A Road to Nowhere. Bradleigh Munk
evident; it was him, the man in the hoodie. He was driving a white Range Rover, perfectly clean and, I assumed, was rented. Walking up to the vehicle, I offered him parking under the carport. After he got out of the vehicle, I realized how tall this man was in person—six three, I was guessing. He was tall, had dark long wavy hair, and when standing next to him, I felt like a munchkin. Following me back to the barn, I turned and said, “It’s great to finally meet you, Mr. Lewison.”
“Please, call me Richard, Mr. Munk.”
“Okay, Richard, please call me Daxton.”
“Bradleigh Munk is a writing name?” he asked.
“Yes, I was trying to keep as much personal as I could. My legal name is Daxton Landcaster. You can call me Daxton, Dax, or Bradleigh. Either of them will work.” We both walked into my studio. (It was a revised Tuff Shed that was designed for comfort year-round. It had a formal door, carpet, finished walls, bright lighting, and most of all, it was my space.) Looking around, he saw my big map of Great Britain pinned to my wall, above my forty-six Magnavox.
“So, this is where it all happened?” he said, referring to my book.
I said “yes” and offered him a folding chair, then added, “For the most part, this is where the book was written. However, bits and pieces came to life away from here. I used my phone as my pencil and paper.” I was standing, leaning against my Magnavox. My headache was down to a dull roar, and I felt jittery from the new medication I was taking to calm my depression. I couldn’t keep from twitching. (In my mind, I kept saying, Damn, damn, damn! I didn’t want our first introduction to be with me as a crazy person.) Then I realized I was mouthing the words silently; he knew what I was thinking. “My apologies,” I said, looking down at the floor, “you must think that I’m nuts. I know that I have depth, meaning, and a great purpose. Sometimes, however, you fly your kite a little too high and it gets stuck in the trees, or you just fly it off course. That’s what the last few days have been like for me. I’m really upset that you caught me on my bad-kite day. I didn’t want our first contact to be with me as a crazy person.” Staring at me with his soothing eyes, he started to gently laugh. Looking up, I, too, started to feel the joy of this person sitting in front of me. “That’s exactly what I needed to snap out of this mood, thank you.”
Looking around and lightly tapping his finger on the table, he then turned to me and asked, “So tell me, is Clark written about me?”
Breaking out laughing, I noticed that he was waiting patiently and still smiling. “I’m not laughing at you. It’s just that I’ve been fighting that question since I started my tour in London.”
Looking away, he said, “Yes, I’ve been watching your progress. What a great cover story you came up with.”
“It took a couple of days for that one,” I said, wiping some tears of laughter from my eyes.
Looking a little too serious, he continued, “No, really, is Clark written about me?”
“Oh, you’re serious,” I said, feeling a little awkward. “I’m sorry, I have used that story on so many I almost forgot who I was talking with. Yes, the story of Clark is loosely based on you.”
“I thought so,” he cut in. “I can always tell when someone is obsessed with me.”
“I’m not obsessed with you. I just admire you. Now let me continue. Yes, the story of Clark is loosely based on you, but remember, Clark is not you.”
A little confused, he said, “How so?”
“Well, first of all, Clark is a good musician, not great. You are definitely not great.” He looked wounded, and after delaying for the dramatic, I continued. “You are beyond great. Great doesn’t even give you justice. I can’t think of any words that could accurately describe you as a person or musician.”
“Please don’t make me out to be a saint. I can really be a wanker at times,” he said this while looking directly into my soul.
Confused, I said, “Sorry, wanker? I’m afraid I didn’t buy the British to American crib notes.”
While smiling deviously, he said, “You know, wanker, vulgar, crude.” The Irish accent he spoke was intoxicating, and I couldn’t keep from staring. “People expect me to be this person who can do no wrong. I’m far from that person they’re looking for, especially with women. When I’ve met someone, where we both feel that spark, after a while when she begins to see the real me, that’s when the trouble begins. I find it easier to just not get involved with anyone. I just want to be accepted for the real me, no judgments. My friend Grace is the exception. We’re not sexual, even though that’s where it started. We just understand each other and spend quality time having deep emotional conversations.”
“I really envy you,” I said, “having that as part of your support group. I’ve got nothing like that in my life. I guess I’m too demanding. I need constant attention. I’m like a small child sent out into the world without an owner’s manual. I still can’t figure it out. Sex is the worst part. I know that I’m attracted to men. However, when I have gotten down to do the dirty deed, it just falls short.”
“Since we are on that subject, I need to make something clear.” He was serious again, so I kept quiet and let him continue. “You know that I’m not gay.”
“I know,” I said, matter-of-factly. “I don’t define myself as just a sexual being. Our society is missing out on a huge part of being physical and spiritual. Too much is focused on something that takes perhaps five minutes, after which the two often can’t continue a friendship. I would rather have a deep conversation, void of sexual expression. I always take away so much more. Don’t get me wrong, I love physical contact. However, I don’t need it to be full of sexual foreplay. I think that what I really need is to have a man who I can trust with my deep emotions, hold me until the crying stops or runs its course. So, you see, sex with you will never be a bargaining chip. I just don’t have the ability to follow through. You are safe. I can, however, be a great friend and support. It doesn’t matter what they say or do to you or if you are right or wrong. I will always be on your side.” I paused to let the heaviness set in and then continued, “I am so ill prepared for the world. The only way I’ve survived is by repetition. Knock me out of my routine, and I nose-dive into a pit of dread and insecurity. My trip to London was a first for me. Everything was going great until that brawl on the street that sent me to the hospital. I now have to force myself back into public. I’m still afraid of someone coming up from behind. That’s why when I saw that person wearing a dark hoodie, standing outside the hotel and that last book signing, I had to flee. Sorry, if I had known it was you, things would have been different.”
“I didn’t know that your stay in London affected you that much.”
“Yes,” I said, “the effect was deep. However, no one else will know, especially the press and public. I don’t need pity eyes looking me over, waiting for my breakdown to be documented on YouTube.” Feeling that I had said too much, I looked away, saying, “I guess you probably need to get back to your world.”
Looking a little hurt, he said, “Are you tired of me?”
“No, god no, I love being here with you. I’m really enjoying our talk. I just don’t want to monopolize all your time,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed.
With loving eyes, he said, “Well then, let’s make a deal. I’ll let you know if I ever get tired of being with you, and you do the same.”
“It’s a deal,” I said, my face red with embarrassment.
We sat and talked for over two hours; nothing was off the table. “I want to commend you for walking out of that interview last week. That was clever. I would have done the same thing. I don’t know how you survived the tour. Until now, I had no idea you were sent to hospital?”
“Yes,” I said, “I’m still dealing with the concussion and find myself fighting headaches. I can’t seem to sit still, and I keep wanting to tap my fingers to unknown beats