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.
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