It was a fittingly damp and gray Thursday morning on April 21, 1910 as I made my way to work. I say fittingly, because I had already seen the front page of The Chicago Examiner. Four words about a man I had never met made my heart sink as if I had lost my best friend.
Mark Twain is Dead
As a poor Irish lad growing up beneath the shadow of the main gate to the Union Stock Yards, I never had a chance to see anything but miles of tenement houses and the inside of a slaughter house. My father died when I was six and since I was the oldest of three boys, I became the man of the house and went to work ten hours a day cleaning pork innards to be used to make sausage casings. I won’t go into detail about the process, but I can’t think of a more horrendous way to make ten cents a day. After two months, my hands had become a hideous shade that could, only for the lack of a better term, be called hog-blood red.
While other kids were running the streets all hours of the night I found myself too exhausted to indulge in any childhood chicanery. After a dinner of cabbage and potatoes, I was usually too tired to do anything but read a discarded newspaper that I would find in a garbage pail next to the trolley stop. Usually it was the previous day’s edition, but sometimes I’d get lucky and find a current publication. I tried to read every word about far away places across the ocean and let my imagination run wild. I looked for anything to help me escape the endless drudgery of my life.
One day I found a tattered coverless copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer by Samuel Clemens in the trash and my whole world changed. The two hundred eighty two pages in that book transported me to a world that was as carefree and fun as mine was hopeless and cruel. I devoured every word until I could recite the entire book. I had no idea where St Petersburg, Missouri was, but I could see it as clearly in my mind as if I had visited it a hundred times. The white-washed fence, the murderous Injun Joe, and the beautiful Becky Thatcher were all part of the imaginary life I conjured up to make it through the day at the slaughter house. I plotted to make my escape with Huck Finn to Jackson Island, but Huck never appeared. Every day was the same as the day before; nothing but mountains of hog guts and blood. If I didn’t make a move, I was bound to end up like everyone else in the neighborhood; a broken-down drunk by the age of twenty. I was determined not to let that happen to me.
It was a miserable February morning, shortly after my thirteenth birthday when a cruel twist of fate changed my life. When I say cruel, I mean it was cruel for someone else. For me it was a chance of a lifetime.
I had just walked out my front door, when I saw a fat man selling newspapers, suddenly grab his chest and fall to the ground. I had never seen anybody die before, but I was fairly certain the fellow was dead.
What would Tom Sawyer do? An opportunity was an opportunity. Before anyone noticed, I ran to the dead man and pinched his canvas bag that was filled with copies of the morning edition of the Chicago American. And just like that; I was in the news business. Two hundred and twenty newspapers worth a penny a piece!
I was afraid someone might have seen my despicable act of treachery, so I ran ten blocks to the east before ducking into an alley behind a Polish restaurant. I waited ten minutes and when I was certain I wasn’t followed, I went to work. I set up shop near a red line trolley stop and by noon, I had completely sold out of newspapers. It would have taken me three weeks to make two dollars at the slaughterhouse. I knew I couldn’t go back to my job and might have fallen into a life of crime if it weren’t for my Mark Twain education. Once again I asked the question. What would Tom Sawyer do? That’s when I got an idea that changed my life forever.
I hitched a ride downtown on a milk wagon to the offices of the Chicago American and walked up to a wealthy looking man. “Who’s in charge of this operation?” I asked with as much bravado as I could muster. The man who I guessed to be in his late forties, remained silent as a statue and continued to puff on his cigar. “Hey, Mac, I asked you a question!”
“And I’m ignoring you. I don’t make a habit of conversing with street urchins.” Just as he finished speaking, another man who looked even wealthier stepped out of the building. “And Mr. Hearst certainly doesn’t want to talk to you,” he added.
I deduced Mr. Hearst was the boss and marched up the steps to meet him. Before I could spit a word out, I felt the heavy hand of the first man as it loosened the teeth from my jaw.
“I’m sorry Mr. Hearst,” the first man apologized, “I tried to get rid of this little tramp earlier, but he doesn’t seem to get the idea.”
Just as he raised his hand to give me another wallop, I covered my face with my hand and cried out at top of my lungs. “All I wanted to do was give him the money I owe the newspaper!”
William Randolph Hearst caught the fist inches from my face. “Enough Jenkins! Next time pick on someone your own size.”
Jenkins begrudgingly withdrew and walked back to the street.
“Thanks Mister—I don’t know if my face could handle another shot to the chops” I picked myself up and wiped the blood from my mouth on my coat sleeve.
“Don’t mention it sonny, but what’s all this about you owing the newspaper money.”
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