Roger that

Last week, I sat on BJ’s bed staring at my laptop, writing a response piece for class. A typical night together looks like this: me doing homework, BJ making me dinner, bringing me water or sometimes a glass of wine, every now and then (so as not to distract me too much) making me laugh, bringing me a bowl of cookies'n'cream ice cream. You get the idea. I don’t deserve him.

On this particular night, I looked up to see what BJ was doing at his desk. He was opening up a new pack of batteries and then pulling out these two black bricks from an old-school, red cardboard box, circa 1980.

What, may I ask, are you doing? And what are those black things?

HJ!, he turns to me excitedly, eyes lit up. These are my old walkie talkies from when I was a kid. I found them at home over the weekend.

OK. Why do you have batteries though?

I’m going to put the batteries in and use the walkie talkies.

I didn’t know whether to laugh, go back to my homework as if that’s normal—a 29-year-old wanting to use walkie talkies when our cell phones are sitting idly nearby, or continue the question game. I chose the latter.

What are you going to do with these?

As he carefully put the batteries into the black, boxy walkie talkies seriously the size of bricks, and then pulled out the long silver antennae, he said, I’m going to put them in my car for emergencies. To be prepared.

(Duh, Heather. Obviously.)

He then hands one to me, presses the button on his own, and says, Heather, can you hear me?

Uh, yeah. You’re sitting two feet away!

No, c’mon. Try it. Use the walkie talkies.

I press the button on mine. I can hear you.

I can’t hear you. Press the button.

I press the button again. I am pressing the button!

Now I can hear you.

I press the button. Ok. Really? Are we really going to do this?

I can’t hear you. Press the button.

Using the walkie talkies, he informs me that he’s now going to head downstairs and outside to change my oil (I told you...I don’t deserve him) and that we need to stay in contact.

I press the button. OK.

I’m heading down the stairs.

I press the button. Roger that.

I’m heading outside.

We continued in this fashion until he had successfully changed my oil and returned to his bedroom. He was thrilled that his walkie talkies actually still worked and carefully put them back into the box to go out into his car. I was wondering if any of his neighbors were watching him talk into this thing. I was also wondering how I got so lucky...how I have someone who wants to be in constant contact with me, who wants to walk and talk with me through life.

Roger that.