The Darker Tower

Roger fell asleep after all that remembering. He dreamed that he was in school, wearing only his underwear. He tossed and turned restlessly through the night, especially when he got the part of the dream where he had to stand in front of the class, reciting his oral book report. Not only did he not read the book, and there was no movie adaptation to see because, as you all know by now, the world had moved on, but also he was still only in his underwear.
Man, did Roger hate dreams.

He woke with a start, picked up a big stick and whacked a snake, then ate it (the snake), and readied himself for more trudging. So, the Man in Taupe had a head start. Probably a big one. But he was Roger of Lower East Gilead, Son of Stephen, brother of stupid-head, and he would not fail in his quest to at least catch Martin.

Two days later he was really cussing loudly, saying how stupid he was to chase a man (who could conjure s'mores, no less!) across the desert, and he was about to die pitifully, face down in the desert with nothing in his belly save for the last few bites of that snake he clubbed a ways back, when he encountered a plain little hovel sticking out of the desert like, well, a plain little hovel.

He moved to its front door, not caring if he was being ambushed by Martin. Heck, it could be Jehovah's Witnesses for all he cared. He just wanted to get out of this merciless hot sun and, more importantly, avoid dying. He knocked vigorously, renewed by the possibility of eating something other than two-day-old raw snake (he knew he should have packed matches!), and was met at the door by a crazy-looking man with a thatch of strawberry-colored hair and a wife-beater tee shirt on, half tucked into his jeans. The crazy-looking man ushered him inside, and offered him a bowl of really, really salty pretzels, which, come to think of it, are not good desert snacks in the least.

Roger tried not to be rude, and he ate the pretzels readily. Although they were very salty, they were leagues better than two-day-old raw snake. Roger tried to hint at getting some water by smacking his lips, first subtly, then quite loudly. When the crazy-looking man didn't take the hint, Roger stepped it up by wheezing a couple of times while he was chewing the pretzels. When that didn't work, he took out two aspirin and tried swallowing them, only spitting them out after theatrically making big attempted-swallowing noises. Finally, when Roger concluded that the crazy-looking man was crazy in more than looks, he sighed and slumped back in the rickety wooden chair which Roger would have recognized as old and unstable had he not spent the whole time pining for a glass of water.

"How's them pretzels?" the crazy man said, pointing to the bowl. "Durn crappy thing to eat after humpin' it through the desert, wouldn't ya say?"
"Well, now that you bring it up," Roger stated. "I'm surprised you eat something so salty out here where there's no water." He looked anxiously at the hovel dweller, wondering what he'd say next.

"I've had those durn things in the pantry for years," the crazy man said with a laugh. "Couldn't get anybody to eat em." He slapped his thighs as if he'd just heard a bone-tickling joke. "Surprised you didn't ask for some water, though. I woulda."

"Dumbass," croaked a voice from above. The gunslinger whirled around, reaching for his sidearm.

There, perched on a rafter just out of reach, was a sickly black bird. A raven or a crow. Roger didn't care which. He was more concerned with its smart mouth. Roger knew the world was movin' on, or at said he believed it a million times in the past just to get his brother Roland to shut up, but, man, you shouldn't talk to a gunslinger like that, even if you're a scraggly little bird. Probably especially if you're a scraggly little bird, since scraggly little birds taste much better than decades-old pretzels.

Roger just gave a hurm and turned his back on the nuisance, hoping the insult was its one-and-only contribution to the conversation.

"Yeah, talkin' to you, sweetcheeks," the bird croaked again. "You dumbass." Roger could hear the bird ruffle its feathers in a just-out-of-reach bullying posture. The gunslinger over his shoulder, giving the bird the dirtiest look he could, then realizing that giving a bird a dirty look probably wouldn't amount to anything.

"Oh, pay him no mind," the crazy man said, waving a hand at the bird. "That's Zeppo. He's got a little mouth on him. Tried teachin' him some real good learnin' stuff, way back. Ten Commandments and the Lord's prayer, and the lyrics to a Paul Simon song or two."

"Eh?" Roger said, perking up. He hadn't heard any of the words of the Man Jesus in quite some time. "Does he still know any of them, stranger?"

