A Road to Nowhere. Bradleigh Munk
a woman, not too bad to look at, came over and said, “How about some tunes?”
“Sure, what would you like to hear?”
She listed off several popular songs of the age, and I was off and running. Playing, tucked away in the corner from the action of the party, I continued while his friends wandered back and forth making requests, to which I obliged. Several dropped five-pound notes in the bowl sitting on the top of the piano. They must think that I was hired, he thought. Not to bring attention to himself, he continued for over two hours until Clark wandered in from the other room and sat down next to him, joining on several selections.
Someone in the crowd asked, “Where did you rent him from? I need someone to play at my next week’s event.”
A little shocked, Clark responded, “This is my neighbor I told you about.”
Several red-faced friends turned and attempted apologies, to which I responded, “All monies will be donated to charity.” A nervous laughter enveloped the entire suite.
*****
A feeling of an approaching storm had been prodding at me for the last hour, and I was trying to put it out of my mind; I was soon overwhelmed with the feeling of the approaching sleep. It was two days early, and I knew that if I didn’t leave soon, I would never make it to the safety of my flat. Moving toward the door, I felt my legs start to give way; I steadied myself on the kitchen counter just as Clark turned the corner. Facing him, I asked, “Would you do me a favor? I need to go, and I’m not sure I can make it on my own.” My paleness must have caused a slight panic. Without hesitation, he steadied me, and we left for my flat. As we approached my door, my legs started to give way again, and I was suddenly held up by my neighbor. I attempted to put the key in the lock, but my dexterity was nonexistent, and Clark finished the task. Moving toward my bedroom, I was able to shed my clothes for a long tee and shorts, finally slipping into bed. Clark stared down, and I could see the worry showing in his eyes; looking at him, I said, “I will be unavailable for two, maybe three days. Thank you for your help. I don’t want to keep you from your guests.”
As if not hearing my words, he said, “You will be sleeping for days?”
“Yes,” I said, short and without explanation.
“Should I be contacting emergency?”
Slowly I responded, “No, I just have a sleeping disorder. All will be okay.” With that, I was gone.
Clark sat there for a while, still shaken by the actions of the past few minutes; he lay down next to Thom and just stared up at the ceiling. Turning to look at his neighbor, he noticed something hanging around his neck with a silver chain. It had a deep-blue stone, and it required a second, then a third look; it seemed to glow and surge with colour. He said to no one in particular, “I remember mood rings from years past, but this is something else.” Reaching over, he picked up the object; suddenly, there was a flash of white light, and he found himself somewhere unknown.
Chapter Three
Our flight arrived late afternoon, and it felt good to be able to stretch and relieve myself without a plane moving up and down, making it hard to hit the bull’s-eye. Paige had rushed out of the plane, claiming a need to clear her head and puff down several cigarettes before we caught our ride to the hotel. I headed down to collect my bags alone, hoping to move through customs without any issues. The lines, however, were long, and I started to feel the weight of the fourteen-hour flight. Handing back my passport, the redheaded tall customs agent asked if I had any alias.
“Yes, sir, just one,” I said.
“And what other name are you using?” He was emotionless and following a prewritten script.
“Bradleigh Munk, sir.”
With blank eyes, he said, “The author?”
“Yes, sir, here in person.”
“There’s not been a picture of you anywhere. How do we know you’re him?” Handing over my other form of ID, listing known-by and aliases, he stared in wonder. “I could get fired for this,” he said in a low voice, “but I really wanted to get your autograph. My whole crew wanted to come see you. However, we are all scheduled to work.”
In a low whisper, I said, “Tell your team to one at a time bring their copy of the book, and I’ll sign them. Delay me by searching through my bag, or make up something.”
Turning, he whispered to the agent next to him, and one by one, they wandered over and quietly slid their copies toward me. I opened the front cover and proceeded to sign them, using their name tags to personalize. Midway through this process, the redhead pulled out my very small container of Jif peanut butter. “Is this for personal consumption?” he asked, smiling.
“Yes, sir, I never go anywhere without it.”
“Just make sure you keep it to yourself.” He then put it back into my bag. With the last book safely hidden under his arm, my friendly customs agent cleared me for entrance into his country. Turning back at the crew, I nodded in silent respect; in unison, they all returned the favor.
“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting twenty minutes,” Paige asked as I wandered out looking for my ride.
“Long lines,” I said without explanation.
The next morning, we were scheduled to do our first book signing at nine. By eight thirty, I realized that my alarm had not gone off, and it was a mad rush to get ready for my first appearance with the British public. Crap, I thought, what a way to make an entrance. Rushing to the front lobby, I realized that I would be on my own getting to the prearranged meeting place; I had the front desk call a cab. As I walked into the bookstore, located at one of the local malls, I was confronted by a mob of people waiting in line for autographs. Moving forward, feeling as if I were swimming upstream, I slowly made my way to the front of the line. Several comments were made regarding those arrogant Americans, no respect for the queue. It became apparent, however, the closer I got to the front of the line, that I wasn’t just another fan; I was the namesake of this gathering. They all started to clap in unison, and by the time I had settled behind the counter, cheering could be heard throughout the entire store. I was mortified. Normally, I wanted to stay in the shadows and just observe; today I was the main attraction.
“Great entrance,” said Paige, as I was taking off my jacket.
“Believe me, this is not what I planned. Sorry I’m late.”
“Are you kidding, look at the line, they would have waited all day for you.” I turned, and all I could see was endless faces staring back.
I issued my apology to no one in particular, then continued, “It’s the first time I’ve been out of the US, and jet lag has brought me down.” This seemed to placate the crowd, and we started the process.
When the guy who issued the biggest complaint, as I was walking to the front of the line, came forward, he said, “Sorry about that comment. It just doesn’t sit well when someone breaks the queue.”
Looking back at him, I said, “At least the people here value order. In the US, the person cutting in line would just as soon pull a gun and shoot you.” With a slight smile on his lips, he patted the concealed firearm stowed under his jacket. Seeing this, I quickly signed his book and moved to the next person in line.
We ended the day at three and headed to a local news station; this was my third interview since arriving yesterday, and the news media had already stirred up too much controversy regarding my book. How much does one reveal of one’s personal self? I thought, as I was waiting for the dreaded interview to start. I should probably have a set story that reveals enough to intrigue the audience, but not enough to sacrifice my soul. That would be a trip too dark for anyone to take.
The interviewer was clean and well pressed and began with the following: “As you know, Mr. Munk, your book has been quite a splash with the general public. However, with fame, controversy can sometimes be part of the package. Indeed, with this book,