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Did You Say Somethingn Roger Flipbook PDF
Did You Say Somethingn Roger
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WRITE ON PRESS PRESENTS
Did You Say Something, Roger? A Write On Press Feature Distributed by Write On e-Publishing, LLC, for Write On Features
Copyright 2022 Write On e-Publishing, LLC., All Rights Reserved
Did You Say Something, Roger? A Write On Press Feature ~***~ “Tell me we have the Hell’s Kitchen financial reports ready!” Mishkin shouted fromhis office. He didn’t specify any team member, but everyone knew he was yelling at Nygel. Nygel has been with the company longer than anyone else on the accounting team. Hehad a well of knowledge that Mishkin relied on totally. He was also his principal whipping boy. Monthly financials were not due for another five days, but by the tone of Mishkin’svoice, the higher-ups probably wanted them sooner. “They’ll be ready by Friday,” Nygel replied, girding himself.“Unacceptable!” came the instant retort. “That was the target date we set with you last week,” he tried to explain. “I need the reports yesterday,” Mishkin declared. “This team needs to be adaptable. We cannot be the bottleneck for all workflow.”“We can certainly re-prioritize,” Nygel said. “I don’t want you to re-prioritize, Nygel. I need this team to deliver the work that isexpected of us.” ~*~ The office door slammed, and everyone around Nygel averted their eyes. Such blow-ups were common these days. Mostly, people just didn’t want to be forced to stay late. Nygel had no wife and kids, so he often felt compelled to shoulder Mishkin’s lastminutedemands alone.
He rubbed his eyes behind his glasses and started opening files. At thirty-five, heshouldn’t feel this old, but days like this - and interactions like that - were aging him beyond his years. Starting from raw statements and a blank template workbook, completing the financial reporting for a whole neighborhood’s portfolio would take five hours minimum. That meant he wasn’t getting home before eight. Which meant he had to make accommodations for his one dependent: an eight-year-old beagle-Yorkie mix called Roger. He dialed his walker’s cell. “Hi, Nygel,” she answered, “need another evening walk?”“And dinner, too, Simone. Can you manage?” “Certainly. I’m sorry you’re held up again.” “Meh,” he sighed, “what can you do? I’ll tell them you’re coming.” He kept a key at the building’s concierge desk so Simone could attend to Roger throughout the day. These last-minute evening calls cost him an arm and a leg, though. And they were becoming more frequent. Nygel ordered some ramen through Seamless and walked to the fridge for acomplimentary soda. His company was moving slowly toward modernity. This meant that he got free drinks and cashews and a per diem for working meals. It also meant the folks above him felt no hesitation asking him to work into the night. You get dinner and a car home! they insisted like he was getting a sweet deal. Meanwhile, his company dinners were becoming less healthy each day. He’d alwayskept a lean frame with a combination of sensible meals, jogging and a community soccerleague. But in recent weeks, he stopped being able to make time for the league, and he was too exhausted in the morning to manage a decent run. Now he was about to fill his maw full of noodles and pork. Cracking a Diet Coke, Nygel gave himself a little smack on the cheek. Time to wakeup, he told himself. Miles to go before you sleep.
