Wind's Dark Sigh (9. Life in question)

Getting ready to look sexy for the evening as she browsed through her cloths hanging in the closet, Rolanda could not stop thinking about how handsome Hugh Mungus was. He was a bit on the chunky side, she thought, but she didn’t mind such a physical characteristic in a man. It was the way he carried himself which peeked her interest most, the way he spoke — seeming to not give a shit how he was perceived by others. She especially liked the fact he didn’t seem to fawn for her affection, as if acquiring it from her was the last thing on his mind. She had met plenty of guys in bars and nightclubs who made a beeline for her like a piece of metal to a magnet when she simply said a word to them. A “Yes,” or even a “No,” — or even a general look in their direction — and they would dive in like a hawk to a rat. 

     After laying her choices of attire for that night on her bed, Rolanda picked up two in each hand, moved over in front of the mirrors of her sliding closet doors, then held each of the outfits over her chest one at a time, comparing them. Two things occurred to her as she was doing this: One, she was doing an interview for a podcast listened to by an audience full of stoners. Why the fuck would she look sexy for that? And two, for some reason she had an inkling Hugh was the type who found it displeasing when a girl tried too hard to win a man’s attention by hyper-sexualizing her looks. 

     “I want to talk, not fuck,” Rolanda said aloud, tossing the two skanky outfits back onto the bed with the rest. 

     She stood before the mirror, gazing at her face, then rubbed the surface of her cheeks with the palm of her left hand, thinking about the way Hugh had looked at her earlier that day, and how she wanted him to look at her later on that evening when he came and picked her up. Removing the hair band from behind her head, she undid her ponytail, and let her hair go down to her shoulders. 

     “He’d like that,” she said. “I’d bet my life on it.” 

     She then looked down at the rest of herself in the mirror still wearing the tight jogging spandex cloths, and the thought occurred to her that maybe Hugh liked things simple in his life, nothing extravagant, or made to be perfect. So she decided for the rest of the day she would wear a green t-shirt, blue jeans, and sneakers. Turning away from the mirror, she went to her bed, picked up the sensual assortment of attire, then walked to her closet and simply tossed them back inside. Near a stack of plastic containers full of cloths there was a small pile of casual clothing all mixed together: t-shirts, tank tops, jean pants, jean shorts, sweatshirts, and a few bra and panties. Kneeling beside the messy pile of cloths, Rolanda dug in to find the green shirt, and blue jeans. She found a green shirt with an image of an emoji crying with laughter on the front. She couldn’t decide on what pair of blue jeans to choose from — they were all in different styles — so she compromised by choosing the only gray jeans she had. 

     After tossing the shirt and jeans she was going to wear for that evening, Rolanda got undressed, and took a shower. As she stood still, eyes closed, hands at her sides, she let the water rain onto her face and run down her body, all the while she pictured Hugh in her mind. She thought about the sound of his voice, the way he talked, the words he used, his desire to refer to Rolanda by her birth name rather than the stage name mostly everyone calls her by, the way he walked so leisurely as if he had no need for things he found useless, and his hands. She wanted his hands to touch her, and she knew that if they did, their intention would be nothing more than to comfort. 

     Rolanda opened her eyes, reached over for the bar of soap, and as she began rubbing it on her body, she imagined Hugh’s hands touching upon the sides of her neck. Her head moved out of the path of the falling water as one of Hugh’s phantom thumb stroked up the back of her neck to the base of her skull. She took a deep breath, then exhaled as a soothing, calming sensation went down to the base of her spine. The relaxing feeling turned into her imagining the touch of Hugh’s tubby — and most likely — hairy belly going up against her back. His hands then moved along the surface of her skin down to her boobs.

     “Do you like them?” she asked aloud as the imaginary hands passed over her chest. 

     Not as much as I like you, Rolanda Mazed, Hugh whispered into her ear. 

     Rolanda leaned her head back as the hands moved over her six-pack abs. One went to her inner thigh, rubbing up and down, as the second began slowly rubbing her vagina. 

     A few minutes later Rolanda came out of her reverie, ceased masturbating, when she realized a man hadn’t made her feel so sensual since the early days of her relationship with Mathew. She didn’t know why all of a sudden she felt the need for intimacy. It must have been the fact she was so busy being a Content Creator for the Social Media scene that she never stopped to ponder who she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Rolanda was always on the move everyday, constantly moving, whether it be filming something, creating music, on her bicycle going places before it was stolen, working out in the MMA gym, or jogging, all the while doing Snapchats. She did all those things as if caught in an unfaltering stream, always going in the same direction at the same hastening pace. Until that very day when by chance she ran into Hugh Mungus. It had given her pause for the opportunity to become aware of what was most important: her own private happiness. 

     As she pondered this self-identity predicament, Rolanda finally realized that she really didn’t know Hugh well enough to be thinking of him the way she was — especially to the point of masturbating in the shower. 

     Drying herself off after the shower was over, she couldn’t help but laugh at herself as she looked in the mirror at her reflection in the bathroom. 

     “Come on, Rollie,” she said to the mirror. “Naughty, naughty, you should’ve asked if he had a job before masturbating to him.” 

     Later in the kitchen as she heated up Harriet’s leftover spaghetti in the microwave, Rolanda realized she had not done a Snapchat since after finding out from Cal her bicycle was stolen. 

