Читать книгу A Road to Nowhere - Bradleigh Munk - Страница 13

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, I’m outside your front door.”

A little stunned, I said, “Okay, I’ll be right out.” Hmm, I thought, British accent—no, it had to be Irish.

As I came through the side gate, it became all too 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 in my head.”

“You should probably have that checked out,” he said.

“Yes, 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 headed up to the room. It was bright and full of life; however, my eyes were too sensitive, so I closed the curtains. Popping two Excedrin, I lay on the bed and pulled one of the multitude of pillows over my eyes, hoping to quell the searing pain running through my head. Several hours must have passed, and sleep must have come, because the next thing I knew, someone was pounding on my door. Staggering to reach the noise, I was greeted by my friend.

“You don’t look so good,” he said as he stepped into the room.

“I’ll be fine. I just need to get a cold washcloth to lay over the back of my head,” I said, tipping over a little as I started to walk to the bathroom.

He caught my arm and pulled me back to my feet. Looking directly into my eyes, he said, “What is really going on? You look as if you have been on a week’s bender.” I sat down on the couch and reluctantly went through my battle list. With my head down toward my knees, and slightly shaking from the ongoing withdrawal, he slid next to me and held me close, saying, “I have a local doctor that I think you should see. Remember, I have gone through this before. I know what it’s like.” I just sat there holding on, knowing this was keeping me attached to my reality. Picking up his cell phone, he punched a number and was shortly connected with his trusted doctor’s assistant. “They can get you in today at three,” he said. “By the way, you look as if you haven’t eaten in days. Let’s have a late lunch and meet up with the doctor after.”

“That sounds great,” I said. Let’s hope that I can keep the food down, I thought.

*****

Dr. Miller was a plump man in his early fifties and short on introductions. “First of all,” he said, “your doctor should have never prescribed that antidepressant, knowing you were on vast amounts of pain medication for your ribs and head injury. I’m afraid you will have to deal with the withdrawal until it clears your system. The ribs will heal on its own, and all you can do is sparingly take something for pain when needed. The head injury is another story. I want to have some scans taken. It will only take a few minutes and, hopefully, determine why you are having the headaches.” Forty-five minutes later, we were back in the examination room. “I’m going to give you a shot of a mild sedative and prescribe a larger dose of ibuprofen. This should alleviate some of the pain. I’m concerned about the hit you received to the front of your head. There seems to be some swelling and could be the cause of the headaches. The ibuprofen should help with that as well. When you get back to the hotel, I want you to take this sleeping aid.” He handed a small bottle with one pill sitting at the bottom. “This will also help you to relax. Don’t take it until you are ready to lie down. When it takes effect, you will be out for a good amount of time. One last item,” he said as he was sitting on the edge of his desk, “you will need to have someone keep an eye on you to make sure you don’t have any adverse reactions to the medications.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Richard. “He can stay with me tonight.”

“Perfect,” said the doctor. “I want you to come back on Friday. We can go over ongoing treatments to help with the depression and any lingering pain issues. Nine o’clock okay?”

“Yes,” I said, “we’ll be back. Thank you for getting me in today.” With that, we left for the nearest Walgreens and then to the hotel after.

Retrieving my bag still sitting unpacked, we walked next door to his room. Richard pulled down the covers on the unused bed and put my bag on the empty rack. I excused myself to use the bathroom and take the lone sleeping pill. After putting on a long tee and boxers, I slipped between the crisp white sheets. With Richard sitting next to me on the bed, we exchanged thoughts of what was going on that week. Before I knew it, I was deep into the void. I didn’t know when he left. Several times I awoke alone, only to drift back to nothingness. At one point, I felt someone holding me; another time, the reverse.

The next morning, when I was finally released from the sleeping pill’s grip, Richard was lying on his bed, looking over at me. “I have to tell you about something that happened while you were sleeping,” he said. “At some point during the night, you were having a really bad nightmare, yelling and screaming. I slid in next to you and held you close until you drifted back to sleep. We stayed together the rest of the night. I really didn’t want to overstep my welcome.”

“I don’t remember anything from last night,” I said. “Thank you for being there. I hope I didn’t keep you up all night.”

“All night!” he said with emphasis. “You have been asleep for a day and a half. This is Friday morning. We have a doctor’s appointment at nine. I really have to say, though, it was something nice. I was holding you. Later on, I realized you were holding me. I haven’t slept that sound for years. Strange as it might seem, I see you as a younger brother.”

“Younger brother, you do know that I am a few years older than you.”

“I know, in my mind, you seem much younger, so vulnerable.”

Thinking to myself, I thought, Yes, vulnerable and weak. Looking back at him and smiling, I said, “I’ve never had a brother. I like the idea of being yours, even if it’s your younger.” Like two schoolboys, we both got up with vigor. “For the first time since I left for London, my head doesn’t hurt,” I said, then thinking to myself, Instead of the pain running through my head, it has been replaced by those ever-present beats by stanzas, random but consistent. “Other than my chest being sore, I can actually think clear.”

