Roland

First chapter of a new book

Roland Edward Gale had a history of mediocrity.  Following the collapse of his academic pursuits of college, he had grown weary of the thought of obtaining an average job in an average city.  A parade of weak an unsatisfying jobs had reinforced his self-awareness and inability to accomplish anything of note. Contrary to the insinuation that he was a born failure, he never actually ‘failed’.  In all reality, he was just average--invisible to schools, employers, and due to his soft body--female interest.

The perpetual cycle of attempt-and-abandonment during his life was genetic.  Roland’s father, Edward, a failed firefighter and carpenter and sculptor had collected as many jobs as was possible in 1970’s Baltimore.  Born into the blue-collar suburb of Elkridge to the south, Edward had a very brief moment of local fame from his being struck by a police vehicle while crossing a quiet intersection.  News coverage around the Baltimore area was persistent from the time of the incident to the eventual conviction of the police officer for being under the influence. Newspaper reporters were a mainstay of hospital room where Edward’s most serious injury was a broken right leg.  It would seem in the modern world this would be ignored by all but those involved, in Elkridge of 1971, the humble, gray town embraced it. An unfortunate leftover of the accident was Edward’s unstable gait. Chronic pain grew from the shortened leg, which in turn, caused chronic hip and back pain.  Most of the memories Roland had of his father was as a depressed drunk. He alternated between Milwaukee’s Best and Vicodin, whichever was more available. Like Roland, his father was just average. Never an angry drunk, nor sobbing and folding into bed for hours at a time.

Roland’s mother Diane was somewhat more amiable.  When she was home. Perhaps due to the general lack of adrenaline in the home, she had decided to vacate the position of homemaker shortly after Edward’s accident.  There was never any fights or hollering and pointing fingers--just a silent departure as Roland watched from the front porch. His father retreated back inside to his medication while the misfiring Dodge Polara sputtered backwards down the driveway.  Roland traced its route with his eyes; his mother pausing slight at the street to look back. That was the last he saw of her.

The motivation to move to Los Angeles was driven primarily out of boredom.  At the time, Roland had been working at Best Buy in the neighboring town of Arbutus.  He was known as a ‘yellow shirt’. This position implied, unrealistically, some degree of security and responsibility.  He spent his days standing between the door monitors and observing the overhead CC cameras. Once and a while the monitor would go off, denoting that the patron was either

A) stealing an item or B) the cashier had failed to clear it at check-out.  Oddly, Loss Prevention Specialists have no authority over a shoplifter. If someone were to dart out the door beside Roland, he couldn’t tackle them or chase them.  That would be battery. His only protocol was to call the police and report their direction and clothing. Corporate policy also stated that he must greet and acknowledge every patron entering and leaving the store.  Roland had spent four good years of his twenties as a Best Buy meeter-greeter.

LA would be fresh, new, exciting.  He was not pursuing an acting career.  Nor was he a model destined for fame on Instagram or YouTube.  He just wanted to stop being invisible. Roland would get in shape.  He had the height that would make him stand out from every other twenty-something white male on Sunset Boulevard.  What he lacked was any definition of muscle groups or general functional body parts. He stood 6’3”, but with the gravity of 361lbs, his presence invited more hushed comments and wide-eyed stares than he would have appreciated.  

Roland garnered his first success--he had moved.  Arms strained with two suitcases and financially strained with a shallow bank account of $1200, he dropped his life into West Los Angeles.  He founded his transformation in a two-level apartment complex at the intersection of Granville and Nebraska Avenues. The southern facade of the latte-colored building, dotted with window air conditioners, faced a grid of tennis courts.  Roland found inspiration to get fit by watching enthusiastic tennis players constantly volley while prancing on their toes. The weather was perpetually sunny and warm. Roland never took off his sunglasses. He started to run.

To clarify, when a man of Roland’s physical structure ‘runs’, the action amounts to little more than leaning forward while walking briskly.  However this was a starting point. He ran to the tennis courts. Every morning he made himself a promise to run 10 feet further than the previous day.  His knees screamed, only to be drowned out by the panting and coughing protest from his lungs. But it began to happen. Pounds lost began to be counted by double digits every week.  Roland was becoming un-mediocre.

