A Road Trip, Paul Harvey, and Tommy at His Best

Throughout the years, and especially since his passing nearly three years ago, almost anyone who knew about our friendship has asked me to tell them my funniest Tommy Martin story. The truth is, I have plenty. Hundreds, maybe thousands.

When you have been friends with someone since 1985, back when we worked side by side at The Gaffney Ledger, then all the way through our years together at The Cherokee Chronicle and beyond, you collect the kind of memories that stack up like old editions of the paper. 

Some stories are loud and wild. Some are quiet and only funny if you knew Tommy. And some are the kind that sneak up on you years later and make you laugh out loud in the middle of a grocery store aisle.

But there is one story that rises above the rest because it captures his humor in its purest form. It is quick. It is simple. And it is so perfectly Tommy that anyone who spent even five minutes with him will think, yes, that sounds exactly right.

That is the one I want to share.

We were driving down to North Myrtle Beach for a Cherokee County Chamber of Commerce retreat. I cannot remember the exact year, but I remember Tommy behind the wheel, searching for a radio station like he was tuning a NASA satellite. Every mile or so, he gave the dial another twist.

Finally, he landed on one station. I think it could have been the old WAGI-FM when Paul Harvey came through the speakers, easing into one of his classic “The Rest of the Story” features. Ever since that trip, I have tried to find that exact Paul Harvey story again, but with no luck. If you ever run across it, please send it my way.

Anyway, Paul Harvey is telling this tale about a brutal gang of banditos who stormed into a village and did every terrible thing imaginable. They killed husbands, terrorized wives, abused children, and even slaughtered livestock. Not exactly comedy, but I was hooked.

Then Paul Harvey went on to explain that one of the banditos got so out of control that his own comrades had to gun him down.

The radio went silent for a moment. Maybe it was a commercial break. Maybe Paul Harvey paused for dramatic effect. Either way, in that quiet space I heard Tommy say, in the driest, most deadpan voice imaginable, “What in the hell did THAT guy do?”

It hit me like a slap.

“What?” I asked.

Tommy looked straight ahead and said, “He just said those banditos killed men, women, children, and livestock.”

“I heard that,” I replied.

“Then what in the world was that guy doing that made the rest of them think, okay, now that crosses the line,” he said, with that perfect mix of curiosity and sarcasm that only Tommy could deliver.

He never said another word about it.

Paul Harvey eventually wrapped up his story, but I could not tell you the ending if my life depended on it. What I do remember is laughing for the next four hours as we made our way down Highway 18, merged onto I-26, and headed for the coast. Every time his question popped into my mind, I burst out laughing all over again.

That trip was more than thirty years ago, maybe closer to forty, and I still think about that moment. If you never met Tommy, maybe this story does not hit you the same way. But if you ever spent even a few minutes with him, you can hear his voice saying it. 

And you know exactly why I am still laughing.

When Tommy passed away in 2023, I lost a dear friend, a trusted confidant, and someone who taught me just about everything I know about journalism and storytelling. In the days and weeks that followed, people kept asking when I was going to sit down and write something about him. I always said I would, and I meant it, but I could never bring myself to do it.

I did not want to write about losing him.

I wanted to write about having him.

And today, as I think about that long drive, that Paul Harvey story, and that perfectly timed Tommy Martin one-liner, I realize something. The funniest stories are not really the point. The point is that I was lucky enough to share a lifetime of them with him.

And that is a gift I will carry for the rest of my life.