A Road to Nowhere. Bradleigh Munk
was racing a mile a minute, and I didn’t want to tell him that I had actually completed a hundred and fifty pages. I felt like I was on speed, and I wanted to ride the wave clear to the edge to see where it would take me. Sitting down at the bench, I soon found myself in the void again and enjoying every note. Earlier, I had listened to several musical pieces on YouTube and now played them by memory. Off to the side in my mind, I was writing the next ten pages of my novel and was ready to enter them into the computer. When the guys returned, I relinquished my stool to the professionals and started to walk back to my laptop. As Phil was passing, he asked if we were having any issues communicating with the housekeeper on our floor.
“Maria, the short, dark-haired lady, probably midforties?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s the one,” he said. “I spent fifteen minutes trying to get clean towels. She simply couldn’t understand me. I finally had to go down to the front desk to get them.”
“That’s strange,” I said. “When I asked for more shampoo, she smiled and handed me a dozen. She spoke perfect English. We chatted for another five minutes. Do you know she is supporting her mother, who still lives in Mexico? Hopefully, she will be able to bring her over next month to live with her.”
“That must be a different woman. The one I tried to talk with has been on our floor all week.”
“Yes, that’s the one,” I said. “I guess she could be putting on an act, although she appeared to be honest when I talked with her.”
*****
Later that night, as Phil was sliding his key to enter his room, Maria passed by and greeted him with “Hola.” He smiled and watched her go down the hallway and then turn left. From a distance, he could hear her in conversation with another speaking her language; he could swear it was Bradleigh.
*****
The next afternoon, as the group was returning to the hotel, Richard announced, “We’re meeting in the lobby in fifteen minutes. I’m taking everybody out for Mexican food to celebrate our upcoming tour. It’s been a rough week of practice, but it has gone well, and I think we are ready.”
“I agree,” I said. “The band sounds great. Can you give me a couple of extra minutes? I want to finish this chapter before we go. I just need about ten minutes.”
Twenty minutes later, we headed out for one of my favorite cuisines. I have always said, “The number one thing on my list of perfect foods is a bean-and-cheese burrito, unless it’s a plate of spaghetti with a large glass of red wine on the side. Either one will do.”
They seated us off in a corner booth, and one by one, we placed our orders, finally coming to me. After placing my order, Richard asked, “What just happened?”
Responding, I said, “I’m just giving him my order. What’s wrong with that?”
“In his native language? I didn’t know you were able to speak Spanish.”
“I don’t. What are you talking about? The waiter spoke perfect English, and I was talking to him in English.”
Calling the waiter over, Richard asked him to go over their orders again. “I think I forgot something,” he said. The waiter ran through the list and looked around, expecting changes. I spoke up and asked him if he could add sour cream and guacamole. Thanking him, I turned to look at the group; they were all staring in disbelief.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“You did it again,” said Richard.
“Did what?”
“You spoke to that guy in his native language. Here, I have it on video,” he said, handing me his phone. I couldn’t believe what I was watching. Apparently, I was able to move between languages and not know that I was doing it.
“I thought you were making light of my accent last night,” he said. “It sounded so convincing when you spoke. I just figured that you were reading up on the local slang.”
The rest of the meal, I sat in quiet contemplation, trying to avoid any additional controversy. When we got back to the hotel, I was feeling less than social; it took the gentleness of my friend to pull me back to reality. It wasn’t so much the changes that pulled me through that door into my depression; it was the fact that I was unsure how to control my outward appearance. I didn’t want to be turned into some kind freak show. What I needed was a way to calmly make it down this new path and not squander the gift (thank God I had a friend to confide in).
“I didn’t want to mention this earlier,” I said, sitting on the edge of my bed, “but my mind has been running a million miles a second. While sitting, playing songs that I memorized from YouTube, I’ve been writing my novel in my mind. I feel as if I’m due for a crash.”
“How does that happen?” he asked. “How is this even possible, to be doing these things all at the same time?”
“I was just riding the wave. It was exciting. Now I feel as if everything is about to fall apart. I honestly don’t know what to do,” I said, looking at my friend and into the distant future that was playing out in my mind.
“I think we need to find a way for you to recognize any new changes as they are happening,” said Richard. “This way, you can monitor and restrict anything that might draw attention, if that’s what you are trying to avoid,” he said, with a reassurance that was calm and unsettling at the same time. This was beyond my abilities to cope with that night. When we retired, I held on as tight as I could, not knowing where I would land in the morning. I had made it to the edge, and I was teetering toward a fall.
*****
The next morning, we lay in our beds talking and discussing the schedule for the rest of the week. The band had come to the end of the practice sessions and was planning to head out the next night.
“It’s time to talk about the white elephant in the room,” said Richard. “I would be lying if I said I felt okay leaving you tomorrow. I’m concerned about you being alone.”
I didn’t answer right away and noticed that he was looking at me with concern and deep intentions. “I’ll be all right,” I said. I was feeling a little distant, knowing my friend would be leaving the next night. The separation was going to be painful, and I now had two things I had to deal with. We lay for another hour just listening to the silence in the room and the occasional thump from the room above.
“Would you consider joining us tomorrow when we leave?” he asked. “At least for the first couple of concerts. The guys would love your company, and we can monitor how you are adjusting to these changes. You can leave your Ford with Grace and return to LA whenever you like.” The feeling of relief surged through my body. I was having separation anxiety, and at first, I couldn’t respond. Finally, he said, “If I’m asking too much, you need to tell me to stop.”
“I don’t want you to ever stop,” I said. “I have been in a holding pattern. I’m not sure which direction to take. I’ve had anxiety about you leaving. I just don’t know how to leave a close friend like you and not feel that I will ever see you again. I have no idea where this comes from and how to fix it. I mean, really, who wants to spend their entire time with me? After a while, everyone needs to take a break.”
“We can work on that,” he said. “That’s half the battle, now that I know there’s a problem. We can work on our time apart. After a while, you will start to feel safe and secure about our friendship. Do you think that you are the only one feeling this way? I’m also struggling inside.”
That afternoon, we met up with Grace for dinner and discussed the storage of the Ford. Our conversations were varied and consisted of different ways to relax.
“Bradleigh, do you practice any forms of meditation?” she asked.
“I have never been very successful trying that on for size,” I said. “I can sit quiet and calm, but that’s as far as I can take it. I can’t seem to visualize anything in my mind with my eyes closed.