"Oh, let's see," the redhead replied. "Zeppo, tell me a Commandment." He spoke up and the bird craned its neck as its master spoke. It ruffled the feathers around its head and chittered, as if singing some warmup scales.

"Comin' atcha, sweetcheeks," Zeppo warbled. "Ten Commandments. Rrrwak! Rrrwak! Thou shall not put em' in your pantry with your cupcakes! Brrrawk!"

Roger sat perplexed, wondering if the commandments changed as the world moved on.

"Sorry, stranger," the crazy man said while scratching at his mop of red hair. "He gets a little mixed-up sometimes. He used to speak 'em real good, but that was back before the wife died, bless her soul."

"When was that?" Roger asked bluntly, looking the crazy man in the eye, still trying to figure out if the desert-dweller was sane or not.

"Oh, that's hard to figger," the now-only-possibly crazy man said, scratching his head even harder. "Time's been a funny thing these past years. Used to be only math class seemed to stretch on forever. Now, heck, it's hard to tell days from weeks, weeks from months. I'd say my Ginny's been dead these past couple of months, maybe even a decade."

Roger thought about this in quiet contemplation, studying the man. Finally he spoke. "You suck at telling time, desert dweller." Roger must have been out whizzing during the week that Mister Curt gave his lessons on diplomacy, I guess.

"Unkind," the stranger said, shrugging.

"Fatass lardbutt, make me a pot pie," Zeppo shrieked to no one in particular, recalling his master's favorite words to his deceased wife, which for obvious reasons hadn't been uttered in at least a couple of months, give or take a hundred.

"Charming lad," Roger said, thumbing toward the bird. "Ever think of cooking him?"

"Brrrrrawwk!" Zeppo shouted. "Gotta pee. Be right back." He scooted into a darkened corner and began looking busy.

Roger was reminded of his brother Roland's parrot, David, who was possibly the only living thing that didn't tire of Roland's incessant "Dark Tower this, Dark Tower that" spiel. It would stare at Roland day and night, but that might have less to do with the bird's devotion than to the fact that its brain was smaller than a drought-scorched snow pea.

"So, what's your name, stranger," Roger asked, trying to ignore the bratty bird. He gave it one more dangerous look before settling his eyes on his host.

"Clarence Brown," he answered. "But you can just call me Brown."

Roger eyed him suspiciously. From the moment he set his eyes on the man, he thought that it might be the Man in Taupe.

Clarence Brown detected the skepticism. "If you don't believe me, stranger, you can check the name on my junk mail." He pointed to a teetering stack of pre-approved credit card applications and magazine subscription deals.

"Hurm," Roger stated, with no real meaning. He had tried yar as his response all those years ago, when he first heard it and thought it might be a cool thing to say. He liked it, but so did that stupid Roland, and when Roland said it over and over again, coupled with talk of the Dark Tower, then Roger dumped it for hurm, and openly stated that anyone that said yar was gay.

"You think I'm that feller in tannish-gray?" Brown said.

"Taupe," Roger corrected.

"Thought it was more desert rose myself, if you ask me."

"Didn't ask you," Roger said.

"Up your butt!" Zeppo croaked. Roger immediately glared at the offending bird, who sat there, all innocent looking, pointing a wing at Brown and shrugging.

"Hush, Zeppo," Brown said. "Well, I ain't the man in desert rose."

"Taupe," Roger corrected irritably.

"So you say," Brown said. "Taupe. I ain't him."

"Well, if you were him, isn't that what you'd say?" Roger said. "And if you weren't him, isn't that also what you'd say? So, therefore, what use is saying that at all?" He looked around the room, hoping that somebody else that he hadn't detected before witnessed his amazing reasoning. There was nobody, of course, save the bird.

"Up your butt!" Brown said. When Roger looked, he pointed to the bird.

"Liar liar pants on fire!" Zeppo screeched.

"Shut yer wormhole, Zep!" Brown fired back.

"Dickweed!" the bird cried.

"Jerkface!" Brown said.

"Buttwad!"

"Snotnose!"

"Ignoramus! Brawk!"

"Turkey lips!"

"Brownthumb!"

As this was going on, Roger nestled as best as he could in his rickety chair to wait it out. Not realizing how tired he actually was, he fell asleep.

When he awoke, Brown was scowling in his chair, frantically scratching at his head. He sat up momentarily, finger raised as if struck by a great epiphany, but then settled back down.