“Do you still have the need to tap out the beats in your head?” he asked.

“Yes, that’s still there. The metronome is still ticking in my mind. I’m not sure what to do with that.”

“I think we need to set you down in front of a drum set,” he said, half smiling. “Let’s see what you really have to offer.”

“Sure, let’s hear the mess that is blasting through my mind. I have never been able to play any musical instrument. This should be amusing to your bandmates.”

*****

It was nearly seven thirty, and we had plenty of time to grab breakfast before my doctor’s appointment. Pulling into a local bakery and café, we grabbed the last available booth, after which he ordered what I thought were huge quantities of comfort food: French toast, crisp bacon, mounds of hash browns, and for good luck, the “good luck cinnamon roll”—it took up an entire plate by itself. To wash this all down, two thermoses of hot black coffee. Richard preferred a little cream and sugar, which I had to harass him about by saying, “You must not be a true coffee drinker.”

“That may be true, but I am a true beer drinker and will put you right under the table if you keep this up.” It was great to be able to laugh again and think about moving forward.

The doctor’s appointment was quick and to the point: a prescription for a mood enhancer, not to be started until I returned home later that next week, and a good report on the swelling in my head. “It looks much better today,” the doctor said. “Keep taking the ibuprofen for a couple more days, and I think you should be good to go.” I thanked him and quickly made my way back to the car, where Richard was talking with someone on his cell.

“We have a change in plans. I don’t have to meet with my mates until later this afternoon, so I thought we would visit my friend Grace. She is only a short distance away.”

“Works for me. It’s just good to be out in the fresh air and not sleeping my life away.”

Grace ran a women’s support center about twenty minutes away from the hotel—twenty minutes if no one was on the road and the traffic lights stayed green. An hour and a half later, we pulled into her driveway. I got out of the car, and when I looked up, I was transfixed by the house she lived in. It was quaint, sided in clapboards and painted lavender, small to the prying eye; however, it felt like a place that was full of wisdom and love. We walked around back to be greeted by someone as transfixing as her house. Grace was an absolutely beautiful, full-bodied woman; she looked Victorian in a sixties-hippie kind of way, with dark-red auburn hair that was tied in a bun on the back of her head. I could see what attracted my friend into her vortex of healing energy.

Greeting us, she said, “It’s good to see you again, Bradleigh.”

“Have we met before?” I asked.

“Not exactly. You haven’t told him, have you?” she said, speaking to Richard.

“No, I haven’t said a word,” he responded.

“Well, here it is. The other night when you were asleep, I came over to visit Richard, and he brought me in to see you. Of course, I knew you were out in some far-off galaxy, but I felt the need to see you even if you were sleeping. You looked so innocent and vulnerable, lying there, holding on to your pillow.”

I should probably feel a little violated, but I don’t, I thought to myself. “Having the two of you check on me was very caring,” I said, “something I haven’t had a lot in the past.”

She continued, “And then I heard about the nightmares that night. Do you have any idea what caused them?”

“I’m not exactly sure, probably reliving the beating I took in London a few weeks back.”

“Richard told me about what happened to you in London. I hope that doesn’t change your feelings towards the city. It really is very charming and has so much culture.” Moving toward her back door, stopping and looking over her shoulder, she said, “Come on in, boys.” It sounded a little too much like Mae West.

Once we settled into her makeshift banquette, I was able to get a better look at our host; her eyes were amazing, so deep and full of wisdom. I could tell she had a higher purpose in life. I was speechless, listening to her calming voice, and found myself drawn into her ageless energy.

Smiling, she asked, “Where are you right now? You seem to be miles away. Please share.”

I have never felt comfortable around women. There always seemed to be sexual tension which kept me from developing any close relationships. I was afraid that if I got close with any female, she would want to be physical; this could never be. Grace was different. I could tell at once that sex between anyone was not high on her list of priorities. Reaching across the table, she gently covered my hands with hers and spoke directly into my soul. I couldn’t help the tears that were welling up in my eyes. Before I knew it, I was slowly rocking myself in a fetal position. Richard was sitting on my right and put his arm around my shoulder. Grace then slid in next to me, completing the bond, and held me tight, allowing the trapped emotions to finally give up their prisoner—no judgments or expectations.

After they released the hold on me, all I could say was, “Oh my god, where did that come from?”

“Trapped emotions can stay with us our entire life,” she said. “At some point, they need to be released, or they could lead to physical problems or even death.” We sat there for about five minutes; this allowed me to settle my mind after they both stepped into my private emotional world. Finally, she asked, “Would anyone like some strong coffee? I’m not like my staunch, hippie parents who only drank herbal teas and such. I need my caffeine if I want to make it through the day. I know that sounds awful. However, it’s my only vice—well, except for my glass of red merlot every night. Coffee anyone?”

“Yes, please,” I said.

“How do you take it?”

“Hot and undressed,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

Joining in, Richard said, “Like your dates?”

Embarrassed, I said, “Yes, what else is there?”

