Roger:

A once in a lifetime opportunity doesn't simply get offered every single Tuesday of the year - hints the title “once in a lifetime”. Instead, it gets offered one rainy, random Tuesday afternoon.

***

Roger was only trying to take his usual nap in between his Tuesday shift at the joint down below his Brooklyn apartment. Was that too much to ask? Judging by the harsh, inconsistent knocks on his door, yes. Yes, it was. Roger learned two things at that very moment: First, if you do happen to have the audacity to wake up a man in mid-dream, at least knock in a soft, rhythmic fashion. He thought whoever was knocking could certainly learn a lesson from the drizzling rain outside. Second, if you do happen to have the audacity to wake up a man in mid-dream, that someone deserves a good lecture. While rehearsing the future lecture in his head, Roger stood up from his decaying couch, ventured the three steps it takes him to get to the door, took his usual, bittered glance at the picture hanging beside the door, and impatiently jerked it open revealing a stern-looking older gentleman. Though Roger was only 23, it made no difference, he felt as if he was looking into a mirror - the old man was even wearing a similar-looking, burgundy colored cardigan.

“How do you do?” grumbled the man.

“I’m fine,” Roger replied, to his embarrassment, his voice broke halfway through his response.

“I’m here to make you aware of a once in a lifetime opportunity,” began the man. It was now obvious to Roger the only similarities between the old man and he was the burgundy cardigan; nothing else. He had only just now noticed his thick New York accent. The elders' accent paired with his obnoxious hand gestures only made Roger’s desire to slam the door in his face all the more painful. But he wasn’t going to do that; that would be rude.

“If you’re interest--”

“I’m not.” Roger cut him off abruptly by slamming the door. He had given into his desire after all. The man knocked on the door. Roger opened it; after all, if he ignored the knocking, that would be rude.

“It’s simple,” continued the man, completely ignoring Roger’s very obvious opposition, “alls you gotta do is deliver this notebook to the owner and, boom, $20,000 is yours to keep.” The gentleman waved a little, black notebook in Roger’s face.

“And the catch?” Roger asked, pushing the book out of his face. Roger knows nothing is ever that simple.

“There is no catch. Just deliver it to the person whose name is on the inside of this book.” the old man repeated, waving the book in Roger’s face. Again. By this point, Roger was both more annoyed than usual as well as certain this whole charade was a hoax. However, Roger decided he might as well humor the gentleman who had ruined his noonday nap.

“Sure, I’ll take it. Hand it here.” Roger hissed, jerking the book out of the man’s hand.

“Good choice, pal.” the old man assured him.

“That’s all then?” questioned Roger.

“That’s all.” nodded the gentleman. Just as suddenly as he was there, the old gentleman left Roger’s doorway and vanished around the corner. Roger stood there for a while. Though $20,000 isn’t offered to simply anyone on a given Tuesday, an overwhelming amount of regret was flooding him. What had gotten into him? He glanced at the clock on the wall: it read noon. He only had an hour and a half until he had to report for duty at the restaurant below.

“Those dishes aren’t going to wash themselves.” Johnny, Roger’s boss, clarified every other day.

Roger determined the wisest thing to do was to throw the little, black book into the garbage can. But for some reason, Roger was feeling a sense of curiosity. Perhaps it was his boss’ constant reminder about the dishes ringing in his ear, perhaps it was the dreary weather, or perhaps it was the name on the inside of the book he had just read: Gregory Timpleton. Why is it odd things like this that always happen to Roger. It could’ve been anyone’s name on the folded front page of the notebook. But, of course, it had to be his. Perhaps it was another Greogry Timpleton, Roger thought. Or maybe it was something entirely less coincidental. Maybe Greg needs him. That’s highly unlikely, Roger remembered; Gregory never needs help.

“Why?” Roger complained to no one except for the two tweed coats hanging on the wall. Roger saw the irony of it all. He recognized the catch the old man had forgotten to mention. Gregory wasn’t just a name on the inside of a little, black book; he was his dearest friend from a hundred million years ago. At least, that’s how long the two years without him had felt. It was Gregory’s jolly self in the photo beside the door which Roger always eyed angrily. The postcard from France tucked in the corner of the frame that always drove him mad. But there must’ve been a reason he hadn’t taken the picture down the moment Gregory left with his girl for France. Basically, this was the easiest and hardest way for Roger to make $20,000. He’s just one phone call away. Yeah, but he’d be telling himself the same thing everyday the past two years. What had changed? He was trying to remember...oh that’s right: the $20,000. Begrudgingly -no more than that- unwillingly, Roger picked up the phone, dialed his phone number by memory, and listened anxiously for the sound of the first ring.

“Why does it rain all the time in January?” Roger questioned the taxi driver as he plopped into the now wet backseat of the vehicle. The taxi driver merely grunted something that sounded like a mix between “I don’t know” and “I don’t care”. It didn’t really matter either way.