"I win!" Zeppo screeched in triumph.

"Um…jerkface!" Brown blurted. "Aha!"

"Brawwk! Used that one already!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

"Did not!"

"Did too!"

Brown looked at Roger for help. "Did I use that one already, stranger?"

Roger had been awakened from a deep sleep, where he muddily dreamed of his youth. "Yar," Roger said, with the word slipping out before he could catch it.

Brown looked at him contemptuously. "Well, that's a gay thing to say."

"Sorry. Yo."

"That's gayish, too," Brown said matter-of-factly.

"Yuppers."

"Nah, that's no good."

"Yeah," Roger tried.

"Too before-the-world-started-moving-on, if you ask me. Try something that doesn't end in y."

"Si," Roger said.

"Too foreign."

"Domo origato, Mister Brown."

"Waaay too foreign."

Roger contemplated. "Grooovy," he cooed, like oiled silk.

"Hey, that's good. Use that one."

"Grooovy," Roger said, fake-shooting him with his hand and winking.

"Don't overdo it, though."

"Grooovy," Roger said, agreeing.

"Brawwk! I win!"

"Aw, shut ye up," Brown said, waving the bird off.

Roger grabbed one of the pretzel sticks, nearly pinching it with his middle finger and thumb. With a mighty flick, the pretzel shot across the room toward the perched bird. Unbelievably, it struck him square in the face, and the bird became a wild dervish of angry speech and exploding feathers. He blurted a blue streak that would have made a baseball manager blush, then sulked in the corner out of pretzel range.

"Ye are truly a gunslinger!" Brown said, perking up. "A more amazing shot I've never saw!"

"You could tell just from that one truly amazing shot?" Roger beamed.

"Yep," Brown said, settling back down. "That and the fact that I checked your wallet when you fell asleep. It's not a flattering picture on your I.D."

"Ya…grooovy," Roger caught himself. He wasn't sure he liked his new catch phrase, but he'd use it out of respect for his host, for the time being. "They like totally took that picture when I wasn't ready. And I wore my hair longer back then."

"So you're chasing the Man in Taupe, then?" Brown said.

"Grooovy," Roger replied, already tiring of it. "How long since you saw him?"

"Dunno. Weeks. Maybe months. Couldn't be a year yet, could it?" Brown shrugged.

"You really do suck at the time thing," Roger said, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. "Want one?"

Brown accepted, and continued. "When he was here, he just stayed for a meal. Invited him to spend the night, but he declined. Said he had to catch a train. Tried to tell him the last train around here was a few generations ago. So, he corrected himself and said he had to get home to let the dog out. Didn't argue with him. Figured he was being chased."

"You're pretty smart for a guy who tells time like a four-year-old," Roger said sincerely.

"Thankee," Brown said.

"Anyway, the Man in Taupe? Any details would help."

"Ah, yes, he et dinner and left. Took a poop out back. Didja mean details like that? Hard to figure if that would help you out some, but you said any details…"

"Get on with it," Roger said, rolling his hand. "He pooped, then what?"

"Said he had to get going. Said something like 'Buttercup will pee on the carpeting, or tear up the garbage if I don't let her out', and he wasn't a good liar, to tell the truth. But, as I said, I figured he was lying for a reason and let him carry on a bit. He filled his waterskin out back, and left through the desert. What's he done that you're all chasin' him about?"

"Many things. First of all, he made out with my mom."

"Ooh," Brown said.

"Secondly, he tried to kill me in the town back a-ways, Dull."

"That's not very nice," Brown said.

"Lastly, he might hold the secret that would help me stop the destruction of the whole entire universe."

"Wow! Made out with your mom, eh?" Brown said, winking. "That's gotta suck! It's hard enough to think about your own parents messin' around, but, you know, when someone else is making out with your mom, that's even worse. Unless your mom is hot. Is your mom hot?"

"She was pretty, if that's what you're asking. I shot and killed her. And what's worse, my stupid brother Roland is all mad at me about it. Hey, that reminds me, if another gunslinger comes through here, stall him for a while. You really bite at telling time, so it'll probably be no problem. Keep him a month or two."

"Why, stranger?"