     She took her phone out of the jean’s front pocket, and said to her followers, “Hey, everyone. No need to worry about how I’m doing since my bike was stolen. I’ve gradually gotten over it. I’d just like to say, never assume a complete stranger won’t help you in a time of need. And I want to remind all you guys at six tonight I’m being interviewed on Stoner Class podcast, so take the time out of your evening and listen in.” End of Snap. 

     The microwave beeped, and she smelled Harriet’s spaghetti in the air. She took out the bowl of the hot Italian food, and carrying it to the dining table, she couldn’t help but hold the spaghetti close up to her face and smell its fragrance. 

     “Hugh, Hugh,” she said aloud, sitting at the table. “What would I do without you, Hugh?” 

     Before Rolanda could take the first bite, the front door basically burst open; she didn’t even hear it being unlocked. Harriet came rushing in, nearly out of breath, panting a little bit, and slammed the door shut behind her. She looked right at Rolanda with wide, worried eyes. 

     “How are you, Rolanda?” she asked, hands going to her hips. “You doing good? Feeling all right? What’s up?” 

     Rolanda was holding the fork wrapped with spaghetti halfway from her open mouth, looking up at her roommate. She didn’t know what to say, being weirded out by the way Harriet came in, asking her a series of questions, and standing there the way she did with her hands on her hips like a worried parent. 

     “Damn, Harriet,” Rolanda finally said, “what the Hell happened to you?” 

     “Oh, nothing,” Harriet replied, swatting her hand in front of her, “same old shit day at the office. A bunch of ‘do this, do that,’ with innuendo I’m a worthless pencil pusher, and all that stuff. I wanna know how things with you are? The show last night, how was it?”

     “Well, it began on a high note,” Rolanda said, placing the fork back into the bowl of spaghetti. “The crowd clapped and cheered at the end. But after the show the night ended on a bit of a downer.” 

     “How?” Harriet asked, taking a step closer to the dining table.

     “I, uh, kicked Max out of the band,” Rolanda said, nonchalant, and then proceeded to eat a mouthful of spaghetti. 

     “Oh,” Harriet uttered with a sigh. “Anything else?” 

     As Rolanda chewed, she thought for a moment if there was anything worth mentioning, then she remembered about her bicycle. 

     “Oh, yeah,” she said. “My bike was stolen because that dumbass Cal left his garage door open last night while he was taking a shit.” 

     Harriet giggled, saying, “Maybe you should kick him out of the band too.” 

     “No, no,” Rolanda said. “I wouldn’t do that. That’s one of the last things I’d ever do. Cal’s too much of a good friend, and he does what I say. Mostly.”

     There was a moment of silence between the two roommates until Rolanda spoke. 

     She said, “You know, I had almost completely forgotten about my bike until just before I did my recent Snapchat a few minutes ago. I must’ve got so distracted by him I —.”

     “Him?” Harriet interrupted. “Him who? Max?” 

     “No, not Max,” Rolanda informed. “Never mind.”

     She didn’t want Harriet to know about Hugh until there was a better reason to talk to her about him. In all the time she had lived with Harriet, never once did they have a “girl talk” conversation about the other sex. 

     Harriet crossed her arms, taking another step closer to the table — so close, both her thighs were up against its edge. 

     “Why are you being so coy?” she asked. 

     “I’m not being coy,” Rolanda said. “It’s just weird having this kind of conversation with you, especially after bursting in through the door like that as if you were Swat. And you’re talking to me like my damn mother.” 

     “Okay, sorry. So, what’s his name?” 

     “Dammit, Harriet,” Rolanda said, dropping the fork in the bowl with a loud clank. “Fine, you win. Hugh, his name’s Hugh. I met him right after Max stormed out of the Band Wagon last night, and today when I went jogging — as luck would have it — I ran into him on the trail. And since you’re being nosey all of a sudden, he’s been on my mind the last couple of hours.” 

     Harriet broke out laughing so hard her head went back, hands dropping to her sides as she backed away from the table, spinning around, turning her back to Rolanda. 

     “What the fuck’s the matter with you?” Rolanda asked. “You come bursting through the door, panting, and ask me twenty questions about my day. Now you’re laughing like a fucking clown. What’s up with you? Did you get a promotion at work that involved free cocaine?”

     “His name’s Hugh,” Harriet managed to say through all her laughter. 

     “What’s so funny about that?” 

     Harriet then gradually regained control of her composure, as if willing herself to cease laughing any longer with some struggle. She turned back to Rolanda, wiping away tears of laughter. 

     “I never expected you to hook up with a guy who had a name like that,” she said. “Point in fact, I never expected you to find a man for yourself like…at all.” 

     “What’s wrong with the name ‘Hugh?’” Rolanda inquired. “And what makes you think there’s gonna be any kind of hook up? I just met him yesterday.” 

     “Okay, okay,” Harriet said, waving both her hands, “I’m sorry. Made an ass of me. Assumed too much.” 

     “By the way, where’s your portfolio, and your purse?” 

     “Holy shit,” Harriet said, her hands going to the sides of her face. “I left my shit back at the office. Fuck. I gotta go back.” 

     Harriet turned to leave. After opening the front door, she stopped in the threshold, and turned back to Rolanda. 

     She said, “Before I forget to mention, my cousin is going to come and visit for a few days. He’s crashing on the couch. I hope you don’t mind.” 

     “No, of course not,” Rolanda said. “When’s he going to be here?” 

     “Between now, and whenever he shows up. We haven’t seen each other in years, so he wants his visit to be as close to a surprise for me as possible.” 

