Читать книгу A Road to Nowhere - Bradleigh Munk - Страница 8

Chapter Three

Our flight arrived late afternoon, and it felt good to be able to stretch and relieve myself without a plane moving up and down, making it hard to hit the bull’s-eye. Paige had rushed out of the plane, claiming a need to clear her head and puff down several cigarettes before we caught our ride to the hotel. I headed down to collect my bags alone, hoping to move through customs without any issues. The lines, however, were long, and I started to feel the weight of the fourteen-hour flight. Handing back my passport, the redheaded tall customs agent asked if I had any alias.

“Yes, sir, just one,” I said.

“And what other name are you using?” He was emotionless and following a prewritten script.

“Bradleigh Munk, sir.”

With blank eyes, he said, “The author?”

“Yes, sir, here in person.”

“There’s not been a picture of you anywhere. How do we know you’re him?” Handing over my other form of ID, listing known-by and aliases, he stared in wonder. “I could get fired for this,” he said in a low voice, “but I really wanted to get your autograph. My whole crew wanted to come see you. However, we are all scheduled to work.”

In a low whisper, I said, “Tell your team to one at a time bring their copy of the book, and I’ll sign them. Delay me by searching through my bag, or make up something.”

Turning, he whispered to the agent next to him, and one by one, they wandered over and quietly slid their copies toward me. I opened the front cover and proceeded to sign them, using their name tags to personalize. Midway through this process, the redhead pulled out my very small container of Jif peanut butter. “Is this for personal consumption?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes, sir, I never go anywhere without it.”

“Just make sure you keep it to yourself.” He then put it back into my bag. With the last book safely hidden under his arm, my friendly customs agent cleared me for entrance into his country. Turning back at the crew, I nodded in silent respect; in unison, they all returned the favor.

“Where have you been? We’ve been waiting twenty minutes,” Paige asked as I wandered out looking for my ride.

“Long lines,” I said without explanation.

The next morning, we were scheduled to do our first book signing at nine. By eight thirty, I realized that my alarm had not gone off, and it was a mad rush to get ready for my first appearance with the British public. Crap, I thought, what a way to make an entrance. Rushing to the front lobby, I realized that I would be on my own getting to the prearranged meeting place; I had the front desk call a cab. As I walked into the bookstore, located at one of the local malls, I was confronted by a mob of people waiting in line for autographs. Moving forward, feeling as if I were swimming upstream, I slowly made my way to the front of the line. Several comments were made regarding those arrogant Americans, no respect for the queue. It became apparent, however, the closer I got to the front of the line, that I wasn’t just another fan; I was the namesake of this gathering. They all started to clap in unison, and by the time I had settled behind the counter, cheering could be heard throughout the entire store. I was mortified. Normally, I wanted to stay in the shadows and just observe; today I was the main attraction.

“Great entrance,” said Paige, as I was taking off my jacket.

“Believe me, this is not what I planned. Sorry I’m late.”

“Are you kidding, look at the line, they would have waited all day for you.” I turned, and all I could see was endless faces staring back.

I issued my apology to no one in particular, then continued, “It’s the first time I’ve been out of the US, and jet lag has brought me down.” This seemed to placate the crowd, and we started the process.

When the guy who issued the biggest complaint, as I was walking to the front of the line, came forward, he said, “Sorry about that comment. It just doesn’t sit well when someone breaks the queue.”

Looking back at him, I said, “At least the people here value order. In the US, the person cutting in line would just as soon pull a gun and shoot you.” With a slight smile on his lips, he patted the concealed firearm stowed under his jacket. Seeing this, I quickly signed his book and moved to the next person in line.

We ended the day at three and headed to a local news station; this was my third interview since arriving yesterday, and the news media had already stirred up too much controversy regarding my book. How much does one reveal of one’s personal self? I thought, as I was waiting for the dreaded interview to start. I should probably have a set story that reveals enough to intrigue the audience, but not enough to sacrifice my soul. That would be a trip too dark for anyone to take.

The interviewer was clean and well pressed and began with the following: “As you know, Mr. Munk, your book has been quite a splash with the general public. However, with fame, controversy can sometimes be part of the package. Indeed, with this book, you have your share. There are several questions that need to be answered, one in particular—”

“Why do they need answered? Why can’t the reader just take the 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 prepared.”