"Long story, but he's looking for something called the Dark Tower. I'm looking for the Darker Tower, which is way cooler, if you want to know. If he finds the Dark Tower before I find the Darker Tower, I'll never hear the end of it, and family gatherings will really blow."

"I see. You said something about Dull. How was it?"

Roger sat back in his chair and sighed. He was too tired to fight off a flashback. "Killed everybody," Roger said. "Every man, woman and child. A horse and a hamster, too. But, it's not as bad as it sounds."

"Sure it's not," Brown said. "But go on anyway."

So Roger of Lower East Gilead adjusted his butt in his seat because he knew the flashback was going to be a long one, and started talking.

Roger dragged his mule through the tiny hamlets that peppered the scrublands between civilization and the bleak desert. He had gotten the beast back in the town of Credence Clearwater, just one of seemingly endless stops on his quest to catch the Man in Taupe. It had nothing distinctive about it, save the fact that there was a semi-normal mule for sale, which Roger paid for gladly with one of his remaining pieces of gold.

Each time he came to a new town, he inquired about his quarry. Each time he was told that the Man in Taupe was a week or two ahead of him. He was inspired, however, with the fact that the gap was closing, and also because there was a Starbucks in each town, where he could get a blended coffee, a steamed latte, or, when he was in the mood, a half-caff, flavored cappuccino.

He moseyed into Dull in the afternoon, where the weather was preparing to move from scorching to not-quite-as-scorching-but-still-quite-damn-hot. Some boys were playing outside one of the first buildings, a ramshackle barn that still held the seldom-employed town blacksmith.

"Where's the tavern, boys?" Roger stated bluntly, never one for chit-chat. "This town's got a tavern, ain't it?"

"Doesn't it," a freckled boy responded.

"I'm asking you," Roger said.

"I said doesn't it," the boy said.

"Are you one of the Slow Children?" Roger asked, suddenly realizing that this may be one of the remnants of the old civilization, with its brain addled from the wars, malaise, famine and pestilence that made the world say "You know what? Maybe it's a good time to get movin' on, you know?"

"Who are you calling slow?" the boy barked back. His three friends, who had been trying hard to ignore the stranger, especially since he was an adult, and adults didn't really know anything good, since all they did was send you to bed when the really good shows came on, or made you order a smaller portion at a meal when, in reality you wanted to eat a bucketful of whatever it was, reluctantly joined the conversation and wondered how they could help their freckled pal.

"Young'un," Roger said wearily. "Now be a good lad and tell me where a tavern is around these parts." He patted the boy on the top of the head in a most patronizing way.

"Down there, past the tumbleweeds," the boy said, hoping that the stranger would take the direction and leave them alone to resume their game of sitting-around-in-the-dust. Roger looked and pointed.

"There?" the gunslinger asked, trying to be sure.

"No, not those tumbleweeds, those over there."

"That one?" Roger asked, pointed once again.

"Nope, the other one, past the dessicated corpse of the weed-eater."

"Oh," the gunslinger said, understanding. "The one with the green trim around the door."

"Nope, the other one. Not the corpse with the hat. The one with the leg all twisted, this way." The boy tried twisting his leg in imitation.

"Oh, I see. Thanks, lad. The one with the hitching post in front."

"No, not that dessicated corpse. That one's leg is twisted this way." He again imitated with his leg. "The one that's twisted this way." He turned his leg the other way the best that he could.

"Oh, okay, got it. The one with the barrel out front."

"Noo, that's a dessicated corpse, but it's a horse. The other one, behind it."

"Gotcha, the building with the broken window."

"No, beyond that," the boy said, summoning all the patience he could muster. "That one, there."

"With the overgrown weeds out front?"

"Nope, next to that."

"Ah, the one with the rotten walkway floorboards."

"No, the other side."

"Oh, I see, with the…"

"Nope." The boy sat with his fists on his hips, waiting.

"The one with…?"

"Nope again."

"Oh, I see…"

"Nope."

"Okay, son, I give up."

"THAT one!" The boy made Roger squat down, and had the gunslinger follow where his arm pointed. Roger could finally see, two buildings away, a well-lit building with a gigantic sign out front that read MEL'S TAVERN. Piano music poured forth, and Roger could now identify the sound of clinking beer mugs.