Wind's Dark Sigh (8. Sentence goes onward)

Like Cal claimed he almost did just before Rolanda’s bicycle was stolen, Ronald nearly sharded in his shorts when he realized it truly was Rolanda standing there on the same hiking trail as him, just feet away, looking directly at him. His mission literally was beyond the rookers of Bog. All he wanted to do that day before continuing onward with his mission was get some exercise, and get a break from breathing in the horrific Los Angeles smog. 

     “You know, Hugh, my day this morning started bad,” Rolanda said. “I mean fucking bad. I came all the way out here to get away, block out the negative thoughts, and gain some positive vibes. And, honestly, to run into you so unexpectedly like this makes me feel good. The positively is just so, I don’t know, pleasingly overwhelming.” 

     “Really?” Ronald asked. “You sure?” 

     “Yes,” Rolanda assured. “You can distract me from the bad vibrations.” She removed the smartphone from the holder, and paused the audiobook. 

     “Um,” Ronald uttered, nervous, his legs shaking a little, “I don’t, uh — I don’t think —.” He began scratching the back of his head. “We’ve only known each other not even twenty-four hours, and I don’t think I can bear the responsibility of uplifting your spirits.” 

     “Do you want to walk alone all by yourself?” Rolanda asked. “With nothing but your own thoughts? You’re not even listening to music.” 

     The only thing Ronald had in mind was an immense urge to take off running from the path into the shrubs, bushes, and weave through the trees, turn right, then turn left in the hope Rolanda would not be able to find him, or maybe remain on the trail, find his abrupt exit strange, shrug it off, and continue with her jogging. He could take the risk of getting lost — he had his cellphone with him, but then he realized the possibility of losing reception. 

     If only we lived in an age where it was considered cool, and trendy to always have a compass on your person, he thought, then I could get out of this situation I never intended to be in. Why doth life treat us living like untamed beasts? 

     He reached into his pocket, and took out his smartphone. 

     “I see you got a good phone,” Rolanda commented. “I bet you got some good tunes on it.” 

     “Yes, I do,” Ronald said. He looked around at their surroundings, and then up at the clear, blue sky. “It’s just when I go for a long walk in a place like this I love to hear the voice of nature — birds, winds, bugs, shit like that. I prefer it actually, you know, to get away from all that noise that is Los Angeles. Though I’m having fun on my vacation in this city, I’m not really use to all the chaos within it.” 

     Ronald put his phone back into his jean’s pocket, and looked back at Rolanda with the expectation she would consider leaving him be by himself, and continue on with her jogging. She’ll do what she loved to do, and he’ll do what relaxes him most. 

     “That is rather audacious, Hugh,” Rolanda said. “Sounds like something I should be doing. Be in a meditative, zen like state of mind rather than simply sweating out my problems. May I please join you?” 

     “Okay,” Ronald said. “Why the hell not? Seems like I’m helping you so far.” 

     Fuck, it didn’t work, he thought, his mind’s voice screaming inside his skull. Does this idiot walk with any dude she runs into? Bitch, I’m stalking you!

     “Thank you, Hugh,” Rolanda said, putting her phone back into the holder on her arm. “I sure do need the company.” 

     In some cases, stalkers do manage to find a way to saunter into their victim’s lives by manipulation and succeeding in gaining trust, so the victim can be tricked into opening the door to allow the stalker easier access. The stalker will at first appear to be friendly, with the goal being to become an actual friend to the victim, a kind of counselor, maybe a shoulder to cry on, making the victim get to a fragile, exposed, and vulnerable position. Only the most skilled, and patient of stalkers can achieve such a stature. That is when the stalker, with whatever intentions they desire to commit, makes their move. But this was not what Ronald intended to do; it was not part of his mission. It had been thrust upon him whether he liked it or not, and of all people to bring about this commencement of friendship was the victim herself, Rolanda Maze. Talking to her at the bar had turned out to be a very bad, stupid, stupid move on Ronald’s part. 

     They walked on the trail for almost two minutes without saying a word before Rolanda broke the silence. 

     “You can really have a better sense of smell walking at this pace,” she commented, holding her hands behind her back. “When I’m jogging—.”

     Ronald completed her statement, saying, “You don’t have the time to smell the roses. Like that famous saying.” 

     “Well, I was gonna say I breathe too fast to notice the smell of the atmosphere I run through, but, yeah, I guess that’s basically the same thing.” Rolanda took a deep breath, then asked, “So where are you from, Hugh?” 

     Ronald felt uneasy answering, but figured in the long run, when the mission was accomplished, it wouldn’t matter. 

     “Eugene,” he replied. 

     “Where’s that?” Rolanda asked, her lip twisted in bemusement. 

     “Oregon,” Ronald said. “Eugene, Oregon.” 

     “Oh, yeah, that’s right.” Rolanda playfully slapped the side of her head. “Duh, of course Eugene’s in Oregon. Sorry about that. Just a blonde moment there.” 

     “It’s quite all right,” Ronald said. “When’s the last time you heard the words ‘Eugene,’ and ‘Oregon’ used in the same sentence?” 

     Rolanda rubbed her chin, thinking for a moment, then stopped rubbing, and with the same hand, snapped her fingers. 

     “I remember now,” she said. “That guy who was all over the news five months ago, the one who was indicted for being an accessory to the Shaker Krista massacre. He was from Eugene, Oregon. See, I don’t have blonde moments all the time.” 

     “Even people who aren’t blond have blonde moments,” Roland stated. “I had one just this morning.” 

