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.’”

Wind's Dark Sigh (6. Reflection shows direction)

Exhilarated, ecstatic, a bit drunk, and almost to the point of euphoria, Ronald ran up the stairs to his hotel room so fast he nearly ran into another guest on their way down. 

     “Sorry, sir,” Ronald said. “Completely my fault. Just wasn’t paying attention.” 

     “It’s all good, friend,” the kind guest said, stopping and turning a bit to look up at Ronald. “Did you win the lottery, or something?” 

     The man’s query made Ronald turn just before stepping to the top of the flight of stairs. He looked down at the other hotel guest, breathing heavily. 

     “No, but it feels close to that,” Ronald said in between breaths. “Just had a successful business transaction. My very first.” 

     “Good for you,” the man said, then turned and continued descending the steps to the parking lot.

     Ronald went bursting into his hotel room, immediately locking the door, and securing the latch. Then for a moment he had a bout of paranoia as he looked through the door’s eyehole. Obviously no one was outside. He decided to remove the latch, unlock the door, and open it to reassure himself the DO NOT DISTURB sign was still hanging on the outside knob. When he felt safe he would not be interrupted, he again closed the door, locked it, and secured the latch. He moved over to the windows, and with thumb and forefinger holding one of the two curtains he slightly opened a slit to look outside to view the parking lot with one eye. The only person he saw was the other hotel guest he had almost ran into on the stairs get into his car and start the engine.

     Ronald let go of the curtain, allowing it to close completely, and backed away. 

     “As it is said in those spy movies,” he said aloud, “she didn’t make me, let alone even remember me. I was but inches in front of her face, and she didn’t recognize me.” 

     He walked over to the foot of the bed, looked at his reflection in the mirror on the wall over the dresser, made his hands into fists, and raised them to make a boxing stance. 

     “You know what this means, mon âme?” he asked his reflection. “It means the game’s on, mothafucka.” 

     He then proceeded to punch the air with jabs from each fist, dodged punches from an imaginary opponent, delivered a right hook, left hook, and finished with an uppercut. He raised the fists over his head as if in victory by knocking out the phantom opponent. 

     “There’s no turning back, because I don’t want to,” he said, commencing to jump up and down. “I couldn’t stop myself even if I had the choice. It’s beyond anyone’s control at this point. It’s been decided already, motherfuckers. It is meant to be. And, damn, if only I had a jump rope to hop up and down so justifiably.” 

     He ceased the jumping, took off his hoodie sweatshirt, tossed it behind him, then gripped the collar of his t-shirt with both his hands, and ripped the front of it in half from top to bottom. Taking off the torn shirt in a maniacal fashion, he threw it onto the carpet. He made movements in front of the mirror like a boxer sizing himself up before the biggest, grandest match of his career, throwing jabs, right and left hooks toward his reflection. After he felt satisfied, he stretched out both arms to his sides, and breathed in deeply through his nose to make his hairy, somewhat flabby chest look big and broad. He then slammed his right fist into his sternum, attempting to be like a warrior from ancient times, exerting a bellowing roar, but his own punch to the chest made him recoil, and he bent down, keeping himself balanced by holding his knees. 

     “Fuck,” Ronald yelped. “I’m gonna feel that in the morning.” 

     A few seconds passed before he could recover and stand up straight. Catching his breath, he continued to look upon his reflection, at the image of his hairy, tubby upper body. He slowly raised his right arm, and pointed at the mirror with a stiff finger.

     “You may not be in the best of shape,” Ronald said, “but you have the best sense of confidence one could attain for self-improvement. My dear Ronald Mungus, the mission will be successful, because you have one of the greatest tools to make sure the job will get done.” 

     He went to his suitcase, opened it, dug out the wrinkled paper lunch bag, and took out the nickel plated forty-five automatic. He moved back in front of the mirror to face his reflection, pointed the barrel of the unloaded handgun directly at his image, aiming right at the head — his own head. 

     With a serious tone, he said, “Since you don’t remember me now like you said you did a year ago, I’ll just have to remind you by saying these three words —.” He stopped himself when something occurred to him. He looked away from his reflection, the gun dropping to his side. 

     “Shit,” he said. “What if she remembered me after leaving the bar?” He looked back up at the mirror. “Nah, she wouldn’t. She’s got too much on her mind right now, anyways. Even if she did, it wouldn’t matter in the slightest. I can still continue on with the mission.” 

     His cellphone began ringing and vibrating in his jeans pocket. He took it out to see who was calling. 

     “Silence, you fools,” he said, putting the phone’s ringer on silent, and tossing it atop the bed. “I’m fucking busy. Now, back to rehearsal.” 

     He once again aimed the gun at the mirror. 

     “I know what you’re thinking,” he said, looking directly at his own eyes in his reflection. “You’re thinking that it’s all my fault, that I am to blame, and nobody else. I mean, you obviously would think that, but I dare to proclaim otherwise. I say it is you who is at fault, due to your own damn stupidity, and complete lack of fortitude that I am here with a gun pointed right at your fucking head, bitch.” 

     He paused the speech, eyes roaming around the room, the side of the handgun touching his lips as he silently went deep in thought. He began to pace back and forth from one side of the room to the other, at one point walking around the bed. 

     “Maybe I should write what I’m going to say,” he said when he stopped moving, finding himself before the mirror once again, looking at his reflection, “then I can better memorize it, and practice it over, and over again, so I can get my point across as clearly and concisely as possible.” He leaned close to the mirror. “Then hopefully the great Rolanda Maze will learn something substantial before the big bang.” 

     Ronald got quiet as he gazed into his own eyes in the mirror, a mischievous grin forming on his face, attempting to appear like a ticking time bomb maniac. Then his train of thought was interrupted by a soft, moaning sound. The expression of a crazed lunatic deflated from his face as he grunted in annoyed frustration. 

     “People just don’t understand the great work they can never do themselves,” he said to himself in the mirror, shaking his head. 

     Though he had set the ringer on silent, he did not switch off the vibration on his phone when someone called him. The whole time he was making his spiel to the mirror, the phone lay on the bed, ceaselessly vibrating as the person calling him did not want to stop until he finally answered. 