~*~
It was a few minutes shy of nine when the car service dropped Nygel off in front of his building in Park Slope. He’d been there for six years, the longest he’d lived anywhere, but it still felt transient to him. His mail was the same mix of bills and catalogs for Laney. She hadn’t lived there foralmost two years, but the fine people at Nordstrom, Zara and Victoria’s Secret still saw fit to remind Nygel of his failed relationship. He deposited the whole lot in the nearby recycling bin. Another omnipresent reminder of Laney’s departure was Roger. They’d adopted himtogether right after they’d moved to the building. Nygel has just received a promotion, and they decided they finally had the cash to properly look after a dog. Now, Nygel was spending a fortune on dog-walkers. “Hey, buddy,” he muttered at the excited borkie. Roger was spry and fit, with shiny black eyes and silky straight fur of brown and blond. Nygel proceeded straight to the kitchen to make sure he’d eaten. For good measure, he retrieved some carrots, chopped them up, and tossed half on the floor. The rest he put on a plate with some leftover baba ganoush. Then, he cracked a beer. For all the annoyance of having to take care of Roger alone, Nygel was happy to havecompany. He was a companion, which was something, since Laney got custody of most of their joint friends in the breakup. The Jets were playing the Monday night tilt, so Roger snuggled up next to his dogdad on the sofa. The two of them glazed over as Nygel’s team managed four three-andouts on the four drives he watched. “They’re always bad,” he observed to his snoozing pooch, “but normally they’reentertainingly bad.” By the half, it was just about ten. He was bored but not tired. This was a problem lately. Even when he theoretically should be getting sleepy, hismind wouldn’t turn off. He was always stewing about something: a slight at work, his comatose love-life, the crushing sameness of each day. He told himself he should be doing something worthwhile, like going out with friends or volunteering or writing the great American novel; or maybe just looking for a job that didn’t fill him with loathing. Hopping up and walking to the bathroom, Nygel popped a melatonin and brushed histeeth. Trying to wind down, he opened his most recent copy of the New Yorker and made aneffort at reading one of the features. It didn’t take.
He found an old movie on TV; one he’d loved in college. It was about a fashion photographer in the sixties, and one day he thinks he captures evidence of a murder on his camera. The movie was so wild and out there and cool and sexy. Nygel remembered thinking that one day he would like to make something like that. Something that others experienced and that made them feel inspired too. Didn’t quite work out that way, he thought. Turns out that tracking expenses for areal estate firm paid better. Nygel remembered the advice his father gave him once upon a time: A great job gives you three things: A good paycheck, time with your loved ones and asense of personal fulfillment. Most people don’t ever find a great job, though. So, look for a job that gives you two of the three. Not the worst advice. Of course, it presupposed he would have someone to comehome to at night. Someone besides a pet dog anyway. It also presupposed he would have any idea what “personal fulfillment” meant. Nygel groaned and turned off the TV. It was after midnight, and he needed to be up insix hours. So, he slipped into bed and started counting slowly to five hundred, trying to quiet his mind. By one hundred, his eyes were fluttering a little. By two hundred, he was nearly out.Then a voice pierced the darkness, a gravely Brooklyn growl like a longshoreman from the forties. “You gotta get your shit together, Nygel,” it said. He sat bolt upright, looking for the intruder in his room. But there was no one there. Just darkness and a snoozing Roger at his feet. That’s not a great sign, he thought. ~*~ Nygel’s phone buzzed to life at six-thirty. He had tossed and turned all night. Andnow it was only Tuesday. He strapped a leash on Roger and took him outside for his morning tinkle. Before they left the apartment, though, he poured a K-cup coffee into an over-sized mug. Thesteaming black liquid gave him a burst of consciousness.
Roger was a little peculiar that morning. Most days, he used the five-minute sidewalkinterlude to run about wagging his tail at strangers and barking at birds. This morning, helifted his leg against a mailbox and just stared at Nygel. There was a little judgment in those shiny black eyes. “Don’t start with me,” Nygel said. “I’ve a long day ahead of me, and I need someonein my corner.” Roger cocked his head and trotted back to the building. After pouring some kibble and gulping the last of his coffee, Nygel excused himselfto the bathroom to shower. He emerged fifteen minutes later and wrapped himself in a towel. Swiping a hand over the foggy mirror, he gave himself a look over. Despite the sleepy glower and circles under his eyes, he was still a reasonably attractive guy. He patted his cheeks and turned profile. “Yeah,” he said, “plenty of ladies would buy a ticket for this show.” His spirits moderately bucked, Nygel exited that steamy bathroom and went to hiscloset. He tossed on some slacks and a white oxford shirt, then grabbed his navy Patagonia zip up. “Come on, dude,” the gruff voice said again, “you cannot be wearing that fleecesweater-vest again.” “What’s the big deal?” he replied absently. “Have some goddamn self-respect. You look like the crowned prince of dataentry.”“It’s comfortable and it matches everything, okay.” Nygel froze. Wait a minute. Who am I talking to? The voice was coming from just outside his room. He slowly turned. There, seatedalertly in his doorway, was Roger. “And could you please lose the glasses?” Roger asked. “When was the last time youwore your contacts?” His dog was talking to him. For a second, Nygel stood gaping. Not sure what to do. Then, he slammed the door inRoger’s face. Everything was eerily quiet for a moment. Suddenly, there came the