     What he really meant to say was that his blonde moment was prolonged to however many more minutes it took until they both went their separate ways, and by the rate they were walking, and the length of the trail, it looked like his blonde moment was going to be at least an hour. 

     “What was that dude’s name?” Rolanda wondered aloud. “I can’t put my finger on it. For some reason, I actually picture that one weird looking comedian, the one who has eyes that he can’t seem to open all the way, always squinting.” 

     “That’s because the guy’s name you’re trying to remember shares the same first name as the comedian you’re picturing in your mind,” Ronald said. “Gilbert Vergo. That’s his name, the one who was indicted as an accessory to the mass shooting at Zion Fraternity on Halloween night, even though he lived in another state. Crazy shit he went through, poor Gilbert.” 

     “Do you know him?” Rolanda inquired. “I mean, since you’re both from the same town there’s a good possibility you’ve at least heard of him before that fiasco.” 

     “You’re in luck, Ms. Maze, not only did I know of him before his indictment, he was actually one of my close high school buddies.” 

     “Whoa, no shit,” Rolanda said. “Really?”

     “No shit,” Ronald confirmed, looking straight ahead. 

     “How’s he been since after the charges were dropped?”

     “I wouldn’t know,” Ronald admitted. “I haven’t spoken to him since graduation. In fact, I haven’t spoken to any of my fellow high school graduates since graduation.” 

     “Did you hate high school, or something?” Rolanda asked, genuinely interested. “Were you bullied?” 

     “No, not at all, nothing like that,” Ronald replied, chuckling. “You could say I simply moved on, never looking back, and never thinking about my school days. Well, that was until Gilbert was on the news. I did try contacting him when I learned he survived the car crash.” 

     “Were you able to speak with him?”

     “No. Like I said, I haven’t spoken to him since graduation day. It’s weird, because as kids we were close, but after entering adulthood, we never spoke one word to each other. Maybe it was my fault, maybe it was his, I don’t know.” 

     “I still stay in contact with all my friends from childhood, from elementary up to high school, even though most are all over the country, and other parts of the world,” Rolanda said. “I also still keep in touch with people I made friends with in college.” 

     “That’s good,” Ronald said with a smile. “That’s healthy.” 

     “But not for you, Hugh?” 

     “People keep to a lifestyle they feel comfortable with,” Ronald said. “Though most don’t enjoy loneliness, some do find tranquility in solitude.” 

     “You know, I just might keep in contact with you after you go back to Oregon,” Rolanda said, tilting her head, leaning a little in Ronald’s direction. 

     Her statement sent a shiver down his spine, his heartbeat sped up, and a tingling sensation went from the back of his neck to the top of his head. He felt like he was about to faint, and hit the dirt face first. 

     He took a deep breath to ease his nervousness, then asked, “What if we never speak to each other again after this walk is over?” 

     “That’s why social media was invented,” Rolanda reminded him, “so mere acquaintances can still become friends while living thousands of miles away from one another. All you have to do, Hugh, is Google my name, find me — which isn’t too hard — click the mouse, and send me a message. In your case, for me to remember you, I just have to read your name, and bam, the beginning of a wonderful friendship. I’ll break you from your shell, or at least crack it a bit for you to look out at the outside world.” 

     If there was a profile on a social media website with the name ‘Hugh Mungus,’ Ronald thought, it definitely wouldn’t be me. It most likely would be a troll account just to fuck with people.

     “After meeting you at the bar last night, I checked out your YouTube channel,” Ronald said. “And I noticed you’ve acquired a lot of subscribers. How many is it? I forgot the number.” 

     “Just over a quarter million so far,” Rolanda said. 

     “Impressive,” Ronald stated, “very impressive.” 

     “Well, I’m not in the big leagues with all the others. You know, the ones with millions.” 

     “Since you’ve pondered the possibility of you and I having a long distance friendship after today, I just want to ask,” Ronald looked over at Rolanda, “do you develop close relationships with your subscribers and followers?”

     “No, not usually,” Rolanda replied, shaking her head, “not with the majority of them. Sometimes I do reply to comments — good, respectful ones — and leave it at that. When it comes to those who send me lyrics to write music to, sometimes I exchange a little correspondence with them. For those who give me donations so they’ll receive the song sooner I’m closer with than those who do not. I share a good amount of dialogue with them via emails, and sometimes I talk to them on Skype, but that’s a rarity due to my busy schedule. Someone has got to donate a big chunk to speak with me face to face.” 

     “If you don’t mind me asking, how much does it take for a follower to talk to you on Skype?” Ronald inquired, with some excitement at possibly obtaining a secret no one else knew about. 

     “You’re not going to tell nobody now, are you, Hugh?”

     Ronald held up his right hand. 

     “Scout’s devout honor, Rollie,” he said. 

     “Two hundred, and up,” Rolanda admitted, looking guilty. “Look, when I talk to them on Skype, I make them promise to tell no one else that’s how much it takes to speak with me privately fact to face.” 

     “How much would it take for a lyricist follower to hang out with you, like you and I are doing right now?”

     “Five hundred dollar donation,” Rolanda said, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “That has only happened once, and thank God it was a woman, because I don’t know if I could hang out with a dude from another part of the country I’ve never met before in my life. I mean, what if he turns out to be a serial rapist?”

     The irony of Rolanda’s hypothesis made Ronald want to cackle right then and there on the hiking trail, fall on the ground, and kick his feet into the air uncontrollably. He subdued the urge, and continued on with their conversation. 