Besides the benefit to being healthy and active, like most 20-something males, Roland noticed being noticed. By females that is.  On top of his tall and rapidly thinning frame was a thick wave of jet-black hair. The only inheritance he would ever receive, like his mother’s, his hair occurred naturally to which most people spent thousands a year to emulate.  The receding flesh also exposed a surprisingly square jaw set above shoulders as wide as the Pacific. Women, for the first time in his 26 years, were taking a second look. However, the blossoming admiration from the opposite sex could barely illicit more than a passing ‘hello’ or ‘thanks’.  Roland was still painfully shy. Two and a half decades of low self-esteem would not go without a fight despite the external appearance becoming more and more like Clark Kent.

Roland had another trick up his sleeve.  He could write. Future awards and fame were debatable, but he had a degree of talent above the general population.  After a quick search on Indeed.com for writing jobs, he applied to everything he could. Silence followed for weeks. On a random Wednesday his aging iphone 5s went off in his back pocket.  Roland answered with his characteristically deep and monotone, “Hello?”

“Yes, this Steven Bergman from I-Rate Productions.  You applied for a position with us doing some creative/script writing?” the voice replied.

“Hey, yeah, this is Roland Gale.”

“Well Roland, tell me more about yourself…” the caller instructed.

Roland nervously started reviewing his less-than-stellar academic career, but realized that a life-story was not what the man wanted.  There were a million ‘writers’ in LA. He needed to sell his writing talent, not his career as a Best Buy yellow-shirt. Roland began to emphasize his love of writing (which was really true) and the many accolades he had received from scholars (which never existed).  After several minutes of what seemed to be wandering thought, the other end of the phone remained silent.

A distant cough or throat-clearing. “So Roland, did you just move here?” the caller asked.

“Yes I did, three weeks ago”.

“And you’ve never been published or held a job in writing content?”

“No, just retail positions mostly.”

“Alright, well let me ask you this: what are your thoughts on writing small scenes, kind of like scripts, for some video productions?”

“Do you mean movies?” Roland inquired.

“I’m gonna be straight-up Roland.  I make porn. You would be writing basic scripts for porn movies.  If you don’t have any moral objections, you get $300 per scene.”

Roland’s mind began to race.  Morally he was ambiguous. His childhood lacked any kind of character-building or finger wagging--so that wasn’t an issue.  The initial gut reaction was focused more around the idea that he may be around the actual production of porn. He had never been in the same general area of a naked women save for videos he watched on his phone. Plus he’d have a source of income.  How hard is it to script porn?

Quite easy it turns out.  Roland churned out scene after scene for Mr. Bergman.  Most nights Roland’s fingers raced across the keyboard almost instinctively.  Basic story ideas and scenes poured out onto the computer, only letting up to break for food or the occasional jerk-off session.  Every third day Roland would meet with Mr. Bergman in his offices to receive his hand-full of cash. Not only was he able to make ends meet, but he was excelling at something.  Roland Edward Gale had a genuine talent for writing C-level, basement-style pornography.

A brief glimmer of hope for Roland would not erupt into Hollywood glory.  There would be no discovery moment.  Absent was some obscure movie producer (of the non-adult variety) stumbling upon this great untapped talent.  Roland’s twenties had become a carousel of persistent disappointment. Inspiration for a legitimate career in script writing was continually dashed by the unstable Steven Bergman, CEO and founder of I-Rate Productions, as he attempted to script and film as many scenes as possible.  Perhaps Mr. Bergman longed for the days of adult film where movies were put together with real storylines and characters. Genuine human interaction led to the expected sex scenes, but in a tasteful manner. The current climate of instant gratification had, apparently, created a sub-industry of pornography centered around blatant, graphic, anonymous scenes of f*****g.

Roland once again yearned to be noticed.  His arrival in LA had sparked a momentary flame on an otherwise uninspiring life.  Whether motivated by pain or fear or frustration, Roland would eventually stumble upon a way to be remembered.  Shortly before 7pm PST on March 4th, 2018 and perpetually after that, Roland Edward Gale would be a household name.