Home > 2012-13 Season, Remonstrations of Fingers Rolly > Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

Getting to Know Fingers Rolly (Part One)

February 15, 2013 Leave a comment Go to comments

By Bernie Keebler
Senior Staff Writer
File photo

In the past few weeks, the world has become entranced by the writings of Association reporter Fingers Rolly.  And yet, I always found myself wanting more.  Who is Fingers Rolly?  What are his thoughts?  Can he even be known?

I made the long drive to the Lankville Desert Region to find out.

Fingers Rolly lives on a patch of desert surrounded by a natural arrangement of lovely pincushion cacti.  His home is a series of old aluminum trailers that have been shoved together in a fanciful manner, thereby creating a rather large structure.  There are the remnants of succulent gardens along one edge and a well-tended gravel walk but the land itself is cracked and brown, pulverized into dust by a relentless sun.

The road simply ends at Mr. Rolly’s rambling home; it goes no further.  A tremendous amount of dust kicks up as I pull to a stop.  Upon alighting from the car, I detect a strange sound that suddenly changes in timbre.  Whereas at first it had sounded mournful, now it sounds almost demonic.  I realize that it is the famous desert howling of Fingers Rolly.

Will he even answer the door? I ask myself.  “If he’s howling, you can forget about it,” said an anonymous source, whom I probed for information about the mysterious writer.  “You’ll have to try another day.”  But I am resolute.  I quickly change into a finely-tailored suit (I had been wearing some workout short pants and a lightweight shoulder harness) and make my way to what I presume to be the front door.

The demonic howling suddenly stops.  Nothing moves.  No sound can be heard from within.  “Fingers?” I call out.  I tap again at the door and it suddenly swings open.  I can perceive only shadows from within.

I enter a mysterious room.  There is a living room set (leather sofa and chair, cowboy motif) but large hand-painted plywood signs are stacked neatly against them.  I flip through the cracked and warped messages, clearly punished by the desert sun– NO!  GO AWAY!  LEAVE!  I DO NOT WANT YOU!  I cross to a bookshelf– more signs stacked on the dusty floor, more strange pleading edicts to persons unknown.

The howling comes again– this time low and somber.  I move towards it.  It is lighter here– a filthy kitchen stacked with old tins and bottles, covered with a deeper layer of dust.  And in a kitchen chair, I find the great writer.  He is shaking and moaning.  He almost appears to fall asleep at times, then suddenly bolts upright and lets loose a vile stream of profanity.

I gently put my hand on his shoulder and he turns around.  He is sweating and his clothing is filthy and ragged.  On the cluttered table before him, I find some stationary from a long-defunct hotel– Fingers Rolly is working on his latest article.

“Will you speak with me?” I ask.  I find a chair on the opposite side of the table.  There is an ancient transmission before me, resting on a yellowed newspaper.

“Didn’t you see the sign you…you little asshole?” he says in a voice that, I am immediately convinced, is possessed.

Before I can respond, he begins howling again, then cursing wildly.  This goes on for four hours straight.  As the light begins to fade, I interrupt and offer to prepare dinner.  Fingers looks up– his face seems his own now.  “Go ahead, you fucking asscake.  Who’s stopping you?”  He looks back to the window but I can tell he is grateful.

I search the dusty cupboards for our meal.

  1. Mandy
    February 15, 2013 at 9:49 am

    Hey Lankville! Don’t you want some hot women to engage in free fierce hill coitus with? Call Mandy at Lankville Hills 6412. (After 10PM).

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