familiar little scratch at the door. Nothing aggressive, just Roger asking to be let in likehe always did. “Go away,” he called. “Come on, Nygel,” Roger answered calmly. “Let’s not cut off the lines ofcommunication.” “There are no lines. You’re an animal. You should not be talking.”“I agree completely, but here we are.” There were few levels of absurdity to the moment. First was the obvious. Roger was,for some reason, talking. Next was that Nygel was shaking. His mouth was dry. Essentially, he was terrified of his twelve-pound pup. Also, he was offended by the critical tone Roger was taking. Fingers trembling, hestood up and opened the door. Roger bounded in and hopped onto the bed. “Sit down,” he said. Nygel complied. “Cards on the table. I don’t have a clue why I’msuddenly able to talk, and neither do you. So, I say we roll with it.” “I don’t like this.” “I don’t like waiting for you to stop hitting your snooze button every morning so I cantake a piss. Life ain’t fair.” “Okay,” Nygel said, standing, “I’m done.”“What does that mean?” “It means I’m going to work. Then maybe I’ll find a good neurologist in the city,because something is clearly wrong with my brain.” He hurriedly slipped on his loafers and grabbed his jacket and bag. Roger was still onthe bed, giving him the stink eye. “When I get back,” Nygel stated, “I expect you to … um, not be talking.” ~*~ “Someone’s here bright and early,” said Diane, as Nygel flopped down in his seatopposite her cubicle.
It wasn’t even eight yet. He hadn’t arrived this early in years. If Mishkin was going toforce him to work into the night, he wasn’t coming in a second earlier than the agreed-to start-of-day Diane, on the other hand, was Mishkin’s assistant. If he worked, she worked. Nygelwanted to feel for her, but at this point, he had difficulty feeling much of anything for anyone at the firm. They were all part of the same codependent, numb, trudging mass. And Diane was so damn chipper all the time. Nygel wondered if maybe she likedbeing worked like a rented mule. “Couldn’t seem to stay away,” he muttered, opening his email and trying to forget theweirdness of the morning. What is this???!!!! read the first email from Mishkin, a reply to the workbook Nygelspent all last evening working on. “Jesus Christ,” he groaned to himself. Probably, Mishkin got confused and decided the data was inaccurate. That’s how these things normally worked out: Nygel busted his butt for hours, then spent the nextday trying to explain his work to his boss. By the time Mishkin finally understood thereporting, he nonetheless called Nygel incompetent. It all gave Nygel a massive stomachache. “Diane,” he said, spinning in his chair, “do you ever feel like you can’t focus?”“What do mean, hon? Is it your glasses?” “No, I mean, like, mentally.” “Oh, I just listen to my music while I work. You should really get some noise-canceling headphones.” “That’s not really what I mean. I just woke up a little … disoriented.”Her eyes went very wide. “Oh no,” she said, “do you think it’s a mini-stroke?” Perfect, he thought. Exactly the reaction he was looking for. “Maybe, Diane,” he answered, and turned back around.
Looking back at his email, he took stock of the first three hours of his day: he could attend to the asinine emails from his boss, the amateur medical advice from his coworker,or the talking lapdog at home. “There’s no way I can work today,” he told himself. Before standing up, he scrolled through his calendar to see when his last sick daywas. It was over a year ago. “You’ve got to redo that report,” Mishkin barked as Nygel stepped into his office. Hedidn’t look away from his monitor. “I need to talk to you, sir.” “Why is it, Nygel, that I can never read your work? You have to make it simpler.”“I can walk you through it, if you-” “I don’t have time for that. Just make it easier to read.”He nodded and took a deep breath. “I need to take the day, Mr. Mishkin. I’m not feeling well.”“You can leave after the report is fixed.” “Can it wait until tomorrow?” Finally, Mishkin looked him in the eye. Of course, his expression was one of totalindignation, like Nygel was starting a mutiny. “I would really appreciate having the day. I’m not feeling well at all.” Mishkin narrowed his eyes. Nygel felt like he was speaking a foreign language, sounaccustomed was his boss to granting requests like this. “Fine, Nygel. First thing tomorrow, I need this report fixed. We’re all going to fallbehind because of this.” “Absolutely, sir. I appreciate it.” ~*~ Roger was seated at attention as Nygel opened the door. At first, neither said anything. Nygel eyed the pup suspiciously. Roger followed his every little move as he set down his bag and unzipped his fleece vest.
