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,
