A Road to Nowhere. Bradleigh Munk
I’ve already been into urgent care, and it’s the same story: ‘Go home and take two Excedrin. Call us in the morning if it gets worse.’ It’s never worse. It’s just there in the background,” I said, resigned to deal with the pain. “That whole damn thing started after signing two copies of my book and then walking this wonderful lady back to her car. I had no idea the kindness we shared would land me in trouble. Still, I’m glad it happened to me and not her.”
He looked shocked and said, “That lady was my sister. The reason I was waiting for you at the hotel was to thank you for your generosity. I never realized what actually happened. It looks as if I am indebted to you for so much more.”
“I knew I recognized the name she gave me,” I said. “I’m just now making the connection.”
As the late afternoon approached, he asked if I would be interested in having an early dinner. I was thrilled and suggested one of my favorite Italian restaurants, the one with the “biggest glass of wine in the entire valley, guaranteed.” When we arrived, the restaurant was empty except for a few locals, and I asked that they seat us in the far back corner booth, private and away from prying eyes. This entire week had been a struggle to become human again, a routine that was normal for me and could last for weeks. Today it took only one simple phone call, a gentle laugh, and the spell was broken.
The time flew, and before we knew it, the dinner crowd had finished, and the place looked the same as when we arrived. “Time to hit the road,” he said. “I’m meeting my band members tomorrow to organize our upcoming tour dates. You should come into LA and meet all my mates.”
“I would love to do that. Let me check my schedule and get back with you later.”
“Great, you have my number from my earlier call. Let me know if you can set a time.”
As we walked up to his SUV, he gently pulled me close and held me. It was beyond my wildest dreams of being protected. I have to say, however, that I have never felt comfortable with expressing myself physically in public. This has a great deal to do with the fact that I am broken as a human being. Today, I just let it happen.
*****
The next morning, feeling refreshed and ready to dive into my projects, I awoke as a ribbon of orange light spread across the eastern horizon, and the spring birds had started their daily mantras. I have always enjoyed stepping out into the new morning, fresh with hope, and feel the quiet peacefulness of the desert. This morning, the coyotes had just finished their nightly rendition of “Fly Me to the Moon” by Frank Sinatra and would be returning to their dens for sleep. (I had always envisioned a group of wild dogs sitting together, tuning their voices via harmonica, and then letting loose on the entire valley below.) Walking back into the kitchen to fix my ritual morning coffee and toast with peanut butter, I was greeted by my cell chirping a text alert. This is unusual simply due to the time of day; most of the people I know in this valley never rise before nine. I was even more surprised and excited that it was from my new friend, Richard, checking in with the following: “I’m still on Bangor time, so to me, it feels like noon. I hope I haven’t interrupted your sleep.”
“Not too early for me,” I said.
“I know that it’s customary to wait a couple of days to make contact after a first date,” he said. “One doesn’t want to come across desperate. However, I simply needed to connect and let you know how much I enjoyed your company yesterday. I feel like a young schoolboy again. [Big happy face.]”
Laughing to myself, I thought, He was making light of our outing as if it was a formal date. “That was too funny,” I said out loud. Texting back, I said, “Not too soon for me. I gave up the two-day rule years ago and figured that if I had a great time, I should let the other one know. Btw, you completed my day. Thanks.”
For the next hour, we clicked our keys back and forth until he said that he needed to get ready for his band members. “Let’s connect later and schedule your time to come and meet my mates.”
“It’s a date,” I replied, laughing as I made my way to the bathroom.
We later agreed on connecting in two weeks, even though I really wanted to do it sooner. I was excited to meet his bandmates and watch them rehearse. Right now, all I needed was to be alone, and I was desperate to find a way to cope with the pain hitting me from multiple fronts. There was the issue with my ribs, which should have been healing. However, they started to take on a life of their own. I would awake in the middle of the night with searing pain. I just couldn’t seem to keep from rolling over, and it was always the wrong way. Then there were the headaches that just wouldn’t go away. The pain in my head was such that I couldn’t touch my scalp without feeling that my eyes were going to pop out. I had to find a way to deal with these unwanted guests. Remembering a trick that I had learned years earlier, I tried to use my mind to calm the nerve impulses running throughout my broken system. To some degree, I was successful, perhaps 85 percent of the time. The remainder would just have to be there standing in the background, watching, and waiting to strike. That was the physical. I now had to deal with the mental. Each time I went to see my physician, he would prescribe such a huge dosage of Zoloft that, within several days, the side effects were worse than the original problem. I had started the drug shortly after I arrived back from London, and within a little over a week, I couldn’t sleep at all. Life was a walking zombie for me. Tired of the major mood swings, I stopped taking the drug a couple of days before I left for Los Angeles to meet my friend. It might have been a quark. The first night without the drug, I was able to finally sleep up to four hours. The second night, however, I kept shaking and had nerve seizures running up and down my legs. It felt like when my cell phone was vibrating in my front jeans pocket. All I could think of was, This is probably the worst time for me to meet up with my friend. I was stubborn and forced myself to move forward. I would pretend all was good and, most of all, try to stay calm. (Maybe he and his mates wouldn’t notice.)
I headed out early that next Wednesday. I wanted to avoid as much traffic as possible. By the time I made it to Calimesa, however, my eyes had started to have a major light sensitivity, so I pulled off and stopped at the Bob’s Big Boy, a restaurant that was warm and inviting and a great place to calm my nerves. I was only fifty minutes into the drive, and I wasn’t sure if I could complete the trip. I ordered black coffee and toast, and despite my lack of appetite, I was able to finish my breakfast. Forty minutes later, and after a quick selfie of me and Mr. Big Boy holding out his huge hamburger, I joined the rest of the crowd heading west on I-10. By the time I reached Ontario, however, the traffic came to a complete halt, and the next hour and a half became a test of wills and patience. I worked hard using my mind to deter the pain running throughout my body and tried to slow my heart rate, so as to keep from turning into the latest road-rage statistics.
By eleven, I pulled into the valet parking at the hotel, hoping to make quick work of checking in; however, this would not be. The problem became apparent when, instead of whisking my vehicle away, the entire valet staff stepped out to survey my dated ride. I couldn’t figure out what the issue was. It was just a red 2010 Ford Explorer XLT that made thumping noises in the rear cab when the vents were turned on. Surveying the inventory of the parked cars, I realized that none of them boasted an age over six months. My Ford was the grandparent to all of them.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“Nothing, sir,” he said. “We just don’t get a lot of these older models. Are you sure it will run until we get it parked?”
“Are you serious?” I said. “I just came in from the desert. Of course, it will run until you get it parked.” By this point, with the pain and drug withdrawals, I was ready to snap a wire.
Taking the key, he settled into the driver’s seat, and as soon as he switched on the engine, the rear vents started their familiar thump, thump, thump. “What is that?” he asked.
“It’s just something that happens when the rear vents are on. It will eventually stop.” On cue, it was silent. Wanting to get this over quickly, he handed me the claim tag and sped off. What a nitwit, I thought.
After getting the key at the front desk, I