Rogers Eyes By Ben Alvarado
Quite frankly, I don’t understand why I stayed married to him for this long. He is hypnotized to the television all day and only gets off of his old recliner to pee and get another beer. He sets the beer can on his belly, breaths like a raging vacuum, and laughs hysterically at The Simpsons jokes. I work seven days a week, I cook all three meals for him in the morning, and he expects all of the house chores done. Sometimes I wish he’d get a pain in his chest and die on that dirty recliner. Sometimes I wish I could just kill him.
He's compulsively jealous too. Reads the Bible determinedly and yells out adultery passages. I think God tattooed the word EXEMPT on my forehead; I'm no adulteress. We’ve been married for ten years now; the worst of my life.
“Deuteronomy 22:22, If a man is found sleeping with another man’s wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die!” Roger yells again.
I can understand that he’s lonely. He has no friends. I’m all he has. His family live two thousand miles away but they make no effort in calling each other. Besides, we can’t afford a telephone service. There have been nights when we’re lying in bed, a night light flickering because he fears the darkness. He tells me about his youth. The best one is how all the girls in his neighbourhood flirted with him. He says that all of the girls he dated paid for his food, gas, and entertainment. He had always wanted to pay but the girls’ insisted. I don’t believe anything he tells me anymore, he fantasises. I've heard his stories many times and the events are always different. He must have been charming once, a bit chubby maybe, but I still can’t recall what actually attracted me to him.
He insists we go to church on Sunday. I say no. Who’s going to pay the bills? I have to work. God is not going to drop money from the sky. So he doesn't go either. His excuse is that he won’t go unless I accompany him. “What will the people say if I show up alone?” he says. I think to myself, “It can’t be worse than what they already think, Roger.” I think he deliberately strives to make me feel awful. I’m no heathen; I’ve just lost hope in God. Roger holds on to religion, clinging to the Bible, praying for a high paying job to pour out of one of the twelve cans of beer in the refrigerator. I loved him once. That feeling today is like trying to remember being in my mother’s womb.
I’m standing at the kitchen sink, next to a pile of red brick that fell off the kitchen wall, supposed to get fixed by Roger three weeks ago. Roger is giving me his back and I grasp a piece of the brick. I return to my cooking. He turns up the volume so high I think the neighbours can hear it.
More often than not I go to bed before he does. Frankly, there are times I don’t know if he goes to bed. Last night I awoke to his groans. I was lying on one side and heard him for a while. We've not been intimate for years and when I hear his whimpers I fear that if I turn around he might seek to kiss me or touch me. A touch of his hand would feel like the hand of my uncle, a memory I don't want repeated.
He makes an effort to stand but the strain is too much. “Do you love me?” he says without looking at me.
I remain silent.
He scuffs his foot along the carpet. “Can I have another beer?” He grumbles something I don’t quite understand.
I give him the beer.
“You look tired,” he says, grabbing my arm and holding me back. “How was work?” He exhibits fake concern.
“Good.”
“Today was payday, right?”
I nod.
“Can I have another six-pack from the store?”
“There are still four beers in the refrigerator.”
“But it is early. Four beers are not enough.”
“The car needs a new alternator. We need the money. I’m tired of walking to work.”
“Walking is good. I need you to live a long time. What will I do without you?”
“Give me a few minutes and then I will go.”
My feet ache all of the time and my hands are always red and swollen from the hot water and sanitizer in the dishwashing sinks. I wash dishes at Bertha’s Breakfast and Roger has not had a job in six years. The palms of his hands are as soft as silk. He hurt his back working at a construction company and is now on disability. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. He said there was a bulge on the left side of his back but the only bulge I saw was the one growing on his stomach as he drank more and more. I remember the good times when he mowed the lawn and changed the oil of our car. Now he’s lazy and fat, bathes only once a week and wears the same underwear. I hate him.
“This wasn’t always here, you know,” he says, exposing his hairy belly.
“Yes, I know.”
