A Road to Nowhere. Bradleigh Munk
words as fiction and not fact? Most, if not all, of the story has come directly from my deranged imagination.”
“Now, don’t be too hard on yourself,” she said. “That may be your view. However, there is still one question regarding your character Clark.”
“And that would be what?” I was feeling a little irritated with this question, the same question every reporter had been asking since I arrived here.
“This character Clark,” she said, leaning in to give the false impression of a budding friendship. “Is Clark just another story about our local musician Richard Lewison?”
“No, not really,” I said, leaning back into my chair, trying to get as far away from her as possible. (In my mind, I was thinking, I wonder how fast I could bolt from here? Could I make it to the exit before they realized I was gone?). “No, Clark is not based on Mr. Lewison. How could he be? The only similarity is that they are both musicians.”
She ended the interview with, “That’s all we have for today. Thank you, Mr. Munk.” The red light above the camera went dark, and she was gone. So much for our budding friendship.
That night, Paige said that she had arranged a special signing and would like to leave around seven. At the designated time, I was waiting in the hotel lobby when she arrived alone. “Where are the others?” I asked.
“I have a car waiting out front. Let’s go,” she said this while rushing toward the front entrance.
Again, I asked, “Where are the others?”
“This is just you and me tonight. We have a special arrangement.”
Unsure of what she meant, I followed her into the waiting limo. (It felt like the mob was driving me out to the desert to be disposed of. Not here in London; they don’t have any deserts here in Great Britain, or do they?) We soon arrived at a very familiar place, the first news station we interviewed with yesterday after arriving. Again, I asked her what we would be doing; her response was cold and calculating: “We need to capitalize on this conflict you have with your hero. During a fake interview, we are going to set up an introduction where you will be taken by surprise as your buddy comes to greet you. You are really a fool not to ring him up.” My mind was running in high gear trying to figure a way out. I felt like I was the main attraction in a freak show. As we made our way through the maze of corridors, I made mental notes of anything that might aid in my escape; I calculated my exit carefully. Since the hotel was only forty-five minutes away from here, via connecting rides on the tube, I would be back safe inside my room within an hour. As soon as the director’s assistant left, I bolted to a side exit, finding quick access to a stairway that led down and out to my freedom. The new jacket I purchased, with a hood that covered my face, worked perfectly for my escape.
The next morning during breakfast, not a word was said; however, rumor had it that their request to steel away the front man of the band backfired after the band’s manager declined the invitation. (This made me nervous. Did this mean that he really never wanted to meet me?)
My next encounter with the press came two days later, at five o’clock in the morning. We had all arrived back at the hotel just after midnight the night before. Paige, our commander in charge (she hated when I called her that), had taken us two hours northwest of London to Birmingham, followed by nine hours of additional work. The day started at eight. We signed books until one, two hours to Birmingham, signing books until nine, at which point dinner was served. At ten, we headed back to London, and by midnight, I was lying on my bed, trying to decide if I would be able to fall asleep. And here I am the next morning, sitting, nursing my cup of coffee, dark and full of flavor. “Damn, I wish I had a peanut-butter-and-mayonnaise sandwich.”
The reporter sat prim and proper, as proper and prim as one could sit at 5:00 a.m. I could tell at once he would not let me off the hook. “Is your character Clark written about our local musician?” he asked.
I decided a few nights back that I needed a cover story; this would allow some protection and keep prying eyes from accessing that part of “me” that I am not fond of visiting. My cover story would be the following:
“No, Clark is not based on Mr. Lewison. No, it’s not a gay relationship between Clark and Thom, and yes, I believe in my heart two men can have a close physical experience where the two love and respect each other, without condition or bias and not be sexual.”
(I crossed into the same space once before. “One doesn’t have to be sexual to be physical. One doesn’t have to be sexual to make love. One can be sitting across from a person and be totally enveloped within that person’s greatness.”)
“Would you ever ring him up, Mr. Munk?” he said this with a sincerity not found with any of the interviewers up to this point. I hesitated, then said, “No, no, I wouldn’t do that.” I was feeling a little sad, thinking that he might not even care to pick up the phone.
“Why not?” he continued.
“He didn’t sign up for this project, and I respect his privacy.” The sadness lingered, knowing a meeting would probably never happen. My mind wandered as the interview dragged on. All I could think of was that incredible breakfast waiting around the corner from the hotel, a local hole-in-the-wall that delivered on its promise to satisfy. The Saint Mary was established sometime in the late forties and currently boasted a third generation running the operation. The interview finally ended, and we all returned to enjoy an extended breakfast. The morning belonged to us; we had several hours to rest from the previous day’s adventures, and we would all meet at one to take a bus to a local church to ply our goods. The afternoon flew by, and when four o’clock arrived, there were only a couple of people left in line. I thought to myself, I hope she will let us go early. We were scheduled to be here through six; however, I really felt that I needed to take a nap before dinner. As if reading my thoughts and sounding tired, she said, “Let’s break early today. I will let them know that we will be back a little earlier tomorrow to cover anyone who we might have missed.”
By four thirty, we packed up shop, and I headed back to the hotel on foot. (I wanted to have a few moments to stretch my legs and clear my mind.) As soon as I got a half of block from the church, rain started to pour down then changed into a torrent. I was prepared, pulling up the hood of my jacket; I moved on, enjoying every drop of moisture hitting my face. From behind me, I heard someone shout, “Excuse me!” I continued walking, hoping to avoid any interaction this late in the day. The voice continued, “Sir, excuse me, would you have a moment?”
Stopping, I regrouped and quieted my emotions. (When signing onto this book tour, I vowed to always keep my cool, never explode at anyone who took the time to value my writing; after all, they did pay for this trip.) Turning slowly, I was approached by a tall, dark-haired woman; her rain jacket covered all but a few locks of her thick ebony hair. “Excuse me, sir. I’m sorry to bother you on the street. You’re Bradleigh Munk, right?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, using my professional response. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“I don’t need any help. Actually, I’m beyond help, but that’s another story. I was hoping it wasn’t too late to ask for an autograph.” She was saying this while breathing heavy and out of breath from running.
“Of course, it’s not too late,” I said, smiling.
Turning to her right, she said, “Let’s step into that coffee shop over there and get out of the rain.” Moving quickly, not allowing for protest, she headed toward the business with me in tow. Stepping inside, she turned to me and asked, “Do you like coffee, Mr. Munk?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Excellent, how do you like yours served?”
“Hot and undressed.”
“Like your dates?” she asked deviously.
Laughing, I said, “Of course, what else is there?”
Smiling wide, she said, “Would you like to grab that booth over there? I’ll bring the drinks as soon as they have them