     “Well, looks like I saved over six hundred dollars on my stalker budget, because here I am talking to you now,” he joked, his lips twitching as he struggled to keep from laughing. 

     Rolanda looked over at him, and started giggling. 

     “Man, you’re funny, Hugh,” she said. “I’m happy I met you.” 

     “The feeling’s mutual, Rolanda,” Ronald said. “Or should I call you ‘Rollie’ like everyone else does?” 

     “What would you prefer calling me?” Rolanda asked. 

     “Most people with alternative names make that choice, don’t they?” Ronald looked at her a bit bewildered. 

     “It’s not like I’m letting you create a nickname for me,” Rolanda said. “I’m just asking which name you prefer to call me by. My birth name, or my — I guess you can call — stage name?” 

     “Birth name,” Ronald answered. “Henceforth I shall always refer to you by your given name, Rolanda.” 

     “Interesting,” she said. 

     “What do you mean by that?” Ronald queried. 

     “Every new person I meet always thinks it’s more polite to call me by my stage name, as if they assume I prefer it over the name ‘Rolanda.’” 

     Ronald put in, “I think it’s because most of the new people you meet are the Hollywood types who think it’s more respectful to identify you as someone whom you weren’t born as. That, or you’re meeting celebrity worshipers who don’t want to remove the facade you’ve developed while building up your career.” 

     “That’s a unique analysis, Hugh.” 

     “That’s because I’m not a Californian,” Ronald said with a certain amount of pride. 

     “Neither am I,” Rolanda informed. “I’m from Boston.” 

     “Where’s Boston?” Ronald asked, imitating a blonde moment. 

     “Hardy har, Hugh,” she said, playfully slapping Ronald’s arm with the back of her hand. 

     The simple touch on Ronald’s arm sent a tranquil sensation to his senses and emotion, seeming to overcome the nervousness he had been trying to mask since first looking upon Rolanda on that hiking trail. He continued the conversation more at ease from that point on. 

     “So how many songs have you made from lyrics written by your followers, Rolanda?” he asked. 

     “Almost fifteen hundred so far,” she replied. 

     “Wow,” Ronald uttered. “That’s just…amazing and astonishing.” 

     “Thank you. I’ve also got a huge backlot of lyrics in my email account just waiting for me to make into a song. As I mentioned earlier, if the writer makes a donation, I push them forward in the long line so they get the track sent to them sooner. I aim to make a song every day, recording myself perform it on my camera, then later record the final track in my amateur studio, which is basically my bedroom.”

     “How long is the line?” Ronald asked. “How many lyrics are there waiting?” 

     “I guesstimate at this moment there’s at most seventeen hundred lyrics lying in wait,” Rolanda said. 

     “Damn,” Ronald reacted. “And you write your own shit too?” 

     “Yep,” she replied, nodding her head. 

     “You truly are the hardest working person in show business who’s not yet noticed by show business. Do you record all the songs with your band?” 

     “Some,” Rolanda said, “but most I perform on an acoustic guitar. I’d prefer to have my band perform every song’s recording, but they live their own lives right now, and simply don’t have the time for all that work.”

     “So after you send the lyricist followers the recording of the song, do you also put it on iTunes, or something?”

     “The ones I feel are best I upload on YouTube as well as iTunes,” Rolanda said. “And I share the profits with the writers, because legally I have to.” 

     “Whoa,” Ronald uttered, staring at Rolanda with wide eyes, his mouth agape. 

     “They don’t get a whole lot of money,” she told him, “it’s just a nice chunk of change that gets sent directly into their bank accounts.”

     “That’s like a fucking interactive fan and artist collaboration I’ve never heard of,” Ronald said. “I can’t even get my head around it. Rolanda Maze, you’re amazing. Just wow.” 

     “Enough with the damn praising, Hugh,” Rolanda said with a wave of her hand. “Let’s change the subject.” 

     “Yeah, okay,” Ronald submitted. But then said, “I think that’s just fucking cool. Your fame is just around the corner.” 

     “I’ve been meaning to ask, what’s with that tattoo on the back of your neck all about?” Rolanda said. “Are you a grammar nut, or something?” 

     Ronald cleared his throat, then said, “Project Semicolon. It’s what the tattoo comes from.” 

     “What is Project Semicolon? Is it like a group you started in college?” 

     “No, no,” Ronald answered. “I never went to college. It’s a nationwide — and sort of international — movement to give hope to those recovering from a mental trauma, suffering from mental illness, and recovering, or fighting drug addiction. A semicolon is a pause in a sentence, and then it moves onward. One can simply put a period, and then start a whole other sentence, but life isn’t like that. Just because a person has hit rock bottom doesn’t mean they can’t recover, get back up on their own two feet, and move on with their lives.” 

     “So your tattoo of a semicolon represents hope?” Rolanda asked. 

     “Yeah. That and faith, you could say. It reminds the hopeless suffering they still have the ability to regain self-empowerment.”

     “What happened to you?” Rolanda asked. 

     “What?” Ronald said. 

     “You got the semicolon tattoo. So that tells me something happened to you which you had to recover from. What was it? Mental issue, drug problem.” 

     “Well,” Ronald muttered, clearing his throat once again, “mine was neither of those. It was emotional. Something happened to someone else that caused me to experience an emotional trauma.” 

     An image of brain matter splattered across asphalt came to Ronald’s mind; it wasn’t the first time this memory popped into his head. With all the mental will power he could muster, he subdued the urge to cry. 