“You need to return to school,” he says. “I need a fishing rod, I want to go fishing. I need a hobby.”
“We have no money, Roger. We need to fix the car first.”
“I should have never married you. My mother was right. She would have helped me.”
My hands start to shake.
“You have one other option,” he says "You work, you can pay. It’s your fault I look like this. You never helped me.”
I start to cry and return to the sink.
The cook at Bertha’s Breakfast has asked me out to dinner. I’m ten years his senior. He’s hard working, handsome…perhaps my salvation. I’m confused. I don’t know what to reply. He has no idea that I’m married and I don’t aim to tell him. My sister wants to know what’s stopping me. I can’t leave Roger. I think about Deuteronomy.
As I stand here, holding a white towel in my hand, I can hear him breathing heavily, laughing, and yelling over the high volume how long before his dinner’s ready. He flicks his cigarette ash onto the carpet so I can vacuum it tomorrow morning and the pyramid of beer cans that he assembles night after night is growing. I wish I could see the world he sees through his drunken eyes.
I turn off the kitchen light and walk closer to Roger. He’s holding his Bible on his lap, his greasy hands clasping the spine. I’m holding a white towel in my left and a piece of red brick in my right.
It's too late to turn back. If God is watching, he has already seen.
God, help me.
I lift the brick over my head.
What about my life?
All I feel is anger and despair, clouding my brain.
My arms and legs are shaking. Roger turns his head to face me; the Bible slips out of his hands and lands open on the floor. Within the television glare I meet his quizzical blue eyes, raised in surprise to see the brick in my hand. He looks shocked, he looks uncertain, he looks at me. He attempts to move but is stopped short. It's his heart you see, all that inactivity, beer and TV dinners. I kneel next to him and gaze into his blue eyes, watching the life force drift away, I suddenly recall what it was that made me fall for Roger. It was his eyes.
I get up, place the white towel over Roger’s face, and I look out the window. In the reflection I see an aging figure I do not recognise with wet cheeks and black eyes, wearing a restaurant uniform, all faded with the years.
The face in the window attempts to smile.
There is a god after all.
Copyright Ben Alvarado 2011
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/22631/rogers-eyes to download free to Kindle / iPhone etc
He's compulsively jealous too. Reads the Bible determinedly and yells out adultery passages. I think God tattooed the word EXEMPT on my forehead; I'm no adulteress. We’ve been married for ten years now; the worst of my life.
“Deuteronomy 22:22, If a man is found sleeping with another man’s wife, both the man who slept with her and the woman must die!” Roger yells again.
I can understand that he’s lonely. He has no friends. I’m all he has. His family live two thousand miles away but they make no effort in calling each other. Besides, we can’t afford a telephone service. There have been nights when we’re lying in bed, a night light flickering because he fears the darkness. He tells me about his youth. The best one is how all the girls in his neighbourhood flirted with him. He says that all of the girls he dated paid for his food, gas, and entertainment. He had always wanted to pay but the girls’ insisted. I don’t believe anything he tells me anymore, he fantasises. I've heard his stories many times and the events are always different. He must have been charming once, a bit chubby maybe, but I still can’t recall what actually attracted me to him.
He insists we go to church on Sunday. I say no. Who’s going to pay the bills? I have to work. God is not going to drop money from the sky. So he doesn't go either. His excuse is that he won’t go unless I accompany him. “What will the people say if I show up alone?” he says. I think to myself, “It can’t be worse than what they already think, Roger.” I think he deliberately strives to make me feel awful. I’m no heathen; I’ve just lost hope in God. Roger holds on to religion, clinging to the Bible, praying for a high paying job to pour out of one of the twelve cans of beer in the refrigerator. I loved him once. That feeling today is like trying to remember being in my mother’s womb.
I’m standing at the kitchen sink, next to a pile of red brick that fell off the kitchen wall, supposed to get fixed by Roger three weeks ago. Roger is giving me his back and I grasp a piece of the brick. I return to my cooking. He turns up the volume so high I think the neighbours can hear it.
