware that he wanted to build the repair bill, and stubborn as I could be when I had to, I told him no thanks. Then, wanting to quash his hopes completely, I also told him (as nicely as possible) that if the entire camper was going to self-destruct within the next ten miles I didn’t even want to know about it. All I wanted was the vent, the oil change, one new reflector, and the price—upfront.
I didn’t like having to be so brusque, but after all, this was the twenty-first century. Most businesses were going to try to get every dime they possibly could from me. Not only that but I knew how most car dealerships worked and figured their RV cousins weren’t going to be all that different. I had a mechanic neighbor back in Queens who once bragged how in one nine-hour day he “booked” and got paid for twenty-nine hours labor. I never had much to do with him after hearing that, but I did learn a valuable lesson.
There was only one customer sitting in the stark white waiting room. Being that Solace and I had a little chat before we’d gone in, and the fact that the customer was of the female gender (which sometimes pissed my partner off a wee bit less), she behaved surprisingly well. Carefully keeping her leash snug, I helped myself to the “free” coffee and powdered cream then sat down and opened up my laptop. Surprisingly, I was able to pick up someone’s Wi-Fi. Not so surprisingly, there were no new emails. I was going to check and see how Enough is Enough was doing on the charts, but I decided to first Google Soleswatch.com. What I saw drained the blood from my face. I know that because I suddenly felt light-headed. The tracking map showed my latest sighting was in Huntsville, Texas.
Son-of-a-bitch! I thought, of all the thankless … aaah, what’s the sense. What in the hell did I expect. This world is infested with sub-humans. I risked my life trying to save theirs, and that’s the thanks I get. Sure, as it turned out, they would have made it had I not picked them up, but that’s not the point. Had those two been sitting in that car the tornado could have just as easily…
My mind went on and on like that until the serviceman came to get me. When he did, and he told me the work was going to cost an extra five dollars because the price of the vent had risen, I didn’t bother to argue. I just wanted out of there, out of Texas, out of this solar system.
But that wouldn’t be easy. Just getting out of Dallas would be difficult enough, and I’m not only talking traffic, either. Something very peculiar happened to me—three times. Twice while on the loop going around the city and once when I first picked up I-35 north of it. Three times I had vehicles pull up to my driver’s side window and keep pace with the camper for a few moments. All three kept shooting glances across their front seats at me. Each time they’d momentarily lower their heads so they could see my face, high above in the camper’s window.
The first time it happened the driver was a woman. The second two were men. I made eye contact with each of them four or five times. All of them, on the last exchange or two, gave me evil
looks, hateful looks as if they’d swallowed rancid lemons. The last man gave me the bird. He shook his finger at me as if he’d just scorched it and would love to bury it in my eyes. All of them sped off as soon as they got their messages across. There was a lot of money in Dallas and obviously, a lot of unhappy people.
Unnerving as it had been since I’d discovered that Soleswatch site, it now seemed more dangerous than it had, far more dangerous. I started looking into every vehicle that passed me. Constantly checking my rearview mirror to see what was coming up next, I was spending more time looking into the thing than out the windshield. Like I said, it was plenty cool out that day but I was sweating by now. It suddenly felt like there was a huge scarlet letter emblazoned on the back and both sides of the camper. Not like the “A” for adultery in Hawthorne’s novel, but a T for treason. You can’t begin to fathom how bad I wanted out of that Dallas traffic.
* * *
Two mornings later, Solace and I were closing in on the Rockies. We’d driven two-hundred miles and seen nothing but Kansas wheat fields. Traffic had been all but non-existent, and that certainly helped keep my paranoia at a manageable level. But I was bored to tears with all the amber waves of grain.
After counting down innumerable mile-markers, it was a huge letdown when we finally crossed the border into Colorado. It was more of the same. As far as I could see there was only that flat, soulless landscape. The celebrated mountains were nowhere to be seen. No uplifting John Denver songs played on the radio.
For at least a solid hour my eyes scoured that barren horizon. I was beginning to think the glossy travel brochures and all the other hoopla about the Rockies were hoaxes. I thought for sure Solace was sulking in her seat; thinking how full of baloney I was for promising her an entire range of mountains to pee on.
