Roger That
One evening, Roger’s mother did not return home. When, at 6:15 she was still not home, Roger tried calling her cell, but she didn’t pick up. He began to worry. Roger tried again, his rough, callused fingers dancing franticly across the blurring numbers. For the fifteen years that he’d known his mom, she’d always answered her phone—always! What was she doing? Where could she be? Was she ok? He put the phone to his ear, his clammy hands gripping his cell so hard that his knuckles turned deathly white. The back of his neck began to itch furiously and his left eye twitched in worry.
“Come on mom” he whispered. The empty rings played in his drumming ears.
He stared down at his beaten black high tops, trying to think about something else, anything else! Roger smiled. Mom had been pestering him to get new sneakers for years, but he was too much of a penny pincher to do it. Plus, he loved these shoes. They were a treasure house of memory; he couldn’t just throw them away because they were a bit worn for wear. Fine, maybe they were a bit holy, but what was wrong with righteous shoes anyway?
The phone led him once again to voice mail. Putting the phone down carefully, Roger rubbed the back of his sweaty neck and paced. He flopped down on the camouflage patterned couch, wincing as his hip hit the protruding spring, and stared up at the appropriately moody red ceiling. His dad had chosen the couch when he had still worked in the combat unit, said it had ‘character.’
He tried phoning his dad. The Esteemed General Rogers would be finished with work by now; he’d know where Mom was. The usual extended ringing ensued. Suddenly, there was a click.
“Hello?”
Roger gasped in surprise. “Who are you, and what have you done to my dad?!”
“Why are you so shocked?” The voice asked. “This is my phone.”
“Yeah,” Roger agreed. “But since when did you answer it?”
“Since when did you call?”
“Fair point,” Roger agreed. His dad was usually in conference meetings or doing other super-secret stuff, being head of the intelligence unit of the U.S military and all. The shuffling of papers sounded through the phone.
“Dad, do you know where Mom is?” he asked.
“No,” the General replied. “I thought she was home…” The shuffling stopped. “Oh no.”
Roger leaped from the sofa and ran for his jacket. “What oh no? What’s happening?” His voice cracked by the last bit. Curse blasted pubescence.
“No, no, no,” Dad’s voice was flooded with panic and concern.
“What?!” Roger squeaked. “What! What!”
“At attention, Roger,” his dad demanded, his voice taking on a militarily tone. Roger’s back stiffened automatically, the effect of many years under his father’s training.
“Ready for orders, sir,” he yelled. Curse his military training. He had been doing pushups before he could walk.
“I need you to take Mrs. Shwarrzez’s car keys and drive the car over here. Roger, out.”
Curse his stupid name. How had Mom ever let this happen? Then again, if it was up to her, his name would have been Brutus. Or Ceaser.
Mrs. Shwarrzez was their 78 year old tenant who lived in their basement. She loved to criticize and had a weird obsession with cats. Roger worried about her sometimes. Then again, Roger worried about everything, all the time. It was practically a hobby. Mrs. Shwarrzez was always loosing her car keys, so she had given Roger’s parents a pair for safe keeping.