     The gun still in his hand, Ronald turned around, loose arms dangling at his sides in exasperation as he moved over to the bed, plopping onto the mattress, making the vibrating cellphone bounce beside him before picking it up, and answering it, not bothering to see who was calling him, for he already knew who it was. 

     “What is it, tyrant?” he greeted in the rudest tone. “Make it fast, because after that horribly handled transaction with the gun it’d be a better idea to not communicate any further.” A pause as he listened. At one point he held the phone away from his ear, his face cringing as the person on the other line yelled at the top of their lungs. “Calm the fuck down. I didn’t call you that. I referred to your sense of character by using the broader term, not that specific one — the most specific. Anyways, we should just treat the past like a fart in the wind. Nothing got fucked, so the both of us can continue on our own personal journey.” Another pause. He rolled his eyes, looking at his reflection in the mirror. “Look, I’m in the car, circling the track, and you’re the management of the arena making sure the cameramen are getting the shots they desire, and all the people in the stands got their popcorn, hot dogs, and beer. At this point the outcome is beyond the rookers of Bog.” 

     Ronald raised the handgun, pointing it at the mirror once again, closing one eye to clearly look down it’s sight aimed at the top of his head. The person on the other line said something that made him drop the gun away from it’s aim, his head go back, and moan as if giving up on teaching a small child how to ride a bike. 

     “It’s from a fucking book,” Ronald said. “Shit, man, don’t you fucking read. It was a movie, you know. A damn good one.” 

Wind's Dark Sigh (5. Good small peanuts)

The day of the performance at Band Wagon Bar and Grill, Rolanda spent the morning working out at the mixed martial arts gym, then went back to her apartment. She posted on her social media pages to announce the location of that night’s show, and before getting into the shower, still wearing her damp workout clothes, she took a self-portrait for her Instagram, making a sexy pose for the camera. 

     The description below the image stated: All sweaty and pumped up to entertain my music fans. Hey, Band Wagon Bar and Grill, get ready for Band Rollie to smoke up the house. Can’t wait until weed is legal in California so such a thing could actually happen.

     After she was done getting herself ready for the show, she rode her bicycle to Cal’s house with her guitar on strapped to her back. 

     Riding the bike without using her hands on the handlebar, she did some Snapchats. She said to her followers:

     1) I bet some of you are saying, “Hey, Rollie, why would you tire yourself out riding your bike all the way to Cal’s house before a show?” I’m not tiring myself out, you guys, I’m maintaining my stamina so I’ll perform for the crowd to my fullest extent. I don’t get tired until right before I fall asleep.

     2) You might think I got some big egotistical tendencies after watching my last Snap. I’m simply sizing myself up, guys. That was the whole point of working out this morning. I want my mind and body in high spirits before any live performance. 

     In the next Snapchat she was knocking on Cal’s front door, and waiting for him to answer. Just before the Snapchat ended she began repeatedly knocking on the door before it was answered. 

     “Don’t you have any patience, Rollie?” Cal said, opening the door. 

     “Sometimes,” Rolanda responded. “I was just doing it for my Snapchat followers.” She entered Cal’s house. 

     “So if you weren’t doing that Snapchat shit, you’d knock on the door, then wait like a normal, civilized human being?” He asked as he walked to the door that opened to his garage where the rest of the instruments were. 

     “No, I’d still knock annoyingly just to piss you off,” Rolanda admitted. “Because you’re my best friend in the world.” 

     Before opening the door to the garage, he turned, and said to Rolanda, “One day I may not open that goddamn door, and leave you ass out there in the cold. How you feel about that?” 

     “You wouldn’t. Plus it doesn’t get cold enough in Los Angeles for me to just give up and go home if the door isn’t answered.”

     “I’m just saying if it ever happened —.” He gave up the subject, opening the door. “Whatever, never mind.” 

     They entered the garage. Rolanda began recording a new Snapchat. 

     “You didn’t load the equipment in your van yet?” she asked. 

     “Uh, no,” Cal replied. “I need a little help. Not everyone in this world works out like you.” 

     Rolanda shifted over the Snapchat’s point of view to record her face. 

     Looking into her phone’s camera, shaking her head, she said to her followers, “Damn, got to do manual labor. This may affect my performance in the negative.” End of Snap. 

     Cal turned around to finally notice Rolanda was doing a Snapchat. 

     “Can you take a break from that shit, and help me?” he asked, frustrated. 

     “Yeah, I’m going to. I just wanted to do one more, end on a comical note.” 

     After loading up all the equipment needed for the show into Cal’s van, he pulled out of his driveway, and drove down the road, heading to Band Wagon Bar and Grill. Rolanda sat in the passenger seat, typing a tweet. 

     “Rollie, about last night’s Skype meeting,” Cal began to say, “I hope we —.” 

     “No worries, Cal,” Rolanda said. “I understand how you feel.” 

     “How do you think I feel?”

     “That you don’t have sufficient input on how the band should be,” Rolanda said, still staring down at her phone. 

     “It isn’t that, Rollie,” Cal said. He looked at Rolanda typing on her smartphone, and said, “Hey, can you give that a rest for just a sec so we can have a conversation where you’re not trying to focus on two things. I really want to have a serious talk.” 

     “Okay, fine,” she said, putting her phone on her lap, and crossing her arms. “Go ahead. Talk.” 

     “Look, I know this is your band. It’s called ‘Band Rollie’ after all, but like every other musician that became a mainstream success, they didn’t achieve it all alone, all due to their own personal choices. They all had some influence from other people.”

     “How does Max’s song begin?” Rolanda inquired, changing the subject. “The ‘Dab the hour’ song he was talking about last night.” 

     “Why do you ask? We’re not doing it tonight anyway.” 

     “Yes, we are, right before we do my follower’s music.” 

     “So you changed your mind about it?” 

     “No, Cal, I was just fucking with Max for showing up late to the Skype meeting. Plus it’ll be a nice surprise for him.”

     “That’s extremely nice of you, Rollie. I didn’t see that coming.” 

     “So how does it begin? I don’t want to look like a fool, so remind me.” 