But then something appeared out of nowhere. Something I hadn’t expected. I’d been thinking all along a tiny peak would eventually blip from where the sorry moonscape met the clear blue sky. I figured that hill would eventually mushroom into something far larger as we made our way closer to Denver. But the way I’d pictured it was all wrong.
What I first saw was not small. Way off in the distance a large burgeoning shape suddenly became visible. There must have been something in the atmosphere because the vision was at first obscure—like it was slowly making its way through a cloud. As long and hard as I’d been looking, I actually thought it might be a mirage. But it wasn’t. It first appeared in the western sky like the obscure, white-veiled face of a most stunning bride. As we got closer the veil seemed to slowly vanish, and the mountains began to take form. Soon it looked like the mighty kingdom of heaven itself was emerging from that cloud. It was as if I was back in another age—witnessing the birth of the continental divide as it rose from a trembling earth. I now understood what a Rocky Mountain-high is. This sight was so spiritually intoxicating that I had no business driving. It had nothing to do with my equilibrium, but I just had to pull off the road and stop on its shoulder.
I shut off the engine and studied the sight before me for a while. Finally, I rose from my seat, walked to the back of the RV, and opened one of the wooden cabinets over the bed. Inside it I snapped open two Velcro straps I’d installed back in Myrtle Beach. I then removed the urn containing Elaina’s remains.
After installing Solace’s harness and clipping on the leash, the three of us went outside. Solace and I stood alongside the camper, on the passenger side where we couldn’t be seen by the occasional passing motorist. Holding the urn close to my heart, we took in the incredible mountain-view as I said, “We’re here, Elaina. We’ve come a long way. I am so, so sorry, honey. It never should have been this way. I would give my life in a second to get yours back. You know that, don’t you?”
I sniffled a few times, ran the back of my hand beneath my nose then saw something very strange atop the highest peak. It was a flash, just one flash, like a reflection from a very large mirror.
“Could it be?” I wondered out loud. “No…that’s crazy.”
As soon as those words left my tongue there was another flash. This time I said nothing. An invasion of goose bumps tightened the flesh on my arms. A welcome chill lifted the hair on the back of my neck. My head turned itself to the side. I looked down to where Elaina should have been standing alongside me, and I could have sworn I saw her image. It was a faint image, just like when I’d first glimpsed those mountains coming out of nowhere. And it had only been there for one fleeting moment before it dissipated. I was as unsure about seeing it as I was with the direction of my life. Yet somehow, when I climbed back into that camper, I felt a little richer than when I’d stepped out. A small nostalgic smile nudged both my cheeks, and I no longer felt so alone.
* * *
The closer we got to “The Mile High City” the more grandiose the mountains became, and unfortunately, the more traffic picked up. I was glad it was the end of winter, not the summertime. I’d seen too many pictures of Denver, shot during the hot months, when there’s a brown, noxious canopy looming over the city. In those photographs it looked like the same environmental disaster that shrouds Los Angeles.
I was damn glad it was a Wednesday and mid-afternoon when we reached Denver. I could only imagine what traffic would’ve been like had we arrived two hours later. Though I-70 was now packed with zipping and zapping, frenzied lunatics, at least they were moving. I didn’t even want to think about how unnerved I would have been in bumper to bumper traffic. I could just see all the lanes stalled, me being boxed in by hateful strangers, all of them armed with spitting-mad faces and spiteful gestures. As it was, by the time I exited near the town of Golden, I’d endured two more fun-house-scary type faces. Unlike the ones I’d encountered in Dallas, these guys were screamers. I was getting damn sick of this treatment, real fast.
Livid as I was, something else bothered me even more. It was the fear welling inside me. Yes, I was afraid of those people, and all the others I’d surely encounter in the future. But worse than that, I was beginning to fear myself even more. I was afraid of what I might do. When those last two idiots screamed I had my hand resting on the door’s armrest and my finger on the power-window button. Both times I was just about to lower the window when they sped off. I was going to curse the hell out of them and see where it went from there. Surely those situations would have escalated, and I would have told them to get off the next exit. That’s where it gets frightening.
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, Cas
sady, 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.”
The Last American Martyr Page 11