     “What was it?” Rolanda asked again. 

     Ronald stopped walking, and turned to her. She stopped moving as well, looking at him with sympathy. 

     “I’m sorry, Rolanda,” he said. “I don’t know you well enough—.”

     Rolanda gestured for him not to say another word about it.

     “No, I’m sorry, Hugh. The conversation completely went in the opposite direction I originally intended it to go.” 

     “It’s all right,” Ronald said. “You were just curious about my tat. Nothing wrong with that.” 

     She let out a soft chuckle, then said, “Nice rhyme.” 

     “Such is the way of life,” Ronald said, “it’s morbid at one moment, then humor pops up out of nowhere.” 

     “That’s a healthy perspective, Hugh.” 

     “It’s what gotten me out of bed every morning for the past two years.” 

     They continued on walking, not speaking a word for a couple of minutes, listening to the sounds mother nature provides to those willing to do nothing more than simply pass through it. Ronald couldn’t wait to get away from Rolanda; it would be more appropriate if they remained apart until his mission came to it’s conclusion. 

     “What are you doing tonight?” Rolanda asked. “Got any plans?” 

     This woman is relentless, Ronald thought. I give up. Time to just go with the flow. Fate is reaching out it’s hand to make things easier, for sometimes it can be cruel. Fuck it.

     “I was thinking of going to a nice restaurant, and then head over to The Whiskey a Go Go to see whatever show they’re having,” Ronald said. 

     It was complete bullshit; he was going to eat fast food, drive to where Rolanda was going to do the Stoner Class Podcast interview, then follow her to wherever she went afterwords. 

     “I’m doing this podcast thing tonight at six,” Rolanda said. “Then when that’s over I’m going to this club called The Quill to meet up with my bandmates and friends. The Quill’s this new hot spot that opened last year, and we finally got on the VIP list, so we don’t have to wait in line to eventually not make it in.” 

     “That sounds fun,” Ronald said. “Be safe tonight. Crazy cokeheads out and about.” 

     “You want to come? I can get you in, man. They know who I am, and wouldn’t mind if I had a plus one.” 

     “Are you sure, Rolanda?” Ronald asked, hoping she’d consider otherwise. “We haven’t even known each other longer than half a day.” 

     “I think we’ve gotten to know each other well enough to meet again,” Rolanda countered, insistent. “We can talk more tonight. Why? You don’t want to hang out with me. Am I not good enough to be your friend?” 

     “No, no, Rolanda, it’s just—.” He almost wanted to simply say to her that he found it too weird to just be buddy buddy all of a sudden. 

     He put his hands to the sides in submission, and said, “Okay, you win, Rolanda Maze. Hook line, and sinker, you got yourself a new friend in record time. I’ve never been to a nightclub before anyway. Should be fun.” 

     “Good,” Rolanda said. “Thank you, Hugh. It’s going to be a good thing to have a new face amongst my bandmates. It’ll be a nice distraction from the tension.” 

     “What tension?” Ronald asked. “You guys seemed happy last night.” 

     “I kicked Max out of the band,” Rolanda informed. 

     “Then what makes you think he’ll be there?” 

     “Because we’ve all been waiting to get into The Quill since it opened, and I know Max well enough to know he wouldn’t even let a loss in his family to keep him from going.” 

     “Damn, must be the best nightclub in Los Angeles,” Ronald said. “I sure do feel lucky now that you’ve said that.” 

     Inside, he did not.

     “It’s just the newest,” Rolanda said. “If it closes down by the end of the year, I wouldn’t be surprised.” 

     “Only the Hollywood sign seems permanent in this town,” Ronald commented. 

     “Give me your phone number so I’ll text you my address,” Rolanda said, taking her cellphone out of the holder on her arm. 

     “What?” Ronald blurted, unconvinced his brain was receiving information correctly. 

     If he were drinking water at that moment, he would have spit it out. Hopefully getting Rolanda all wet, causing her to say, Um, nevermind, then just take off jogging down the path to Ronald’s relief. 

     “You need to know my address so you can pick me up later, and drive me to where the Stoner Class Podcast people live,” she said, tapping the touchscreen on her phone. 

     “I am?” 

     “Look, my bike was stolen last night, and I don’t feel like wasting my gas. Since I’ve invited you to the most hip nightclub in LA — VIP, mind you — you can do me this favor, and give me a ride to the damn podcast.” 

     “Since you put it that way,” Ronald said, “I’ll be happy to. You’re welcome.” 

     “You can hang out in the room during the podcast,” Rolanda suggested. “You smoke weed, right?” 

     “No, I don’t actually.” 

     “Well, I’m sure they got beer. I know you drink, at least.” 

     “Yes, yes, I drink,” Ronald said. 

     He gave her his phone number, and she sent him a text immediately with the address he had already known. 

Wind's Dark Sigh (7. Shit Storm thievery)

In the late morning after the performance at the Band Wagon Bar and Grill, Rolanda woke up to another hangover, and a feeling of self-doubt. She thought about whether or not letting Max go from the band — basically firing him — was a good idea. Every band that formed and was founded one year did not mean they would be the same when the next year came around. A foundation had to be developed before a structure could be constructed atop it, and she wanted full control of how the structure was going to be formed. If changes needed to be made to make everything fit together just right, she was the one and only to make such an approval. That’s how Rolanda viewed it in her mind anyway, even if someone like Cal had a differing opinion about the subject of an up and coming artist — starting with nothing but a cheap, used amplifier, and a deteriorating guitar —  receiving some guidance and input from others as a prerequisite before finding their own independent, and individual voice. 