     “It begins with you strumming a choke cord, and Max strumming a riff hell of fast.” 

     Rolanda’s head went back as the song came back to her. She said, “Oh, that’s right. Tonight, I start the song by strumming on the choke cord so Max will hopefully realize we’re going to play his song. After a few riffs from me, you announce into the mic the name of the song, then I’ll give a nod to Max so he’ll start with his riffing. It’ll be cool.” 

     “That sounds kind of awesome,” Cal commented. “It’ll be fun, and interesting to see Max’s reaction.” 

     “See, I’m collaborating,” Rolanda said, picking up the phone from her lap to finish typing her tweet, and adding hashtags. 

     “Okay, Rollie,” Cal said, smiling. “It may be baby steps, but it’s getting you farther along to your destination.”

     Rolanda was done with her tweet, looked over at Cal, and said, “If Band Rollie ever makes it to the big time, do you think you’ll stay with me for a longtime, maybe until I’m dead.” 

     “What the fuck kind of question is that?” Cal said, chuckling. “You mustn’t think that far ahead. It’s better to focus on the here and now.” 

     “Cal, you always have good advice for me, but please do answer my question. I think it’s healthy to ponder on the hypotheticals.” 

     “Okay, you win,” Cal said, relenting. “Now, this is only hypothetical, but I am committed to staying with you for a very long time. I think we got something solid. I couldn’t just abandon something I feel is an excellent thing to hold onto.” 

     “You think the other two think the same?” Rolanda asked, paying close attention to Cal’s reaction. 

     “Well, Faye doesn’t say much for me to assume what she’d do, but I do know Max would stay with you, for awhile anyway. I think the man has good enough talent to go solo like you, Rollie. In my honest opinion.” 

     “If he doesn’t shot up late, that is,” Rolanda commented, unconvinced about Max’s dependability lately. 

     “Faye’s picking his ass up,” Cal informed. “She sent me a text she was at his place just before you and I left. Don’t worry, Rollie, we got plenty of time. Not like he’s busy doing something else. Did you see his movie review he posted on his YouTube channel today?” 

     “I don’t watch YouTube film critics, even if they are my friends,” Rolanda said. “I don’t go on YouTube to hear other people’s opinion. I don’t even watch television for that kind of shit.” 

     “He gave a scathing review of the new comic book movie coming out next weekend,” Cal said, giggling. 

     They arrived at Band Wagon Bar and Grill nearly an hour before the night crowd began coming through the doors. The place opened everyday at eleven, until it made last call just after one thirty before finally closing it’s doors at two. Cal parked the van behind the building, then got out his cellphone to call Faye. It rang five times before she answered. 

     “Hey, it’s Cal. Me and Rollie are here. You guys waiting inside?” A pause as Cal listened. He then smiled and chuckled. He asked, “What’s he got to look pretty for?” Another pause. “Oh, that’s cool. She’s coming. She’s in your car?” Cal’s question was answered. “That’s cool. Okay, we’re gonna talk to the owner before we start unloading the equipment. Alright, see you in a bit.” He hung up. 

     “So Max made her late?” Rolanda asked. 

     “Well, he took a while to get ready,” Cal informed, “because he had just found out Sally wanted to be at the show tonight. So Faye had to wait for his ass as he took a shower to smell nice for his lady.” 

     “That’s a shocker,” Rolanda commented. “Sally’s only been to — what? — like one of my shows when she actually had the time. I thought she didn’t like my genre of music. I remember she looked fucking bored, just sitting there, sipping her drink at the bar.” 

     “You know, I think it’s maybe a jealousy kind of thing, keep his ass in her sight to make sure he don’t fuck around behind her back,” Cal speculated. “Or maybe she simply missed him when we went all the way to perform in Denver. Aw, ain’t that so cute, Rollie?”

     “Lemmy made it clear to members of Motorhead he never wanted them to bring their girlfriends while the band was on tour,” Rolanda said. “He said having their women along for the ride would distract their full attention away from the band, and could cause problems, like a rift within the band.” 

     “Are you like Lemmy, Rollie?” 

     “Do I not want problems to occur when I’m trying to put on a good fucking show? Yes, Cal, that’s exactly who I am.” 

     Cal looked directly into Rolanda’s eyes, and said, “When are you finally going to get yourself another boyfriend? I think you need some damn good, cozy loving, girl.” 

     “I don’t have the damn time for a boyfriend right now,” Rolanda said, vehement. “The last one, what’s his name —.”

     “Mathew,” Cal reminded her. 

     “Whatever,” she said, appearing to loath the sound of the name. “He didn’t like the fact how busy I was. He always fucking complained about how I didn’t give him enough attention. He was like a goddamn woman. He didn’t understand that I was a full-time content creator for social media, how I had to make a living by having to do it on a consistent basis. Fuck him, and whatever his pointless career was.” 

     “He was a lawyer,” Cal said.  

     “Stop reminding me about that asshole. Fucking lawyer. Bloodsucker was what he was. If I somehow started dating again, I’d go through that same kind of shit again. I don’t have the time, I want to focus on my work, and especially my music.” 

     “Now, I’m just speaking hypothetically,” Cal began, “but what if you found the love of your life sometime this year, and his first name started with the letter ‘R,’ just like yours.” 

     “What the fuck are you talking about, man?” Rolanda asked, bewildered. “Did you take ecstasy, or something?” 

     “I’d nickname you both ‘R and R,’” Cal said, ignoring her question. “Which is exactly what you need.”

     “The kind of ‘R and R’ I need right now is a fatty,” Rolanda said. “So let’s hurry the fuck up, talk to Charlie the owner, start getting the shit on that stage, and get ourselves high and happy, because all this talk about finding love is making my ass too goddamn tense. I don’t want to be tense when the music starts playing. I’ll be like a bitch in the middle of her period, motherfucker.” 

     “Oh, shit,” Cal said, slapping a hand on his forehead. “That reminds me. I forgot to bring the weed.”

     “Cal, how could you forget?” 

     “Rollie, how could you forget to remind me?” Cal pointed his index finger at the ceiling. “Oh, I know, you were too busy on that goddamn phone, doing your social-snappy-insta shit, not only making me forget to pack the weed in the van, but distracted yourself enough to make you forget that’s what you do before every performance.” 

