The Last American Martyr Read Online Free PDF Page A

in D.C. all those times? Where’s the girl, the woman, who demonstrated at Columbia and all those other schools? Where’s the willful person who vowed at Woodstock to fight to her death against an unjust establishment? Geez,” I paused for a moment, bobbing my head ever so slightly. Then looking around to be sure nobody could hear I said, “Look, hon, we cannot talk about this now. It’s absolutely crazy to be whispering away our marriage up here in a plane full of people. Please, let’s wait till we get home.”
    “OK, Tom, I’ll wait, but we’re going to resolve this as soon as we get there, one way or another.”
    Elaina then reached for the Newsweek, and I slumped into deep thought.
    At first I tried to imagine how life would be without my soul-mate. All I could muster was fragmental thoughts, and I did not like them. With all the excitement the past few days, and the jetting back and forth, I couldn’t seem to hold onto any one thought long enough to complete it. I knew Elaina had a point about making us more financially stable, yet I knew I’d feel guilty if I didn’t allot most of the prize money and future royalties to needier causes. Such a gesture may seem irrational to most folks, I realize that. But the roots of my beliefs had been imbedded in my brain and soul a long time ago. As we continued to soar five miles above the Atlantic, I thought of just a few of the reasons why I’m so adamant about those beliefs.
    While growing up, I walked the hardship walk. My family had very little. We knew all too well what it’s like to do without. My father, Frank Soles, worked as an elevator operator in Manhattan. My mom, Estelle, stayed home, raised me and my brother Stanley, and read an awful lot of Silver Screen and Photoplay magazines. I think she often wished, and sometimes imagined, she was Elizabeth Taylor.
    Neither of my parents relished sticking around any one place too long. They moved us all over Queens like four carnival roustabouts. By the time I hit fourteen (and began insisting I be called Tom not Tommy), I’d lived in eight different apartments—each one dingier than the last. By the time I’d entered the eighth grade, I’d already taken up space in seven different public schools. Of course, my brother and I had trouble in every one of them.
    Being the new kid in school every year was bad enough, but we had other problems. First of all, Stanley and I always wore hand-me-downs, courtesy of our cousins. Try going to a new school or even a familiar one with outdated, oversized clothes and shoes so big you need to stuff yesterday’s newspaper into the toes to keep them on your feet. The fact that Stanley was the studious type didn’t help us win any popularity contests either. Two years my senior, Stanislaus, as I affectionately called him, was your basic, run-of-the-mill bookworm. Kids made fun of the braces on his teeth (I have no clue how they were paid for), often saying there was more steel in his mouth than there was in the Brooklyn Bridge. He wore Coke-bottle glasses complete with a Band-Aid on the nose rest, and he had a frail body. Those ever-present books glued to his nose didn’t help matters either.
    A late bloomer who didn’t shoot up until sophomore year in high school, I was not only skinny, but short for my age as well. But that never stood in my way. Born with an extremely low tolerance for injustice and unfairness, I would go up against any kid, no matter what their size, if I caught them being mean to my big brother.
    One time in third grade, I walked into the asphalt schoolyard across from our apartment building with my usual hopes of getting a game of stickball going. Armed with a pink rubber ball and broomstick bat, I saw some sixth graders gathered over a grating, outside the gymnasium wall. These were the tough kids, the ones who always wore black jeans and white shirts. They were flicking ashes from their Marlboros and looking down into the metal grating beneath their