     She thought maybe it was her jealousy of how Max sparked an eruption from the crowd that persuaded her to make such a last minute decision — even if she did help by changing the song’s opening — but no matter how she, or anyone else thought, she made the choice, and there honestly was no going back. 

     Her mind got over what occurred after the performance, thinking she should allow sometime to pass before speaking with Cal, who would be more vocal about it, maybe even try convincing her to reconsider. If it got to the point where Cal threatened to leave Band Rollie if she did not ask Max to comeback, she’d tell him it would be up to him whether to stay with her, or leave with Max. Saying such a thing to Cal would come with heavy regret on her part, because not only did the two start the band together at first before Faye and Max came along, he was the first friend Rolanda ever made after first moving to Los Angeles from her birthplace Boston, Massachusetts. The two even dated at one point before she got into a serious relationship with that one guy…Mathew. 

     The mere thought of that guy Mathew made Rolanda want to hurl right on the floor as she stood in the kitchen preparing herself a veggie smoothie hangover cure. Harriet for once wouldn’t mind the puddle of vomit in the middle of the kitchen floor, because all Rolanda had to say was her ex-boyfriend’s name, and Harriet would just move on without saying anything else. The only thing the two roommates agreed on was how they negatively felt about Mathew. The thing is when the relationship started Rolanda thought it felt like two blooming roses entwining together, bathing in the sunshine of spring until out inexplicably the stems snapped, and the sun was somehow blotted out from the sky. Rolanda’s relationship with Mathew ended on an extremely low note where she found herself with no place to live. Luckily Cal knew a friend of a friend who was in desperate need of a roommate, which ended up being Harriet. 

     “Some men are simply weak,” Harriet said in response to first hearing about Mathew, how he kicked Rolanda out of his apartment. 

     Rolanda owed Cal big time for her being able to keep a roof over her head in Los Angeles, and not have to go all the way back to Boston. But if the favor she owed him had to be reneging her decision of kicking Max out of the band, she would have to stubbornly decline; her decision was final. 

     Moving onto better things, and more positive vibes, Rolanda held up her smartphone to do a morning Snapchat. 

     She said to her followers, “Last night’s show at Band Wagon was a positive success. More than I could ever ask for. All you guys, if you live in Los Angeles, check out Band Wagon Bar and Grill. It’s awesome. For those watching now who were there, I say ‘Thank you very much,’ and I send you my love straight from the heart. Something did happen after the performance that was a bit of a low note, but wasn’t something I can’t move on from. I won’t tell you what happened, it’s between my bandmates and I.” End of Snap. 

     She did another before drinking the veggie smoothie. She said, “I did meet this guy at the bar with the funniest name I’ve ever heard. I want to tell you guys what it was, but I forgot to get his permission so I could say it on social media. I’ll give you a hint: At first I thought the dude was hitting on me by insinuating on his —.” She cleared her through. “— size. I’ll just leave it with that. Right now I’m gonna drink a hangover cure, and go for a jog. It’s a beautiful day.” End of Snap. 

     As she drank the smoothie she remembered something, and did one more Snapchat. 

     She said, “Oh, I almost forgot to mention. Later today, at six p.m. pacific time, I’m gonna be interviewed on Stoner Class Podcast for, I think, almost an hour. It’ll be fun. Talking, and hitting the bong. Good times. I’ll mention it on Twitter later to remind all the stoners who even forget to zip up their fly.” End of final morning Snap. 

     Rolanda leaned on the kitchen counter, drinking the smoothie, feeling more alleviated, when her phone began ringing. It was Cal. She pressed the screen to put him on speakerphone. 

     “Hey, Cal, what’s up?” she greeted, still leaning on the counter, one arm crossed over her chest as she continued to sip on the smoothie. 

     “Hey, Rollie,” Cal said, “I feel bad about being the bearer of bad news, especially since it’s my fault —.”

     Rolanda interrupted him by grunting an exhausted sigh, putting the smoothie on the counter, picked up her cellphone — taking Cal off speaker — running a hand through her blond hair as she brought the phone to her ear. 

     She said, “Don’t tell me you want out of Band Rollie for what I did to Max last night. I wouldn’t know what to do without you, man.” 

     “No, no, no,” Cal said, “it’s not about that at all, I assure you. Thanks for thinking of me like that, anyways. We can discuss the Max situation later.” 

     “So what’s the bad news then?” Rolanda inquired. 

     Cal gave out an uneasy sigh on the other line. He then informed, “Your bike was stolen.” 

     “What?” Rolanda blurted. “Are you serious?” 

     “Yeah, Rollie, it’s gone. I’m so, so sorry. After I unloaded all the equipment out of the van, I went inside the house just for like not even two minutes, came back out to the garage, and looked for your bike to put it into the van so I could bring it back to you today. I couldn’t find it. I swear it was in the garage before I went into the house. The thing is I left the garage door open. Someone must’ve swiped it, you know —,” Rolanda heard Cal snap his fingers on the other line, “—like that, and took off quick.” 

     Grunting in frustration, Rolanda slapped a hand on her forehead, and began pacing the kitchen. 

     “No fucking way, man,” she said. “I can’t believe this shit. This better not be some goddamn, stupid fucking YouTube prank Zilla is pulling on me. If it is, it’s fucked up, and it’s finished — it ain’t going no further than this fucking conversation. There ain’t gonna be no punchline.” 