They both laughed, and she prepared our cups of strong brew. A couple of hours went by, and before we knew it, noontime was barking at her back door. (No, really! A dog named Noontime was barking at her back door.) Stepping out on the back porch, Noontime came barreling up to give us all a greeting, first poking Richard in his crown jewels, then moving on to better treasures. I, however, was too quick for him, moving down to his level. I gave him a good rub under his chin.

“How about we run to the store to get some lunch fixings?” said Grace. “We can set up in the back and have a quaint little picnic.” We all agreed and drove to the nearest Ralph’s to pick up lunch. As we were turning into the parking lot, all of us, on cue, turned to look at a homeless person signing for money. Without comment, we drove past and parked.

Grace noticed that I was sitting with my eyes closed. “Are you afraid of the invisible public?” she asked, referring to our man standing at the entrance.

“No, I’m sending blue-and-white energy to ease his way.”

“Interesting. How long have you been practicing this religion?”

“It’s not a religion, just positive energy work. It has more meaning if you do it incognito. No promotion or advertising.”

“I like this guy,” she said to Richard. “I think this is the start of a new and beautiful friendship.”

On the ride back, she noticed that I was doing the same thing, only this time there were no souls to share in the energy. Not saying anything and arriving home quickly, Richard and Grace realized that they had not hit any red lights or traffic. As we got out of the car, she asked, “What was that all about?”

“Oh, nothing, just rearranging the traffic.”

“You are able to change the stoplights?” she asked, becoming more intrigued as the moments passed.

“Not always, only about 85 percent of the time. The other fifteen, we’re not supposed to change our destiny. If you work within the natural forces, they let you effect a change when it’s available. Today it was available. No one else needed the force. It’s all a matter of sharing and working within the universal ether.”

“I know what you mean,” she said. “Society has it all backwards. They think hoarding is everything. In reality, it’s always best to share.”

We settled into her backyard, shaded by tall green trees blocking us from the sun. A light breeze kept the flies at bay as we devoured a multitude of culinary delights.

“This is wonderful,” I said. “Tell me again, what is this?”

“Caviarrrrr,” she said, stretching out the word for emphasis.

Laughing, I said, “I can’t say that I have ever had this thing you call caviarrrrr. It complements the sardines and oysters.”

We sat for a couple of hours pretending we were bohemian artists, enjoying small tins of canned meats with tiny, little imported crackers. The skies advertised afternoon showers, so we packed up the remaining tins of goodness and headed back into the small house just before the heavens burst wide open.

“So, Mr. Munk, what is your take on the meaning of life?” said Grace, expressing her interest on the subject.

“I think that we are all here to help others,” I said. “There are those in society who are like sheep, just moving through life unaware of their surroundings. The ones lucky enough to be in the know are required to help those in need of emotional support. We really have no other option. We could choose to hide ourselves away from the public. However, this would be a lost opportunity to clear stuck karma for ourselves and the ones we are here to help. If we stand back, unwilling to lend a hand, we would be required to return and do it all over again. In these cases, there are no guarantees upon returning that we would have the same knowledge as before. We could end up being one of those lost sheep. As I said earlier, we don’t always need to assist in person. We can focus healing energy and allow them to continue living their lives, eventually realizing the change in themselves. It’s best to do this anonymously, of course, and not advertise to the public. The clearing of karma is then from a deeper place within us and not from the ego.”

Richard was sitting back, enjoying the interaction between his old friend and the new one that just joined the group. “I hate to break up this assignment of the minds—however, we need to head over to the studio. It looks like it will be another late night.”

The sun peaked its soft rays through dark stormy clouds when Grace walked us out to the car. As we were settling into our seats, she said, “Let’s meet later this week when you get settled and up to speed with your band. It was definitely a pleasure to finally meet you,” saying to me as we pulled out of her driveway.

“The pleasure is all mine. I look forward to seeing you again.”

*****

“She’s incredible. Where did you meet her?”

“It was an unusual night for both of us,” he said. “I was attending a small gathering of friends, and she was sitting off to the side, watching and enjoying the moment. I came up and introduced myself, and before we knew it, everyone had gone home except for the host. Somehow, we ended up back at my hotel, where we attempted some close intimacy. However, it soon became apparent that nothing sexual was ever going to happen. This didn’t bother me in the least. I just enjoyed being with her. Now that I think about it, that night was very similar to the other night with you. It was close, very loving, and best of all, cemented out friendships for life.”

Looking over at him, I noticed that his mind was somewhere else. I’m not sure, but I thought I saw one lone tear. “It’s emotional when we finally find our soul family,” I said. “I’ve gone my entire life feeling that I don’t belong. Then suddenly, one day, we are presented with such a beautiful gift of belonging. Emotions can’t be kept at bay.”

He smiled at me and said, “What are the chances to come across two family members during the same lifetime? We are both so incredibly fortunate.”

My heart felt warm and full; I was finally part of something. My entire life up to that point, I felt as if the party was happening somewhere else and I was never invited; all the personalities that I was supposed to meet would never be forthcoming, and I would live the rest of my existence alone and without connection. This had changed.