     “Typical man,” Rolanda commented. “Always blame a woman when one so happens to be around.” 

     Luckily as the two were setting up the music equipment on the stage, Faye had a blunt rolled up and ready to be lit up when she arrived with Max and his girlfriend Sally. After entering through the entrance to the bar, Faye and Max hopped up onto the stage to help Rolanda and Cal finish setting everything up: connecting all the wires to the amps, peddles, and guitars; erecting mic stands, and putting together the drum kit. The last one Faye mostly did herself; she had a specific way of doing the step-by-step process of constructing the drum kit. If someone tried helping her, she’d simply swat them away with a gesture of a hand, not saying a word. Rolanda could only remember one time Faye vocalizing her not needing assistance with putting together the drum kit, and it wasn’t even a word. “Shoo.” It was Max she was shooing, back when he first became a member of Band Rollie two years prior. 

     When they were all done, and the stage was ready, all four members of Band Rollie got into the back of Cal’s empty van, closed the back doors, sitting indian style on the hard surface. Faye did the honors by lighting up the blunt for their pre-performance ritual. She took a big hit, then passed it to Max. 

     “I’m already high as fuck, guys,” Max admitted, giggling and smiling while holding the lit blunt before his face. “I ate a brownie I made myself.”

     “Are you gonna take the fucking hit, or not?” Rolanda said, impatient and annoyed. 

     He took a few puffs, and after exhaling, he said, “That’s a yes.” He passed it to Rolanda. 

     She took the blunt between her thumb and forefinger, and held it up over the center of their circle. 

     She said in reverence, “Here’s to a good show, and at the end we shall take a gracious bow.” 

     “That gets me every time, Rollie,” Max muttered, his eyes closed, and head leaning back. 

     Rolanda gave the blunt to Cal. 

     “Here here, without fear,” Cal said before taking a nice, long hit. 

     He passed it to Faye. 

     “Yep,” she simply said before taking her second hit. 

     “How long until we go on?” Max inquired. “It looks like the crowd was growing in there when we finished setting up.” 

     “Charlie said he wants us to start at eight-thirty,” Cal replied, “when attendance is at its thickest.” 

     “That’s like an hour and a half away, man,” Max said. “What the fuck we gonna do until then?” 

     “The fucking place is still serving food,” Rolanda informed. “Buy a meal for Sally. Have a couple of beers. Just don’t get too wasted before we start.” 

     “Nothing’s on the house?” Max asked, as shocked as a stoned stoner could be. 

     “Our first two beers are free,” Cal answered. “We pay for whatever we consume after that.” 

     “So what’s the rate we’re getting at the end?” Max asked, rubbing his hands together. 

     “Standard rate for a place like this,” Rolanda said. “About a hundred for each of us since we’re only getting two beers for free.” 

     “That’s cool,” Faye said, nodding her approval. 

     “Yeah, you’re right, Faye,” Max said. “It’s better than nothing.” 

     While in the process of puff puff passing the blunt around the circle, Rolanda got out her phone to Snapchat herself for her followers. She kept the camera solely on her face with half-finished blunt hanging from between her lips. 

     She said into the phone, “Pre-gaming here with the bandmates.” She took a long hit, then blew the smoke into her phone’s camera. “Time for a great show. Sorry to those who are going to miss out. I didn’t have the time to get someone to film it, but I’ll do some snaps for you guys if I’m able to do so.”  

     About a half-hour after the blunt was done, sitting in the hotboxed van, they continued their pre-game ritual by singing a song, Faye commenced a beat by tapping her drumsticks on the van’s bare floor in the center of the circle, Rolanda ad-libbing the lyrics, then passing the vocals along to either Max or Cal by pointing to them. As the other two would sing, Rolanda would Snapchat to her followers, bobbing her head, and breathing in the secondhand smoke surrounding them. 

     Ten minutes into their ad-libbed tune, they were interrupted by someone outside knocking on the van’s backdoors. For a second all four looked worried, scared, and paranoid. 

     “We all got our medical cards, right?” Max asked. “Let me check if I got mine in my wallet before you open the door.” He reached into his back pocket. 

     Faye looked through the backdoor’s tinted window. 

     She said, “It’s not a cop. White dude, with some gray hair. Could be undercover, Max. Hands on your head, man.” 

     Max submitted to her suggestion. 

     “It’s Charlie Vega, the owner,” Rolanda chimed, amused by Max’s actions. “Go ahead, open the door, Faye, he’s cool.” 

     Faye slowly cracked open the door, looking out at Charlie with one eye through the slit opening. 

     “You can open both doors, Faye,” Rolanda said. “For fuck sake, we’re not in fucking Texas.” 

     “I was just kidding,” Faye admitted before opening both doors. 

     The marijuana fog dispersed upon Charlie, who didn’t seem to react, just simply breathed in the smoke deeply. 

     He then said, “So, I guess that smell means you’re ready to start, I hope.” 

     “Hell yeah,” Cal said, “we’re gonna prove it. How’s the crowd tonight, Charlie?” 

     “Better than usual,” Charlie said. “There’s nearly sixty in attendance, and it’s still growing. I have you guys to thank for that. If things go well for me tonight, there may be a bonus for you all.” 

     They entered the bar, hopping up on stage with little cheers from people in attendance due to most busy at the bar waiting for their drinks. As she strapped on her guitar, Rolanda heard a loud whistle from behind the bar. She looked over to see Charlie give her a wave, then hold up both his hands over his head, flexing his fingers to indicate waiting ten minutes before starting. This was so people could order their drinks, and also wait for more people to show up. Rolanda looked over to the entrance and saw people streaming through the threshold in small groups between short intervals. It looked to her there truly may be a bonus at the end of the night as Charlie promised. 

     She turned to her bandmates, and said, “Charlie said to start in ten minutes. Let’s take our time tuning up. Nothing wrong with making sure we sound perfect.” 

     They all nodded their confirmation. Max gave a thumb up to her. 

