Satchel's father, Holland, was a fatalist. That didn't help either. But you lose a wife, a publishing contract, the will to write, almost all of your hair, and for a brief run of time even the ability to speak, it colors your soul. Holland's soul was like an overused pencil eraser. Missing chunks. The cratered surface oil barrel black. There were slivers of pink somewhere under all that pitch. Based on constant exposure to The Holland Crane Show, Satchel often pondered his chances for graduating into adulthood even half-unwarped.