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.
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