     Even though Rolanda sometimes found the man annoying as fuck, she did admire his performance, and especially the way he was before they started, as he tuned his bass guitar, and adjusted his mic stand. His brow furrowed as he focused all his attention at what was to come. She would wonder if he acted like this when he edited the videos for his YouTube channel.

     She got her phone out, and said to her Snapchat followers, “We’re about to start the show here at Band Wagon Bar and Grill. There’s a good crowd here, and we’re gonna give ‘em what they came here for, great fucking tunes. For those who haven’t seen me live, send me a message, and I’ll try my hardest to book a show in your town.” 

     When everything was tuned, and ready, they waited for the go ahead from Charlie. Rolanda decided to speak into the mic to pass the time. 

     She said to the crowd waiting for her to start, “Check, one, two, three. Do you like what you see?” 

     The crowd gave out a meek cheer, some softly clapping their hands, others raising there drinks to her. Most of them didn’t know who Rollie Maze. Even though she had over a million followers, didn’t mean the crowd would be full of them. Hopefully she’d gain more followers after that night. 

     She heard a piercing whistle from the bar. She looked over to see Charlie from behind the bar clap his hands over his head, gave her the sign of the horns, then spun his index finger in the air, giving them the go ahead they were waiting for. 

     “Alright, guys, Charlie said we can now start,” Rolanda informed. “Let’s not let these people down. Whenever you’re ready to countdown, Faye.” 

     The show went on smoothly and without a hitch. Every note was hit at the appropriate moment. After performing a shortened version of the Electric Wizard song, they continued on with Rolanda’s original work, with a few being slow rock songs influenced by both the doom metal and grunge genres. When each of her songs were finished, there were some cheers and clapping from the crowd, which displeased her a little bit, but not enough to dissuade the confidence in her performance. She pushed herself hard as she sang her original songs, and moved around the small stage as she did the solos, choking the cords, making them louder than usual in an attempt at persuading the crowd to find something a bit holy with her music, so they’d hopefully remember the tune at work the next day. 

     It got to the point where Rolanda’s songs were done, and unbeknownst to both Faye and Max, as Rolanda had decided, they were about to perform Max’s own song Dab the hour. 

     “The next song we’re about to do for you guys is a special one,” Rolanda announced to the crowd. She looked over at Max, and gave him a wink. 

     Max winked back at her, and nodded his head to indicate he was ready to perform one of the first songs with lyrics written by one of her followers. He looked over to the crowd, waving the hand holding the guitar pick over his head. 

     “This song was written by people like you,” he announced to the crowd, which he always said before they’d perform the follower’s music. 

     Rolanda then began strumming fast on the choke cord on her Gibson. Max looked over at her, his eyes wide with shock. 

     “This is ‘DAB THE HOUR!’” Cal yelled into his mic. 

     “It’s all you, Max,” Rolanda yelled to him. Still strumming the choke cord, she turned around to Faye who simply gave her a thumb up from behind the drum kit to indicate she was ready to start Dab the hour.

     Max stood there frozen, surprised and happy, but for a moment didn’t know what to do. 

     “Come one, man, RIFF!” Rolanda demanded. 

     Max finally came to his senses, and when he started that distorted riffing which matched the speed of Rolanda’s strumming, the crowd burst in an uproar of exploding excitement. Raising their arms into the air, their hands showing the sign of the horns, the men and women in the audience screamed and hollered, some commencing to mosh before bouncers stopped them, telling them the owner didn’t allow it due to issues with safety. The place was really meant for dancing. Charlie was a little displeased as the song got louder and faster, but reveled at how happy the crowd got, hoping they’d remember this night, and comeback to Band Wagon Bar and Grill. 

     The show ended with an almost uproar of applause, screaming and cheering. Rolanda got her phone out, turned around with her back to the audience, and did a Snapchat video of her with the crowd behind her. She heard some people in the audience chanting, “Dab the hour!” as she and the other band members of Band Rollie all took a bow together. This made her feel a bit of disquiet jealousy, remembering how the crowd became more vigorous to Max’s one original song than any of her own. 

     Rolanda met with Charlie in his office as the rest of the members loaded the music equipment back into Cal’s van. 

     “You guys were awesome,” Charlie said to Rolanda, as he began counting out four separate stacks of money on his desk. “It’s rare I am afforded such a beneficial night with a crowd like that these days in this big city. So hard to compete with all the other bars and clubs. When I here my place referred to as a ‘hole in the wall,’ my cholesterol goes up, and I get a new gray hair every damn time.” 

     “This place is a good size,” Rolanda commented, chuckling. “It’s no hole in the wall.” 

     “Please, do put that on fucking Yelp,” Charlie said as he rolled up each stack of the money with a rubber band for Rolanda and the others. “You all got your bonus, and anything you get at the bar is on me. Hope that makes you all happy. If you got fans out there, get them to buy, buy, buy.” He gave her a smile as he handed her the bundles of money. 

     “For sure, Charlie,” Rolanda said before leaving to go meet the rest of her bandmates behind the building at Cal’s van where she told them to wait when they were finished putting the equipment away. 

     Around an hour before the place made last call, all four performers were sitting at the bar, drinking and chatting. Sally sat with her arm around Max, sometimes staring intently at him when an attractive female walked by, making sure he didn’t sneak a peek at their butt. 

     “You know, if Charlie only gave us drinks on the house as a bonus for tonight, it still would’ve been worth it,” Cal said. “But to give us that and fifty extra bucks each means we did something good tonight. Cheers, everyone.” 

     He raised his Jack and Coke(The Lemmy), and everyone raised there own drinks in acquiescence.

     “To a damn pleasing performance,” Cal said. 

     “Here here,” Max said. 

     They all then drank their drinks. 

     “Shots, anyone?” Rolanda inquired to the group. “You too, Sally. Want a shot?” 

     “Thank you, Rollie,” Sally said. “What’s it gonna be?” 

     “Wild Turkey,” Rolanda replied. 

     The five shots were poured by the bartender, then passed out to each of them. Rolanda raised her shot of the bourbon. 

     “To peanuts,” she said, “may we savor what little nourishment they provide us.” 

     “To good peanuts,” Cal said, then downed his shot. 

