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Authors: Tom Winton
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want to get. I am sorry.
It was raining even harder when I pulled onto I-26-south. Due to a fast approaching cold front a posse of low, gray, burgeoning clouds had rushed in and packed tight in the sky. The wind blew with all the force of a gale, and the way the drab rain pelted my windshield was nothing short of an assault. The oversized wipers slapped back and forth so hard it was as if they were in a panic and wanted to break free. The gunmetal sky was so low, or Asheville so high, that those clouds seemed to buff the RV’s roof as I drove. Visibility was so bad; some vehicles had pulled onto the highway’s shoulder. But I was finally rolling, and I did not want to stop.
About two hours later, I pulled off the interstate in Columbia, South Carolina. I needed coffee more than I did gas but figured I’d do the two birds with one stone thing. After pumping just shy of half a tank, I tugged my brown cap real low on my forehead and hustled through the rain into the truck stop. By now my beard and mustache were almost fully-grown.
Once inside, I headed straight for the men’s room. But I didn’t quite make it. After making my way past the cashier and through the store section I continued down a long hallway. About halfway down, I passed the entrance to a truckers lounge and just happened to glance inside. Two steps later I stopped dead in my tracks. I backpedalled to the open doorway and took a second look inside. About fifteen truckers, slouched in blue plastic seats, were watching a wall-mounted television. And on the screen of that TV was a picture of Elaina. I only caught the tail-end of what the newscaster said.
”…when we return after these messages from our sponsors.”
Standing out in the hallway, off to one side of the door, I pulled the bill of my cap lower yet. I raised the collar of my damp jacket and wished I’d had on my sunglasses. The succession of useless commercials seemed to last about fifteen minutes, though only two or three had ticked away. One promised a more exciting and sexier life if you bought their toothpaste. Another guaranteed their product would get rid of your acid reflux—even though there was a “highly unlikely chance” you could have about a dozen more serious side-effects. By the time all the nonsense ended, two more truckers had entered the room, one had left, and I had dropped my head all three times, pretending to look at my watch.
Finally the newsman with the high forehead and glasses returned, so did the picture of Elaina.
“As you first heard here last week, Elaina Soles, the wife of recent Nobel Prize recipient Thomas Soles, died in a suspected hunting accident while walking with her husband along a nature trail in Western North Carolina. This sad event took place mere days after she and Mr. Soles returned home from Stockholm to a horrific, bloody scene and a very disturbing death threat in their Queens, New York apartment.
There is now growing suspicion that these two events may be linked. Despite the findings of North Carolina authorities, many people around the country believe that both crimes may have been committed by what they call “corporate vigilantes.” Many who’ve read Thomas Soles bestselling book, Enough is Enough , believe that since it vilifies Corporate America, some CEO’s, and this country’s elite, may be taking revenge. While it is true that a second major bookselling chain has taken Soles’s controversial book off its shelves this week, at this point, there is no evidence of foul play.
But that’s not holding back the rising tide of suspicion and discontent that stretches from New York to California. Seeing so many people taking to the streets is reminiscent of the tumultuous 1960’s and 70’s. On Friday, here in Manhattan, an estimated 15,000 protesters carrying signs and chanting, “enough is enough” showed up in front of the New York Stock Exchange. Yesterday, Chicago’s Grant Park had a similar demonstration, and there
It was raining even harder when I pulled onto I-26-south. Due to a fast approaching cold front a posse of low, gray, burgeoning clouds had rushed in and packed tight in the sky. The wind blew with all the force of a gale, and the way the drab rain pelted my windshield was nothing short of an assault. The oversized wipers slapped back and forth so hard it was as if they were in a panic and wanted to break free. The gunmetal sky was so low, or Asheville so high, that those clouds seemed to buff the RV’s roof as I drove. Visibility was so bad; some vehicles had pulled onto the highway’s shoulder. But I was finally rolling, and I did not want to stop.
About two hours later, I pulled off the interstate in Columbia, South Carolina. I needed coffee more than I did gas but figured I’d do the two birds with one stone thing. After pumping just shy of half a tank, I tugged my brown cap real low on my forehead and hustled through the rain into the truck stop. By now my beard and mustache were almost fully-grown.
Once inside, I headed straight for the men’s room. But I didn’t quite make it. After making my way past the cashier and through the store section I continued down a long hallway. About halfway down, I passed the entrance to a truckers lounge and just happened to glance inside. Two steps later I stopped dead in my tracks. I backpedalled to the open doorway and took a second look inside. About fifteen truckers, slouched in blue plastic seats, were watching a wall-mounted television. And on the screen of that TV was a picture of Elaina. I only caught the tail-end of what the newscaster said.
”…when we return after these messages from our sponsors.”
Standing out in the hallway, off to one side of the door, I pulled the bill of my cap lower yet. I raised the collar of my damp jacket and wished I’d had on my sunglasses. The succession of useless commercials seemed to last about fifteen minutes, though only two or three had ticked away. One promised a more exciting and sexier life if you bought their toothpaste. Another guaranteed their product would get rid of your acid reflux—even though there was a “highly unlikely chance” you could have about a dozen more serious side-effects. By the time all the nonsense ended, two more truckers had entered the room, one had left, and I had dropped my head all three times, pretending to look at my watch.
Finally the newsman with the high forehead and glasses returned, so did the picture of Elaina.
“As you first heard here last week, Elaina Soles, the wife of recent Nobel Prize recipient Thomas Soles, died in a suspected hunting accident while walking with her husband along a nature trail in Western North Carolina. This sad event took place mere days after she and Mr. Soles returned home from Stockholm to a horrific, bloody scene and a very disturbing death threat in their Queens, New York apartment.
There is now growing suspicion that these two events may be linked. Despite the findings of North Carolina authorities, many people around the country believe that both crimes may have been committed by what they call “corporate vigilantes.” Many who’ve read Thomas Soles bestselling book, Enough is Enough , believe that since it vilifies Corporate America, some CEO’s, and this country’s elite, may be taking revenge. While it is true that a second major bookselling chain has taken Soles’s controversial book off its shelves this week, at this point, there is no evidence of foul play.
But that’s not holding back the rising tide of suspicion and discontent that stretches from New York to California. Seeing so many people taking to the streets is reminiscent of the tumultuous 1960’s and 70’s. On Friday, here in Manhattan, an estimated 15,000 protesters carrying signs and chanting, “enough is enough” showed up in front of the New York Stock Exchange. Yesterday, Chicago’s Grant Park had a similar demonstration, and there
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