“Could you just drive down two blocks and sit for a while?” Roger asked, “I’m just waiting for someone.” All of a sudden, Roger felt so ashamed. He couldn’t believe he lived two blocks down from his pal and hadn’t once started to walk there on his lunch break. Why hadn’t he used one of his Tuesday naps to visit him? Of course he only just figured out Gregory was back in the states. But, that’s not the point. The point is why had it taken Roger so long to call? Now, it wasn’t even himself that was making him venture over to his place; it was the promise the little black book carried of $20,000. His stomach became tight.

“I didn’t think I’d have to offer you money to call me, Roger.” sighed Gregory, closing the door of the taxi behind him. Whether intentionally or not, he slid his rain drenched umbrella over Roger’s shoes soaking through all the way to his wool socks. Now, not only were all of his clothes soaked through, but his feet were freezing too. So this is how this is going to go, Roger decided.

“I didn’t know you wanted to see me, Gregory. If you think about it, normal people call or write when they want to visit. Or be visited, in this case.” Roger suggested, peering out of the completely fogged up window-what a lousy diversion that turned out to be. “Plus, last time I checked you were in France with Amoria?” Roger added. At that remark, Gregory turned to Roger. At least it felt as if his eyes were on him; he couldn't really tell. He was still avoiding eye contact.

“Then why didn’t you write or call?” Gregory challenged. Roger didn’t know. Why hadn’t he called Greg? What was he talking about? He had already beat himself up over that. Besides, this was Greg’s fault; not his!

“You left, Greg. That automatically makes you the one that has to call me.” Roger fired back. He knew that was a poor and selfish argument. But it was sorta true and he had no intention of being the one at fault. It was quiet all of a sudden; why was it quiet? He turned to look at him: a mistake. He was crying. Roger knows it is okay for men to cry. Good even. But in all of his years of friendship with Gregory, the only time Roger had seen him cry was when he broke his arm in second grade. In an instant, the money didn’t matter. Roger was angry that he’d let that be the case so quickly; but, it was true. The money no longer mattered to him. His friend, his prodigal son-like friend, was all that mattered now.

“Greg, I’m sorry,” Roger began. Why did Roger always have to admit to everything first? Gregory was at fault, too. “Are you okay?” He asked Greg.

“I’m not okay, Roger. I’m really not. Amoria died last week.” Gregory groaned.

“Oh Greg.” Roger murmured.

“Take us back to my place would you?” Roger asked the taxi driver. They just sat there in silence. Not an awkward, out of place silence. Instead a deep, mournful silence could be heard in its place. When they arrived, Roger got out quickly. He didn’t have much experience in the manners department but he could tell by the paleness of Greg’s face that he would need help out of the vehicle. Roger pulled the door open and offered his hand to Greg. Roger placed his hand on Greg's shoulders and guided him into the restaurant below his apartment.

“This way” Roger nodded. The bells on the door clanked loudly as the two men stumbled into the building.

“Roge!” Hollered Johnny from the kitchen in the back. Johnny’s irritating voice on top of the 70’s disco music, clanking from the kitchen, and miscellaneous mingling voices from other diners nearly made Roger turn right back around and head someplace else. But Roger knew better and decided Greg couldn’t handle another minute without a cup of balck coffee.

“We’re just sitting over here for a while.” Greg nodded towards the back of the restaurant.

“Fine!” Johnny retorted. Roger watched as Johnny threw his grease soaked towel over his shoulder and huffed back into the kitchen.

“One black coffee please, Val?” Roger asked the waitress passing by them. She nodded and, shortly after Roger and Greg were seated, brought over a pot of coffee and two mugs for them.

“Thank you.” Roger softly smiled at Val. Roger hadn’t smiled in ages. Come to think of it, he hadn’t smiled since Greg left the US. It couldn’t be that, though. He couldn’t quite put his finger on what was happening inside of him. Even amid all of the chaos and turmoil of Greg’s circumstances being poured on him suddenly, Roger was somehow happy. Not overjoyed or anything; just happy.

“Do you wanna tell me about it, Greg?” Roger asked him, as he filled the mugs with coffee.

“Not really. I just want to be sad, I think.” Greg replied assuredly. Roger didn’t know why what Greg had just said made sense to him, but it did.

The pair of them sat for hours. Four pots of coffee were consumed, two rounds of tears were shed, and hours of catching up conspired on that dreary, Tuesday afternoon. Those moments reminded Roger of what a real lifetime opportunity was: It wasn’t $20,000 offered out of nowhere. It was the long, overdue conversation with a friend and a pot of coffee in a small restaurant inside of a big city that were really worthwhile. Roger graciously accepted that offer as the imperfect hands continued to make their way around the clock. Roger was okay with that. In fact, he liked it.

***

A once in a lifetime opportunity doesn't simply get offered every single Tuesday of the year - hints the title “once in a lifetime”. Instead, it gets offered one rainy, random Tuesday afternoon.