Prologue - There is No News

An introduction to Roger

Prologue

 

There is No News

 

Roger was the most extraordinarily unremarkable man you could ever meet. I appreciate that is quite the juxtaposition, how can one be both extraordinary and unremarkable? Roger managed to do just this. If he was to be observed by normal society, he would indeed be seen to be wholly extraordinary in his remarkableness, or complete lack thereof. However, Roger would never allow anyone to become close enough to him to see that much of his life. That may bring a spark of something other than mundanity.

 

That’s not to say that Roger was unhappy with his existence. Far from it, Roger was very happy. Not only happy but also healthy, he had a letter from a psychologist to prove it. He’d been asked to see one as part of a pre-work employment assessment. Of course, the psychologist thought that Roger was odd and certainly she had encouraged him to find some fulfilment in his life. She had a Hungarian accent, the type that many would have found incredibly seductive. Roger certainly didn’t perceive this.

 

“Roger” she purred,  “ave you considered, peeerhaps, ze taught of finding something that vill spark a……”, she paused to allow the thought of the pending comment to build gravitas, as if it were the most important thing that one might hear. This is a skill inherent to most psychologists. “An interest, an obby, so to speak?” she finished, rather anti-climatically.

 

Roger had told her that he quite liked painting small flags and attaching them onto matchsticks, lining them up on his coffee table, in effect creating the United Nations of all coffee tables. She hadn’t seemed particularly impressed by this, Roger didn’t seem to notice and if he did notice, he didn’t care.

 

Nevertheless, he had passed his pre-work assessment. This is predominantly due to the fact that Roger’s work consisted of data entry. People gave Roger sheets of paper with numbers written on them, Roger typed these seemingly meaningless numbers into his computer and then on the last working day of every month Roger found a sum of money, perfectly suited to his meagre needs, deposited into his bank account. This work certainly didn’t require an employee to be dynamic, idealistic or to use initiative. In fact, these were traits that were actively discouraged in this particular job, lest an employee be overtaken by a giddy rush of excitement and decide to add, or remove a few zeros from their numbers, or say, accidentally redirect multiples of these numbers, into an undisclosed foreign bank account.

A workforce of people like Roger would certainly ensure that this never happened, productivity would be increased tenfold, office flings would be a thing of the past.

*                                  *                                  *

To say that Roger’s taste was simple would be to make simple much more exciting than the word warrants. Roger was the kind of man that could stand in the centre of a pretentious dinner party in his floral, baggy underpants and not a soul would even register his presence. He was very much the Tuesday of humanity; dull, uneventful and three days away from the heady excitement of the weekend. His wardrobe matched his outlook on life. Predominantly grey, with flashes of black. Not at all imaginative or exciting, unless of course, you find black trousers and grey jumpers at all exciting. That said though, Roger did own a rather dashing pair of white socks. Granted, they had never been worn and they were still tagged together by the most annoying piece of clear plastic. You know the type, the one that always leaves one end inside the sock, it’s normally the spiky sharp end too, never the flat squared end.

 

Rogers’s tedium filtered down into the food that he ate. He was very much the type of person who had set meals on set days, this was not just a rule, in Roger’s life this was the law. Monday was baked chicken with boiled new potatoes. Tuesday, minced beef and onions. Wednesday he always ate a plain beef stew and dumplings. Thursdays were a particular favourite for Roger, wagyu beef, king trumpet mushrooms, baby turnips and sesame seeds. Of course, that’s sarcasm, he ate plain cod on Thursday, sometimes with a portion of oven chips. Friday consisted of a curry, highly adventurous for a man of his demure ways, but also a chicken korma with plain rice and any hint of spice removed. Saturdays and Sundays consisted of eggs, scrambled or fried on some days to push the boat out, but mostly just boiled.

 

He had no friends to speak of, every morning he’d say hello to Nancy, his elderly downstairs neighbour. He only did this as a result of her incessant call of “good morning” as he walked down the stairs and past the front door to her flat every day. He lived on the top floor of a three-storey block of concrete flats. It was a sparse living space consisting of three rooms. A bedroom, an open plan kitchen/living room and a bathroom/toilet. All were painted in the same shade of magnolia, all were furnished with generic, insignificant, Scandinavian branded furniture. Cheap, unimaginative and generic.

 

He said “thank you” to the bus driver who gave him his ticket every morning after Roger had given him the exact bus fare, counted to he exact penny. He only did this out of a sense polite duty. Even his colleagues did not talk to him, they mostly just gave him sheets of paper with large rows of printed numbers for him to input. They then moved away, almost at a run, lest he look at them or try to communicate with them. He never did.

 

That, in a nutshell, is Roger.

 

As bland as 18^th April 1930, the day a news presenter’s voice crackled onto the airwaves of the BBC radio service and boldly proclaimed “Good evening. Today is Good Friday. There is no news”, before playing a piano interlude and continuing on with the evening’s broadcasts.

 

Oh.

Apart from the one time that he saved the world and the entirety of human population.

Author's Note

This is the first effort I've ever made at writing fiction so please leave whatever criticism you feel just. All comments are appreciated, good or bad.

Reviews

[skiiish367]

This chapter is great! You portrayed and developed you character well, and I really enjoyed reading this chapter. AN you described the setting so well, I can picture exactly what it may look like.

The last line was the best part, it's got me hooked, and I can't wait to read more! Please update soon, and continue putting as much effort, because it really shows.

[Yellow Tambourine]

Thank you so much for your kind words! The second chapter is halfway written and hopefully over the next week I'll have a preliminary draft ready to upload! Thank you once more!

[redalia]

i really enjoyed reading this. i love the narrator, and i love how effortlessly you developed the character Roger. the last sentence was the perfect hook! it was a really nice surprise!

[Yellow Tambourine]

Thank you very much, your comments are much appreciated! Whenever I read it back in my head, the narrator has the voice of either Sir Ian McKellen or Stephen Fry. Not sure if that aids or sets back the narration!

The worst part of a good hook line? The fear of disappointing the reader!

[redalia]

it's great that real people somewhat inspired you to come up with your narrator here! looking forward to the next chapter!