Turning, I headed toward the booth and noticed that the coffee shop was empty except for one barista behind the counter and a homeless man trying to sleep and stay warm with his small cup of hot liquid. (Quietly I slid a five-pound note under his outstretched arm and continued to our table.) I hung my jacket on the hook attached to the divider between the booths and slid into the seat. We had clear views of the front door.

Moments later, she returned and set two small espresso mugs in the middle of the table, saying, “Your next date is on the left,” and slid it over to me. I took a small sip and tasted the best cup of java I had ever had.

“Wow, this is great,” I said as she slid into the other seat.

“I’m glad you approve. I have always liked this place. They have a consistent brew.” Looking over at me, she said, “I was hoping to get two books signed. Unfortunately, I was unable to find any other copies. I’ll have to settle on this paperback I purchased months ago. It’s a little tattered. However, it should do.”

I took the cap off my favorite pen for signing. “Who was the other copy for?”

“My brother asked me to acquire a copy for him. We have been sharing this one. Quite difficult when we are both trying to read it. His name is Brodrick Taylor.”

Why does that name sound so familiar? I thought. Putting the cap back on my pen and looking directly at her, I said, “You know, I have several copies back at the hotel. If you have a little time, I would be more than happy to sign an extra copy for you.”

“Oh, I can’t allow you to go through the trouble.” She was now looking quite red in the face.

“No problem at all. The hotel is only a couple of blocks down.”

“That would be so kind, but still.”

Without answering, I was up and putting my rain jacket on and heading for the door. The lady would not be outdone, passing me as we stepped outside.

Moving quickly, she said, “Let’s go. I love an adventure.” Her stride was twice as fast as mine, and before I realized it, I was running to keep up. When we arrived at the front entrance of the hotel, I had to stop to catch my breath. I was leaning against a front wall when she said, “I didn’t mean to cause you a medical.”

“That’s okay,” I said as I wheezed for air. “I always wanted to have a heart attack in London.” I said this a little too dramatically, joining in with her frivolity.

As we entered the lobby, Simon, the evening desk agent, looked up and smiled, seeing that I was in tow with this gorgeous tall woman. The lady in question said, “Have you had any dinner?”

“No, I haven’t had anything since breakfast.”

“Excellent! Meet me in the hotel restaurant, and we can sit and relax. I’m sure you could use a break.”

“That sounds great. I’ll be back in a flash.”

Walking slow, trying to look normal and not draw any attention, I caught the next elevator up, and as soon as I arrived on my floor, I raced down the corridor, almost running face-first into the door of my suite; my key card had failed to work on the first try. Rushing around, like a schoolboy getting ready for his first date, I ditched my day bag and gathered two hardback copies of my book—better quality, unlike the paperbacks I had been signing since we began this venture in London. Satisfied that I didn’t have anything stuck between my teeth, I headed back to find her still sitting in the lobby.

With a look of frustration, she said, “I have to apologize. My office just called, and they need me back to tie up some loose ends for a client.”

“No problem,” I said, taking the cap off my pen to sign the books. “I must, however, insist that I walk you back. It’s dark out there now, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to you.” With no arguments, I signed each book, and we headed back to her car; after assuring her safety, I started back to the hotel.

Within two blocks, as the road became dark and moody, something felt out of place. I had a sour feeling in the pit of my stomach, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood high and ready for attack. Without warning, someone rushed by and pushed me over toward a dark alley. I was then met with two other faceless goons clad in dark hoodies. All three took turns delivering blows to my stomach then my head, finally knocking me face-first into a drainage ditch full of dirty black water. Pulling me by my legs, I could feel the sting of cement scraping against the one side of my face; they were planning to finish me off. A warm red liquid filled my eyes, blinding me from any way to identify. As my mind started to drift into the void, I could hear several men yelling and screaming, creating a moment full of chaos and confusion; the beating had ended. As the blood continued to flow down my face, someone gently lifted my head and slid under what felt like a folded jacket; all I could think of at the moment was, I hope that it wasn’t something expensive. A large bloodstain would never come out. In the distance, sirens could be heard, becoming louder until, at their arrival, they fell silent. Giving in to the throbbing pain, I blacked out, only to be awakened by the jolt of vehicle tires hitting several potholes; I realized that I was safe and heading to the emergency. Someone to my right quietly asked my name. Looking up, with panic in my eyes, I found that I was unable to speak. I pulled the silver chain that was around my neck and handed it to them. (It had my vital information, including personal details, emergency contacts, and insurance policies.) “Bloody hell,” he said, “this is the author of that book everyone is talking about. We need to have an officer meet us when we arrive at the hospital.”