Roger - Vesna McMaster

‘Oh my goodness.’  Becky stops outside the café. A man is clutching at the brick wall, retching at a shrub. ‘Are you OK?’ (He patently is not OK.) The street is strangely deserted. His shoulders are heaving. His knees wobble. This is no time for squeamishness. She runs back into the café, comes back with a glass of water and some tissues. A choking, wobbly drinking process ensues. The man is about fifty, with grizzled hair and wearing a nice suit. He stares at her aghast.

‘Do I know you?’ he asks.

Becky wonders if his problem is as much mental as physical. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘I’m sorry. I have Retroactive Onset Gastro-Oesophageal Reflux. ROGER. It’s quite a burden. I’m sorry it had to be you.’

‘Oh don’t worry. That sounds nasty. You getting it treated?’

‘There’s no treatment.’

‘Oh.’

He stares at her as if waiting.

‘Are you OK on your own now?’ Becky shifts from one foot to the other. Her right hand starts to itch.

‘I’m OK. Are you?’

‘What?’ She blinks.

‘ROGER. It’s a terrible disease.’

‘Oh?’ She backs away, out of sneezing distance.

‘I’m afraid so. It’s Retroactive. That means is re-creates the situation that made me this way.’

‘Sorry? What way?’

‘The throwing-up way. I’m so sorry,’ he reiterates, staring at her as if she’s about to spontaneously combust.

An inexplicable surge of rage pulses through her. What is he so sorry about? It’s not her that’s up-chucking on the street corner. Who does he think he is? She clears her throat.

‘If you have issues like that you should really be wearing a mask.’ Her right hand itches again. He gazes at her sorrowfully. ‘What are you just standing there for?’ Something in her chest is rising.

He takes a breath. ‘You see, in this instance, the situation was a long time ago. In high school.

‘You’ve had a bug since high school?’ Becky’s intonation rises in disbelief.

‘No, I was bullied in high school. It made me throw up when they hit me.’

What the hell was he telling her this for? The Thing in Becky’s chest keeps rising.

‘The ROGER makes them come back.’ He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry,’ he repeats.

T

he itch in her hand is beyond control. Out flies the fist. Smack, in his teeth. Out goes the foot. Kick, on the shin. The Thing has taken over. If she hits him hard enough, everything will be OK. Just hit him harder. You can make it go away. Says the Thing.

The next thing Becky is aware of is the flash of the police lights and a hand on her head as she is escorted into a car that smells of disinfectant and is definitely not her own. On the other side of the road, an ambulance drives away in the opposite direction.