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.’”
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