     “Yes, for the time being, they’re good peanuts,” Rolanda commented before downing the Wild Turkey. 

     As the others chatted amongst themselves, Cal asked Rolanda, “Hey, what’s with the pessimistic attitude? We did good tonight.” 

     Rolanda gave no response to his query, simply sat quietly, drinking her glass of Lagunitas beer. 

     “Look, I know it’s been a while since our last show in Denver,” Cal said, “but I’m sure they’ll be more after this.” 

     “All I’ve ever wanted to do for the rest of my life since the first time I daydreamed it was be a damn fucking musician, playing to a crowd of thousands, and recording albums,” Rolanda said. “Not doing fucking this social media shit on the side.” 

     “In this day and age it’s what you gotta do to get known by the world,” Cal said. “And why you so glum about it? You’re good at what you do on YouTube and all the other shit. I mean, there’s not a day you don’t do at least ten Snapchat vids. You make enough from it to put a roof over your head, and food in your belly. Be grateful, girl.” 

     “You know what it reminds me of?” she stated. Before Cal could utter a word, she continued to answer her own question, “In the U.S.S.R., back when it still existed, if you were an amateur musician, or any other type of artist, it was required by law that you had a part-time job to contribute to society, or else you went to a prison camp. There it was a crime to live off good peanuts.” 

     “So you’re saying —.” Cal began to say before Rolanda interrupted. 

     “I’m saying that even though I’m living in the U.S.-of-fucking-A., I feel like I’m living under a communist regime since I’ve got to depend on this social media shit, which I don’t enjoy as much as music. I seriously don’t.” 

     “But you’re working for yourself to make ends meet,” Cal informed, “not for some company, and you’re especially not forced to.” 

     This made Rolanda silent for a moment. 

     She then said, “Maybe you’re right. I’m just saying the situation in the U.S.S.R in those days is at least a little comparable to what goes on in this country today. I want another shot.”

     “I think the comparison is going too far,” Cal said. “No one forces you to do things here.” 

     Rolanda beckoned to the bartender, pointing to her empty shot glass for another shot of Wild Turkey. The bartender was on his way over to oblige her. 

     “That’s true,” Rolanda admitted. “You’re correct about that, but the environment of a free and open society unconsciously forces one to do things they’d prefer not to do if they had the choice.” 

     The bartender poured her shot of Wild Turkey. 

     “The things I’ve had to do to entertain YouTube viewers to gain subscribers,” Rolanda said, looking down at her shot on the bar in front of her. “Break eggs on my head, eat a spoonful of cinnamon, shove as many chubby bunnies into my mouth. God that’s so fucking dumb. Eating a fucking ghost pepper before I played a song on guitar. Yeah, I smiled and laughed, but in my head I seriously hated fucking doing it. And the goddamn duct tape challenge. I almost got a fucking concussion from that shit.”

     She picked the shot and drank it, then slammed the glass on the wood surface of the bar. 

     “Think you’ve had enough, Rolanda?” Cal stated more than asked. 

     “I think enough to do what I’m about to do next,” she said, looking straight ahead. 

     “What’s that?” Cal queried. 

     “Max, come over here,” she called out, her voice at a higher volume so he’d hear her. 

     “Yeah, what’s up, Rollie?” Max said, stepping off the barstool and moving closer to her. 

     “I don’t want you in the band anymore,” Roland said, still looking straight ahead. “Tonight was your last performance as a member of my band.” 

     “What?” Max said, not believing what he just heard coming out of her mouth. 

     She turned in her seat to look directly into his eyes. She said, “I know you heard me. You just think you’re too stoned and drunk to know for sure if you’re perceiving things correctly, and you’re hoping right now you heard me say something like, ‘Tonight your performance was grand.’ Which it most certainly was, and is the reason I’ve come to the decision of letting you go.” She then turned back around in the barstool to face the bar again, her elbows on its wooden surface, sipping on her glass of beer. 

     For a moment Max stood still, basically frozen, flabbergasted. He looked down at the side of her face. She looked forward into the mirror on the wall behind a rack filled with empty bottles of beer, looking upon the image of Max staring down at her, wanting to watch his reaction without him knowing — expecting he would most likely be giving her the finger.

     “Rollie, that isn’t funny,” Cal said. 

     Rolanda craned her neck to look at Cal. She snapped, “Cal, quiet, I’m talking to Max, not you. Let him speak for himself, if he’s able to find the words.” 

     “She’s totally being serious, Max,” Sally put in. 

     “What?” Max softly uttered as if it took some effort. 

     Rolanda finally looked into Max’s eyes, saying, “You can do it, Max. The same way you sang up there on stage, all on your own, and straight from the heart.” 

     “I can’t believe this, Rollie,” Max said. “I don’t believe you. I know I’ve been late to the Skype meetings a few times, haven’t been to all the jam sessions, or rehearsals, but I don’t think it warrants me being fired from the band.” 

     “I’m not firing you,” Rolanda said, seeming to correct the way Max viewed his situation. “See it this way, dude.” She turned in her barstool all the way to face Max once again. “I’m allowing you to move on. What you did up there with just one song I’m only able to do after fourteen. You yourself brought the house down. The show ended with the audience chanting the name of your song, not the name of my band. And I say to you, Max, move on, and start your own thing. I wish you all the success one artist could ever achieve.” She then turned back around in her barstool to once again look into the mirror at Max’s reflection. 

     “This is fucking ridiculous, Rollie,” Max scoffed. 

     “Is it really?” Rolanda asked, but didn’t care for an answer. 

     “Just because someone made a contribution that was truly helpful doesn’t mean you should push them away,” Max said. “And all because you didn’t come up with it on your own? And what’s fucking ridiculous is that it was your sole decision to perform the song tonight, not mine. I didn’t expect you to surprise me like that. I was totally unprepared, but I managed. Also, you opened the song with an intro different from my version, and I think it was an awesome change that shouldn’t be changed after tonight.” 

     “I thank you for your compliment, Max,” Rolanda said, “but after tonight I shall never perform ‘Dab the hour’ ever again. It is yours, and you can keep the intro I used for tonight's performance if you like.”

