A Road to Nowhere. Bradleigh Munk
to ask you a couple of questions.”
“Of course,” I said.
“I will try to keep this brief. I know you would like to get out of here. Can you describe the persons who attacked you?”
“I’m sorry, the only thing I remember are the dark hoodies the three were wearing. I couldn’t even see their faces.”
“Other than the hoodie, can you remember anything else about them?”
“From my vantage point, it seemed that one of them was very tall, perhaps six two, six three. the other two, probably five eight or nine.”
“Anything else that might help in identifying them?”
“No, I’m afraid I blacked out shortly after they dragged me down the sidewalk.”
“Very well, if you have anything else you would like to add, please give us a call. Here is my card.” With that, she turned and left the room.
Back at the hotel, on her way to valet, Paige dropped me off around the corner from the front entrance. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s not meet until eleven. You could use the rest. Call me if you need anything.”
“Thank you for picking me up. Tomorrow will be a better day.”
“I’m not sure how you can stay so upbeat. If it were me, I would be in the bar slamming back several glasses of hard liquor. See you tomorrow.”
As she drove away, I turned and walked around the corner to the front entrance, only to see a tall man hunched over and wearing a dark hoodie. Panic gripped me, and I quickly turned and hurried back around to the side entrance.
The next morning, while nursing a headache that just wouldn’t go away, Paige and I headed out to a local news outlet, for a quick interview. This would be my last; in another day, I would be returning to the US, ready for some rest and time to heal. The lady was pleasant; however, her smile (I suspected) was purchased at her local dentist—so white it couldn’t possibly be natural. The interview began differently due to the bruising on my face. After explaining the story of me slipping in the tub, she started in with the same questions all the other news outlets were asking: “Is Clark written about our local musician?” My standard response was always, “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. Besides, Clark is not even from the same Bangor. He’s from Wales, not Bangor, Northern Ireland.”
Still looking at my blackened eye, she asked, “Is there anything you miss from the States, Mr. Munk?” This was a new question. No one had asked me this before. I had to stop and think.
“I would have to say, I miss peanut butter and ice.” I added, “Not together, of course. Peanut butter with mayonnaise, on thick slabs of sourdough bread, and ice for my drinks.” Looking as if she was going to hurl her breakfast, I continued, “It’s an acquired taste, something I grew up on.” Not convinced, she had them break for a commercial and quickly ran to the nearest bathroom. After we finished, I discovered that it wasn’t my recipe for the sandwich that made her sick; she had been pregnant for over four weeks and had the morning heaves.
Later that morning, I was at my last book signing; the lines were longer than normal, and we all tried to accommodate as best we could. I had turned away to look for any of our support staff to help and discovered that I was alone and facing a line that would take several hours to work through. Turning back to the line, for a slight moment, I was disoriented; the next person was standing several feet away. Looking over the counter, I noticed a young girl, perhaps only ten, sitting in a motorized wheelchair; she was trying to stand up with some difficulty.
“Please, you don’t have to get up,” I said as I moved around to greet her, pulling a chair from a nearby table. Sitting at her eye level, I asked how her day was going.
Full of life and excitement, she said, “I’m having a great day. I want to be a writer, just like you, when I grow up.”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
Continuing, she said, “My teacher told me that I would never be successful, because I can’t spell very well.”
Keeping my attention only on her, I said, “I wouldn’t let that get in your way. I am the world’s worst speller, and I couldn’t spell my way out of a phone booth.” Quiet laughter could be heard throughout the crowd. I thought to myself, She probably doesn’t even know what a phone booth is. When was the last time I ever used one? “If you have words that need to get out, you need to get them out. When I sit down to write, I just go until my mind is empty. Afterwards, I correct the mistakes using a Google search.”
Looking at me, smiling, she said, “Do you really think I could do it?”
“Of course, I’m guessing that you could be the next R. S. Franklin. That would give all of us a run for our money. Would you like me to sign your book?”
“Yes, please,” she said, smiling even wider.
“What is your name?”
“Beth,” she said.
“That’s a pretty name.” I autographed the book with, “To Beth, congratulations on your future success as a writer. Sincerely, Bradleigh Munk.” After I returned the book, she held it close to her chest and smiled widely. Her mother then turned her around and left.
As I was returning to the counter, the next person in line said, “Was a mighty nice thing you told her.”
“I feel we need to encourage, not discourage,” I said.
“Yes, we do,” the woman said. “Gotta keep them moving forward.”
The day ended around three, and as I was sitting with my bag, getting ready to leave, to my left I noticed someone standing several feet away. It was that man from the other night, standing with his dark hoodie, face covered, and just looking. Excusing myself, I quietly slipped through a side exit and caught the next taxi back to the hotel.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, I was on my way back to the US, feeling grateful for the first-class seat, which allowed me the room to stretch out and sleep for most of the duration. I was exhausted, not to mention the soreness from the street brawl and a headache that persisted. Sixteen hours later, the driver dropped me off at my desert home around one o’clock in the morning. The only affair I was having that night was with my pillow and two Excedrin. The next few days I spent sleeping, popping pain medication, and cursing. I was waist-deep in that nastiness that boils up. Nothing is wrong, and yet nothing is right. I never seem to be able to control these mood swings. It’s a bitch having a broken personality.
This morning, I decided to treat myself to some time in my studio. This was not working either. I was still in a vile, nasty mood when, all of a sudden, my cell chirped an incoming call. Normally, I would just let it go to voice mail. This time, however, the voices in my head encouraged me to pick up. I hit the button to connect and said, quite rudely, “Yes.”
“Is this Mr. Munk?” the voice asked.
“It depends on who is calling.” My rudeness was evident.
“Your editor gave me your number. She said it would be okay if I called.”
That little snitch, I thought. “Who is this?” I insisted.
“I was hoping we could talk,” said the voice. “I’m close by and would like to drop in.”
I was still irritated and asked, “Talk about what?”
“Trust me,” he said with a smile in his voice, “I guarantee that this will not get you upset.”
Warming to the conversation, I asked, “Where do you want to meet?”
“Actually,