     “Sorry, Rollie,” Cal said, “it’s not a prank. I’ve told you on more than one occasion, I would never be a participant in any of those videos. Not my thing.” 

     “That’s exactly what a prankster would say,” Rolanda said. “They’d say one thing, then backhand you when you’re not looking.” 

     “I hate fucking YouTube, and this isn’t a damn prank,” Cal proclaimed, adamant.

     “Okay, fine,” Rolanda said. “Was anything else stolen? Any of the instruments? My Gibson?” 

     “I checked, and double checked. Only your bicycle is missing, nothing else.” 

     “What the fuck were you doing for ‘not even’ two minutes in your house while the thief stole my bike?”

     “I had to go to the bathroom,” Cal admitted. 

     “So while you were taking a dump, some asshole was riding my bike down the street because you left the damn garage door open.” 

     “I left it open so I could put your damn bike in my van.” 

     “Couldn’t you have taken the few seconds to do that, and close the garage door before going to do a number two?” 

     “Rolanda, I really had to go badly. When I moved the amp out of the van, I almost shit my pants. I fucking sharded, for Christ’s sake. I hate it when that happens. The stains never come out.”

     “You could’ve just tossed the bike into the van, locked the damn doors, and pressed the button to close the fucking garage door as you ran into the house,” Rolanda said, furious. “It ain’t that hard to clench your butt cheeks. And on top of that, taking a dump takes longer than ‘not even’ two minutes, you know. The thief had ample time to make the snatch.” 

     “Rolanda, please, what’s done is done. Again, I apologize profusely, and if I had the money, I’d be more than happy to buy you a brand new bike, but I just don’t have that kind of money right now.” 

     “Shit shit, fuck fuck, man,” Rolanda said. “I barely got enough to buy another one right now.” 

     “You sure?” Cal asked, genuinely surprised by her claim. 

     “Yeah, I’m fucking sure. You calling me a liar?” 

     “No, I’m not calling you lair,” Cal said, a little embarrassed by his assumption. “Far from it.” 

     “Look, shit happens,” Rolanda said, rubbing her forehead with the back of her hand. “It’s not your fault someone else stole my bike — well, it’s your fault, but it isn’t like you gave it away.” 

     “Thanks for alleviating my guilt at least a little bit, Rollie.” 

     “I’ll talk to you later, dude. I gotta go.” 

     “Okay, Rollie. Again I’m so sorry from the bottom of —.”

     She hung up before she could hear the end of Cal’s sentence. 

     Drinking the rest of her smoothie, Rolanda felt a tad guilty for lying to Cal, for she really could afford to buy a brand spanking new bicycle, she was just aggravated she had to take the time out of her day to go shopping, and browse for the right one. 

     She did a Snapchat, saying to her followers, “Just got a call with bad news.” Her face looked gloomy — a rare sight for her followers to see. “I left my bike at my bassist’s house last night, and he was suppose to bring it back here today, but he left the garage door open, and some asshole went into the garage where my bike was, and rode off with it. So now I’m fucking bummed because I can’t go for a ride and add to my total yearly mileage today, which is, if you remember, over fifteen-hundred now. Damn, I was looking forward to it. Guess I’ll drive out to a hiking trail, and go for a run.” She finished the Snap by leaving her followers with the image of her with an extremely unhappy smile, the snarling kind that can be considered between either she was about to devour a bad tasting meal, or she was about to bite off someone’s body part. 

     To get over the bad vibes brought upon her the past twenty-four hours, Rolanda got in her car and drove out to Franklin Canyon Park, planning to jog one of the trails there until she got hungry. On her way there she didn’t do a Snapchat like she usually did before any of her workouts, and didn’t plan to do any as she jogged as well. When she came to a stop at a red light she simply sang along to the music playing on the radio, blocking out any negative thoughts. 

     While jogging on the scenic trail at the park, she listened to an audiobook she downloaded onto her smartphone which was in a holder strapped to her left arm. It was Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, read by some celebrity actor who no longer could get good roles in big Hollywood movies. Sometimes Rolanda could hear a hint of disappointment in the tone of the man’s voice. She imagined him thinking that maybe he should’ve quit doing drugs sooner. 

     As she continued on the path, and enjoyed the pleasing, soothing smell of mother nature, she noticed a man farther down the path, leisurely strolling along at an even pace. He wore a black t-shirt, and blue jean shorts. She moved to the side to pass by him when she noticed a tattoo on the back of his neck. It was a very prominent semicolon in black that solidly stood out on his pale skin. 

     “On your left,” Rolanda said, about to pass the man. “Nice tattoo.” 

     The man turned his head in her direction, and said, “Thank you.” 

     “You’re welcome.” She glanced at his face as she was going by him, continuing onward, and after about five steps it came to her that she had met this dude before. 

     Rolanda stopped, and turned around to get a clearer look at him. 

     “Is that you, Hugh?” she asked. “Hugh Mungus. It’s really you, ain’t it? Awesome.” 

     Hugh looked up at her, and genuinely became shocked, stopping in his tracks, almost spasming where he stood. 

     “It’s me,” Rolanda said, pointing at her chest. “Rollie. Rolanda Maze. We met at Band Wagon last night after my performance. Remember? ‘Humongous what?’” 

     “Um,” Hugh uttered. “Yeah, of course. Please, just call me ‘Hugh.’”