     “There’s not one famous artist in the history of human creativity that didn’t receive assistance from others to get to the top,” Max said, more serious than. “I want you to remember that.” 

     “Da Vinci, and Elvis didn’t need help,” Rolanda said. “They did it all on their own.” 

     “Fuck it,” Max almost yelped, clapping his hands together. 

     The sound of his hands clapping made Rolanda jump in the barstool. For a mere second she thought he was going to slap her on the back of the head. She closed her eyes, cringing. 

     “Fine,” Max continued. “You want to do everything your own damn self? Go right ahead.” 

     Rolanda decided to not look at his reflection in the mirror behind the bar any longer, so she didn’t notice him pointing to someone further down the bar. 

     “You do what you gotta do, man,” Max said. “I’ll enjoy what I’ll witness while enjoying the sour grapes.” 

     Cal jumped off his barstool, went up to Max, lightly placing his hands on his bandmate’s shoulders. 

     “Okay, Max,” Cal said. “Let’s go, I’ll drive you and Sally home.” 

     Max spun around and went up to Sally. 

     “Let’s move on, Sally,” he said to his girlfriend. “As Rolanda commands.” 

     “Fucking tyrant,” Sally said to Rolanda. 

     Rolanda gave no response, let alone even glanced in her direction, continuing to look at her own reflection in the mirror between the empty bottles of beer. 

     As Max and Sally walked away toward the back exit to Cal’s van parked just outside, Cal turned to Rolanda. 

     “Take a few days to think over what you just did, Rollie,” Cal suggested. “Don’t make such a rash decision at the last minute. Doing something like that might comeback around and bite you in the ass.” 

     “You want out too, Cal?” Rolanda asked. 

     “No, I don’t. I wasn’t saying that. I’m just saying take into considerations any repercussions you don’t expect to come as a result to this. Losing someone like Max —.” He decided to stop speaking more of the subject. “Just don’t make it concrete for now. We’ll talk tomorrow, alright?” 

     “Yeah, we’ll talk,” Rolanda said, almost as if she were preoccupied with other thoughts, not really listening what Cal had to say. 

     Cal turned, heading to the back exit, following Max and Sally out the door. 

     Faye sat silent next to Rolanda, looking down at her glass of beer, rubbing the side of it with her thumb and forefinger on the perspiring surface. 

     “What do you think, Faye?” Rolanda inquired, still looking at her own reflection. “Did I do wrong just now? Should I take it all back? Knock on Max’s door tomorrow morning, apologize, and renege on the decision I made tonight?”

     Faye looked over at her, and almost without a hint of emotion, said, “All I have to say, Rollie, is that if you told me to move on, I’d go find some other group to make drumbeats for.” 

     “Cool,” Rolanda said. “Want another shot?” 

     “No, I have to drive you home after this,” Faye informed. “You don’t have your bike with you, remember? And I want to go home soon, so I think your next shot should be your last.” 

     “Naw, I want to stay until last call,” Rolanda said with a wave of her hand. “You can go whenever you want. I’ll get myself an Uber to get home.” 

     “You sure it’s a good idea to keep drinking?”

     Rolanda looked over at Faye. She said, “What? It’s not like I’ve never stayed at a bar until closing time.” 

     Faye’s eyes shifted, glancing at someone on the other side of Rolanda further down the bar like Max did before, then back to Rolanda who didn’t notice the movement. 

     “Okay, fine,” Faye said. She then proceeded to drink the rest of her beer. When she was finished, she asked Rolanda, “Is it cool if I leave now? You good here by yourself?” 

     “Yes, Faye. I’m big girl, after all.” 

     “See you later,” Faye said, then turned to leave. 

     “Bye, bye,” Rolanda said after her. She then called out to the bartender who was walking by, “Hey, man, another shot of Wild Turkey, please.” 

     “Yeah, coming up,” the bartender responded. “Gotta take care of a tab first.” 

     Rolanda watched the bartender as he went up to the register to collect one of the many debit cards next to yellow post-it stamps with the amount of money to be charged. While swiping the card, and printing out a receipt to be signed, she noticed the bartender couldn’t stop giggling, as if he remembered a joke told to him days earlier. 

     As he carried a pen, debit card, and receipt over to a customer further down the bar, he said to Rolanda, “Shot of Wild Turkey. Didn’t forget.” 

     He went up to the customer, presenting the debit card, and laying the pen atop the receipt. 

     “I’m sorry,” the bartender said, still giggling. “I’m sure you get this all the time, and it probably annoys you every time you’re asked, but I can’t help it. Did you legally change your name, or is that seriously your Christian name?” 

     “I’m not a Christian, but yes, that is my real, actual last name,” the male customer admitted. 

     Rolanda looked away, patiently waiting for her shot of bourbon to arrive. 

     “Mungus,” the bartender said, slamming his hand down on the bar, breaking out laughing. When the man finally got control of himself, he said, “I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. I’ll get you a beer on the house to make up for my behavior. It’s just I never knew there were actual living people with that name.” 

     “First name ‘Hugh,’” the male customer said, signing the receipt. 

     The bartender laughed again. He then said, “That deserves two beers on the house.” 

     “And you deserve a big tip, sir.” 

     “Thank you, Hugh Mungus,” the bartender said, chuckling. “What are the two beers gonna be? Your choice, man.” 

     “Two Lagunitas,” Hugh Mungus said. “Give the second one to the musician right there.” He asked Rolanda, “Is that cool with you, ma’am? Want another beer?” 

     She looked over at him, smiling. She said, “That would be great. Exactly what I’m drinking right now as a matter of fact.” 

     The bartender served Rolanda another Lagunitas and shot of Wild Turkey, then turned around to get Hugh Mungus the other Lagunitas. 

     “So, humongous what?” she asked the male customer. 

     The guy, waiting for his free beer, looked over at her, and said, “What?”

     “Come sit next to me,” Rolanda said, beckoning for him to sit on the barstool next to her. 

     He slowly, and hesitantly obliged, but he didn’t sit on the stool, just stood up to the bar next to her. 

     “What did you ask, ma’am?”