“Okay,” Nygel whispered, “are you … back to normal?”“What’s normal in this situation?” replied Roger. “Son of a bitch.” “What d’you want me to do, huh? I was minding my own business. Now, I’m talkingto you. This isn’t my fault.” Nygel perched on one of the tall leather-clad chairs around his counter-height diningtable. He pulled up his feet distrustfully. “I’m losing my marbles,” he told himself. “There’s no way this is real.”“It’s real, chief.” “Will you stop talking to me?! It’s not helping!” Roger approached his chair and propped himself up on his front paws. Nygel shiftedimmediately to the next chair over. “I’m serious,” he shouted. “Dogs that talk are not good. Historically speaking, theonly person we know talked to a dog ended up shooting, like, twenty people.” “Be reasonable, Nygel. Have I told you to shoot anyone? Have I told you to doanything other than lose that awful sweater-vest?” Nygel thought for a moment. “I suppose not.” “So, let’s just suppose that I’m not the devil. Let’s just say, I’m Roger. Can we try toget along?” For a talking borkie, he made a decent point. So, Nygel relented, reached down andlifted him onto the seat next to him. “Okay, let’s figure this out. Have you talked to anyone else?”“Who would I talk to? I was here alone all morning.” “Did you talk to yourself?” “I’m not a weirdo. You’re the only one who talks to himself around here.” “Then, this has to be my imagination, right? Me imagining you saying things to methat my subconscious or imagination or, I don’t know, conscience is thinking.”
“That’s deep, man. I’m impressed. No wonder your species domesticated us.” Nygel sighed. This wasn’t really helping. He could explore all the logical possibilitiesunder the sun, but that didn’t change the fact that he was engaged in a two-way conversation with his pet. “We’ve got to do something,” he announced. “Sitting around here isn’t helping.”“Well, I gotta take a dump,” Roger said. “Let’s get some fresh air.” Nygel sighed again, “Fine.” “Maybe bring the frisbee too. That thing is tight.” ~*~ They were only a few blocks away from Prospect Park, Roger’s favorite poopand- play location. It also seemed like a good place to hash out the situation, since eccentricloners conversing with their dogs were not uncommon in brownstone Brooklyn. I wonder if those crazy guys have talking dogs too, Nygel thought, as they saunteredup the sidewalk. “I don’t see why I gotta wear a leash,” Roger carped. “I can tell you where I’m goingnow.” “I’m not getting a ticket for an unleashed animal. The people at Prospect Park aremilitant about that.” They found their way to a cluster of trees on the perimeter of Long Meadow.“Okay,” Nygel said, “go for it.” “A little privacy, eh?” “This is nothing I haven’t seen before.” “Yeah, and do you think I wanted you staring at me squatting in the grass? If I could have talked then, I’d have told you to mind your own damn business.” Nygel spun around and tried to block out the sounds of Roger groaning with relief behind him. He looked down at his phone. Sixteen messages from the office. He realized at that point that it was noon and hadn’t checked his messages all morning. His stomach twisted at the thought of Mishkin and company losing their collective shit in his absence.