More often than not I go to bed before he does. Frankly, there are times I don’t know if he goes to bed. Last night I awoke to his groans. I was lying on one side and heard him for a while. We've not been intimate for years and when I hear his whimpers I fear that if I turn around he might seek to kiss me or touch me. A touch of his hand would feel like the hand of my uncle, a memory I don't want repeated.
He makes an effort to stand but the strain is too much. “Do you love me?” he says without looking at me.
I remain silent.
He scuffs his foot along the carpet. “Can I have another beer?” He grumbles something I don’t quite understand.
I give him the beer.
“You look tired,” he says, grabbing my arm and holding me back. “How was work?” He exhibits fake concern.
“Good.”
“Today was payday, right?”
I nod.
“Can I have another six-pack from the store?”
“There are still four beers in the refrigerator.”
“But it is early. Four beers are not enough.”
“The car needs a new alternator. We need the money. I’m tired of walking to work.”
“Walking is good. I need you to live a long time. What will I do without you?”
“Give me a few minutes and then I will go.”
My feet ache all of the time and my hands are always red and swollen from the hot water and sanitizer in the dishwashing sinks. I wash dishes at Bertha’s Breakfast and Roger has not had a job in six years. The palms of his hands are as soft as silk. He hurt his back working at a construction company and is now on disability. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. He said there was a bulge on the left side of his back but the only bulge I saw was the one growing on his stomach as he drank more and more. I remember the good times when he mowed the lawn and changed the oil of our car. Now he’s lazy and fat, bathes only once a week and wears the same underwear. I hate him.
“This wasn’t always here, you know,” he says, exposing his hairy belly.
“Yes, I know.”
“You need to return to school,” he says. “I need a fishing rod, I want to go fishing. I need a hobby.”
“We have no money, Roger. We need to fix the car first.”
“I should have never married you. My mother was right. She would have helped me.”
My hands start to shake.
“You have one other option,” he says "You work, you can pay. It’s your fault I look like this. You never helped me.”
I start to cry and return to the sink.
The cook at Bertha’s Breakfast has asked me out to dinner. I’m ten years his senior. He’s hard working, handsome…perhaps my salvation. I’m confused. I don’t know what to reply. He has no idea that I’m married and I don’t aim to tell him. My sister wants to know what’s stopping me. I can’t leave Roger. I think about Deuteronomy.
As I stand here, holding a white towel in my hand, I can hear him breathing heavily, laughing, and yelling over the high volume how long before his dinner’s ready. He flicks his cigarette ash onto the carpet so I can vacuum it tomorrow morning and the pyramid of beer cans that he assembles night after night is growing. I wish I could see the world he sees through his drunken eyes.
I turn off the kitchen light and walk closer to Roger. He’s holding his Bible on his lap, his greasy hands clasping the spine. I’m holding a white towel in my left and a piece of red brick in my right.
It's too late to turn back. If God is watching, he has already seen.
God, help me.
I lift the brick over my head.
What about my life?
All I feel is anger and despair, clouding my brain.
My arms and legs are shaking. Roger turns his head to face me; the Bible slips out of his hands and lands open on the floor. Within the television glare I meet his quizzical blue eyes, raised in surprise to see the brick in my hand. He looks shocked, he looks uncertain, he looks at me. He attempts to move but is stopped short. It's his heart you see, all that inactivity, beer and TV dinners. I kneel next to him and gaze into his blue eyes, watching the life force drift away, I suddenly recall what it was that made me fall for Roger. It was his eyes.
I get up, place the white towel over Roger’s face, and I look out the window. In the reflection I see an aging figure I do not recognise with wet cheeks and black eyes, wearing a restaurant uniform, all faded with the years.
The face in the window attempts to smile.
There is a god after all.
Copyright Ben Alvarado 2011
http://www.feedbooks.com/userbook/22631/rogers-eyes to download free to Kindle / iPhone etc