     “The name’s Rolanda Maze,” she told him. “My friends call me ‘Rollie.’” 

     “Like the name of your band?” he said. 

     “That’s also the name I use for social media. It was my nickname in college. You want to know why?” 

     “Why?” he asked. 

     “Because every time I smoked weed with my college chums I’d be the only one to roll the blunt,” she said, rolling a phantom blunt with both her hands in the air. “You see, I was the only one in the group to roll the perfect blunt.” 

     The bartender came over and put the guy’s beer on the bar in front of him. 

     “Thanks, man,” he said to the bartender. 

     “You’re welcome, Hugh,” the bartender said, then moved on to serve other patrons. 

     “So, humongous what?” Rolanda inquired. “What are you referring to when you say that? The fact you’re a little chunky, or the size of your — you know — width and length down there.” 

     The man gave out a lighthearted sigh. 

     “My name is Hugh —,” he started to say, holding up his hands, palms facing each other, then shifted them to one side as he continued, “— Mungus. That is my name.” 

     “Humongous what?” Rolanda asked again. “Are you hitting on me? Is that a pickup line you use on all the ladies.” 

     “Ma’am —.”

     “It’s Rollie, Humongous,” Rolanda corrected. 

     “I know it’s ridiculous to have such a name in this day and age of — how should I put it? — punning vulgarities, but my first name is ‘Hugh,’ middle name is ‘Ron,’ and last name ‘Mungus.’” 

     “I think I need to see some identification,” Rolanda said. “I need proof.” 

     “I’m not letting you see my I.D., lady,” Hugh Mungus said. “I don’t know you. We’re strangers to one another.” 

     “I told you my name. It’s Rolanda Mungus. Now tell me your real, actual birth name.” 

     “I did, Rolanda. It’s ‘Hugh Mungus.’” He became genuinely frustrated. 

     “Okay,” Rolanda said, putting up her hand, attempting to calm the man down. “Your parents seriously did that to you. Why?” 

     Hugh took a big gulp of his beer, then said, “My father was a big fan of Howard Hughes, so he named me after him.” 

     “Why didn’t he name you ‘Howard’ then?” Rolanda queried. 

     “Because it was a common, typical name.” 

     “Did it at least occur to either of your parents how your first and last name sounded together?” 

     “Yes, Rolanda, it did. And you know what they thought? They thought I’d be famous one day like Howard Hughes. That I’d become a billionaire, or big time celebrity, or whatever.” 

     Rolanda giggled. 

     Hugh Mungus continued to drink his beer. 

     “Have you made it big in this town yet?” Rolanda asked. “Have you at least come close to your parent’s expectations?”

     “Nope,” Hugh answered, looking away. 

     “Well, here’s to trying, and not giving up, Mr. Hugh Mungus,” Rolanda said, holding up the shot of Wild Turkey. “May you try, try, and try again.” 

     “Thanks, Rollie,” Hugh said, clinking his glass of beer with Rolanda’s shot glass. 

     Hugh sipped his beer while Rolanda drank her shot of bourbon. 

     “You guys put on one hell of a great show tonight,” Hugh said. “I had a really good time. I wasn’t bored at any point. I’m surprised the industry hasn’t discovered you yet.” 

     “Thank you, Hugh,” Rolanda said. “What was your favorite song?” 

     “They were all great, but if I had to choose one, I’d say the one right after that ‘Dig the hour’ one everybody seemed to come alive to.”

     “‘Dab the hour’ is what it’s called,” Rolanda corrected. 

     “Oh, sorry,” Hugh said, looking a little guilty. 

     “It’s all good, Mr. Mungus. I didn’t write that one.” 

     “That song was cool, but it didn’t really say much other than describe what it’s like smoking a shitload of weed, and then having the munchies afterward. The song right after it, about wandering through a field of broken concrete was — I have to say — really touching. In a way it spoke to me on a personal level.” 

     Rolanda took a big gulp of her beer. 

     “If I’m bothering you, I’ll leave you alone,” Hugh said, about to step away. 

     “No, no,” Rolanda said, putting a hand up to stop him, “I’m not bothered by your review at all. It’s just I didn’t write that song either. I mean, I created the music, but I didn’t write the words, the lyrics, one of my followers did.” 

     “Followers?” Hugh asked, bemused. “Are you a leader of a cult, or something?” 

     “No, I’m not a leader of some fucking cult, dude,” Rolanda said, chuckling at the idea. “You’re funny. I’m a social media celeb, and I do this thing where my followers — or you could call them fans — send me lyrics, or poems for me to create music to. At the end of every live show I perform what I feel are the best ones.”

     “So you got like a YouTube channel?” Hugh asked. 

     “Yes. And a Twitter, an Instagram, a website, Facebook page, all that Interweb shit.” 

     “How many followers you got?” 

     “Enough to not even need a part-time job,” Rolanda said with a proud grin. 

     “That’s fucking awesome,” Hugh said. “I don’t do that social media thing as much as our generation does, but I’ll look you up, and follow. Damn, I can’t believe I’ve just met a celebrity. I came to this town with no expectation of meeting someone like you.” 

     “I’m not a celebrity, dude. Well, not in the traditional sense. You won’t see my face on the cover of any magazines.”

     “One day I’ll be in line at a grocery store, staring at the magazines, and there you’ll be, smiling on the cover of People,” Hugh said, grinning as he pondered the scenario. “I’ll buy the magazine, which I never do, and I’ll tell the cashier, ‘I met this beauty after she performed in a bar Los Angeles. Not only that, I got her a free beer.’ Now, I can see that happening. Honestly, I think it will. See, I just met you, and not only have you made me happy, you’ve already gained a new fan out of me.” 

     Rolanda laughed, placing a hand on her forehead.

     She then said, “You’re a funny guy, Hugh Mungus.”

     “I know,” Hugh said, “I like to rant when I’m tipsy.” 

     When the bartender made last call, Hugh and Rolanda parted ways. It would not be the last time they’d see each other in the coming days. 

     Driving back to his hotel, Ronald — known to Rolanda as Hugh that evening — had on a satisfying grin, pleased he had taken a huge leap of faith by conversing with his prey.