What does it matter? he reasoned. We’re a landlord, not a hospital. No one is goingto die because my work will be a little late. ~*~ He chuckled to himself. It only took him a couple hours away from work to remind himself that it was, in the end, just work. His immortal soul did not depend on getting his boss a reconciliation report. After a minute and a half, Roger shouted that he was done. By that point, a pretty brunette in an orange mod coat sat down with a book at a bench nearby. In the midday sun, with her fair skin and shiny, shoulder-length hair, she looked like Audrey Hepburn. Nygel flagged Roger over, whispering: “See that girl? I want to see if I’m the onlyone that can hear you. Go say something to her.” Roger twitched his floppy ears and walked over to her. “Hey lady!” he shouted, “I’m supposed to talk to you because I’m a talking dog andmy master is too much of a wuss to introduce himself. You getting this? He thinks yourcute!” She didn’t look up from her book. Roger looked back at Nygel, who shrugged.“Okay - I guess this is happening now.” Suddenly, Roger leaped onto the bench and started barking like crazy. The womannearly jumped out of her skin. She dropped her book on the ground and shrieked. “Roger, no!” Nygel shouted, pulling him away.“Wow, that scared me.” she laughed. “I’m so sorry,” he said, picking up her book for her. It was a collection of Cortazar stories. “Huh, that’s funny.” “What is?” she asked. “I don’t mean to intrude. I just … I was watching Blow Up on TV last night. Andyou’re reading the story. Funny coincidence.” “That is funny,” she replied politely. “Again, I’m so sorry about him. I’d ask him to apologize, but, you know-”“He’s a dog.”
“Yep,” he replied with theatrical laughter.“How would he even do that?” She smiled at him. It was nice to talk to someone other than a co-worker or an animal.“He’s very cute,” she said. “I’d ask to pet him, but I don’t think he likes me.” “He’s just cantankerous.” They grinned and nodded at each other. Nygel wondered if he should ask her name,but the moment was so nice, he didn’t want to sully it by inviting rejection. “Well, I’ll let you get back to your book. Have a good one.”“You too.” They walked away, out to field for some frisbee fetch.“Unbelievable,” Roger growled. “What?” “I’m the neutered one, Nygel. So where are your balls?” Despite the constant bickering, Nygel and Roger had a hell of an afternoon. They spent most of the next hour in constant motion. Roger was a smallish canine, perfect for a good lap sleep, but he could cover some distance on those tiny legs. Nygel would loft the discus high up, and his shaggy companion would book it full speed across the lawn. Once he’d homed in on the frisbee’s destination he bounded a solid two feet and snatched it out of the air. Over and again, Roger returned the slobbery toy to Nygel, who sent it floating awayonce more. Roger didn’t say a word this whole time, so pleased was he with the game. Aroundtwo, though, he returned to his dad, panting and beat. “That’s it, Nygel,” he conceded. “I got nothing left in me.” For the first time all day, Nygel bent down and gave his boy a ferocious neck scratch. Until that moment, it felt odd to interact with him like a dog. But Roger accepted the pets, even nuzzling into Nygel’s knee. He checked the time on his phone. Ten more frantic texts from work. Tomorrow would be a nightmare, he knew, but for some reason, his omnipresent anxiety didn’t flare up at the prospect. He was too busy having fun for once.
“I want a beer, Roger,” he said. “It’s so nice out, and I’m in such a good mood. Let’sget a drink outside.” “Sounds like a plan.” Just up the road was a spot called The Gate, which allowed dogs on-premises. Nygelstopped at a bodega end route and bought a big turkey sandwich on a hero for them to split. Mid-afternoon on a Tuesday, they were the only people in The Gate’s outdoor space. He ordered himself a pint of local porter and poured some water into a plastic cup for Roger. They sat together all afternoon, munching turkey and enjoying the sun on their faces. Nygel never once looked at his phone. After fifteen minutes or so, he threw back his headand shut his eyes. The autumn air blew over him like a feather-light massage. When he finished the beer, he elected to have a second.“I have a question,” he said to Roger. “Shoot.” “Can you read my thoughts?” “Hard to say. Think of a number between one and a hundred.”“Okay.” “You got it? You’re thinking of it right now?”“I am.” “Stop thinking about it. I can’t read your thoughts.”“Smart-ass.” Some teenagers walked by, heading home after school. They laughed at the grownman talking to his pup. Nygel didn’t care. “How about this,” he mused, “I could stop by the Italian market on the way home. Get us some meatballs for dinner. How’s that sound?” “Hell yes,” the dog answered. “Let’s make like Lady and the Tramp.” ~*~
Nygel’s nerves began to quiver as they wrapped up dinner. He and Roger had enjoyed a feast of hefty beef, pork and veal meatballs slathered inmarinara. He’d even poured himself a glass of Italian wine. After a full day of play, relaxation and conspicuous consumption, he should have felt utterly content. But eying the room around him, Nygel felt the old anxiety coalesce. There was the bookshelf, half-empty ever since the day Laney moved out. There were the empty carryout containers, piled up in his trash, constant reminders of his poor diet choices and the cash he wasted never bothering to cook for himself. Glancing into the bedroom, he saw the dusty tripod that he used to use for photographic outings throughout the city. When was the last time he’d mounted his camera on that? Then, there was the phone lying on the table next to his saucy-encrusted plate. Thesecond he picked it up, he knew the collected toxicity of his work would spew out. “Yo, Nygel,” Roger called from his doggy bed, “what’s going through that noggin ofyours?” He blinked back to the present: “Huh?” “You got a thousand-yard stare going, buddy.”“I’m, uh … I need another drink, I think.” Nygel and Roger got up simultaneously. They walked to the kitchenette, and Nygeluncorked the bottle. “You got me a little worried,” Roger said from Nygel’s feet. “Do what you got to doto relax, but I thought we were doing better, you and me.” “You and me?” Nygel snapped. “What does that even mean, you and me? You’re mydog, and I’m imagining you talking.” “Yeah, but we had a good day, didn’t we?” “I can’t spend the rest of my life hiding and talking to some animal that cannotpossibly be responding in the real world.” Roger growled, baring his teeth. Nygel had never seen him do that to him before.“Sit down!” Roger shouted and ran to the sofa. Nygel begrudgingly sat down next to him. Roger cleared his throat.
“You’re talking to me, Nygel, but I’m not supposed to be able to respond. You knowhow many times I hear you having arguments with the cable box, the toaster, your goddamn boss who isn’t even in the room? You spend most of your life pissed off at things you can’t control and don’t care what you have to say!” “Fine, I got it. I’m a mess.” “We’re all messes. But at a certain point, you gotta make a decision not to walk intomisery every day. Isn’t that what you did today?” He sat considering Roger’s assessment. Looked at through one eye, it was profound. Through the other eye, it was total gobbledygook. Don’t choose misery. What kind ofadvice was that? No one wants to hate their life, but you endure it because that’s whatbeing an adult was. If you just walk away from the crap job and try to be happy all thetime, you might as well be … a dog. “What do I do, Roger?” he asked quietly. “You should probably start by trying to have another day like this one.”“Okay.” “Then, you try to make the rest of your days as much like this one as you can.”“And you’ll help me with that?” “As long as I can,” he said, cocking his head. “Who knows how long I’ll be able tooffer advice?” Nygel nodded. He walked to the table and picked up his phone. Thirty-six texts fromwork. He swiped past them and opened his mailbox. He’d missed almost twohundredemails. Don’t engage, he reminded himself. Instead, he wrote a single email to Mishkin informing him he would need to take theremainder of the week off. Less than a minute later, his boss was calling. He held his breath and answered andturned on the speaker. “What is this request, Nygel?” Mishkin howled.“I need the week, sir. I can arrange for-” “Not acceptable.”
“Please let me speak.” For a beat, there was no reply. Roger raised his ears in anticipation. Nygel continued. “The team can divide up my workload. I have over a month of unused time off. I need this week.” “What is this for?” Mishkin asked pointedly.“It’s personal, sir. That should be sufficient.” For what felt like an eternity, everyone sat in silence.“Fine!” Mishkin eventually agreed and hung up. Nygel and Roger exhaled heavily. He would probably pay for this in some way later,but he’d done it. He had demanded his life back, for at least a few days. It wasn’t everything, but it was a step in the right direction.He turned to his dog and smiled. “Not bad, eh? How about one more walk before bed?”Roger barked excitedly.
The End ~***~