"That's the one I thought it was at first," Roger said, patting the boy atop the head for a last time. "Why didn't you just say so in the first place?"
The boy thought about socking the gunslinger in the pills, but went back to the game with his friends.

Roger started walking, then stopped to address the boys once again. He pulled out a gold coin and threw it into the circle of whatever game they were playing.

"What's that for?" the boys asked, wide-eyed.

"For taking care of my mule. Brush him down. When you're done, come tell me. I'll be over at the tavern, which is right there." Roger pointed toward Mel's, then squatted down so that the boys could see where his arm was pointing.

"I know where the tavern is," the freckled boy said, biting on the gold piece for no other reason than he knew that's what you should do with gold pieces, I guess to check to see if they're made of gold, and not of something else, like chocolate.

"Well, you didn't before," Roger said. walking away.

He strolled into the tavern, swinging the half-height, louvered doors that must be some sort of requirement on saloons and taverns worldwide, even though they were obviously designed by someone who had no clue whatsoever about security, or keeping bugs out. He could now hear the piano music quite loudly, and was reminded of a tavern that he and his two best friends had strolled into and caused quite a lot of havoc all those years ago when his father had sent them out from Lower East Gilead. But, he also knew that a flashback-within-a-flashback was a dangerous thing to do, so he shelved that story for some other time when it wouldn't be so darned confusing.

All eyes fell upon him as he put on his best gunslinger mojo in his short walk to the bar. He failed to notice the watch your step sign and tripped on a two-inch rise in the floor. He stumbled forward, and knocked into a baker who had been precariously balancing six banana creme pies on his arms. The baker flew sideways, comically smashing one of the pies in his handlebar-moustached face while simultaneously flipping a table up by falling on one edge. The other edge, which shot up in the air, was being used by a man nibbling on a chocolate bar. The bar spiraled in the air and landed, amazingly, in an open jar of peanut butter owned by the roughest hombre in the whole establishment.

What happened next, was the standard something-bad-happens-in-a-tavern-to-the-toughest-guy-in-the-joint-and-so-he-assaults-the-French-baker-who-flung-pies-everywhere-but-it-all-devolves-into-an-argument-over-whether-somebody-got-his-chocolate-in-somebody-else's-peanut-butter-or-if-someone-got-his-peanut-butter-on-somebody-else's-chocolate-and-all-the-while-the-person-who-started-it-excuses-himself-to-use-the-lavatory-until-the-commotion-dies-out, usually-with-the-barkeep-shooting-a-shotgun-in-the-air-kind of fight.

When Roger returned from the bathroom, he pretended that he didn't even notice the owners carrying out the pummeled Frenchman, and sidled up to the bar to order a burger and a beer. A woman was serving, and although she wasn't too pretty, she was much prettier than the mule that had been Roger's only companion these past few days. The whole thing actually reminded him of his father Stephen's favorite saying, which was "At least she's prettier than the mule that carries around my stuff." Now, finally, after all these years it made sense.

"Burger and a beer," Roger said, again showing his proclivity for eloquence.

"That'll be two dollars," the woman said, checking out his pecs.

"How's this?" Roger said, reaching behind the woman's ear and producing a gold coin. He flipped it in the air so that she could catch it, but she didn't try due to sudden embarassment that something so large could be jammed in her ear without her knowledge, and the coin hit the ground, rolled a foot or two. They both watched it plummet down between cracks in the floorboards.

"I'd say that was two dollars short," she said.

"Okay, how about this one?" Roger produced another coin, this time from his pocket, and placed it carefully in her outstretched hand.

"Don't got change," she said.

"Don't expect any," Roger responded.

"Showoffski," she said.

"Nope, Deschain. Roger Deschain."

"Name's Daphne. Pleased to meet you. You don't have anything wrong with you, do you?" She looked him up and down. "Not a weed-eater or anything? Cold sores? Consumption or typhus, or whooping cough?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Yes or no?" she demanded.

"No. I'm in perfect health. Why do you ask?"

"I'll show you," she said, taking him by the arm and leading him to a staircase.

What happened next, some would say, is a loving, affectionate act of devotion, full of beauty, which is too personal to be described here. Luckily, I'm not one of those people, so I'll tell you. She took him upstairs and rode him like a wild stallion, a time so wild that Roger could honestly write one of those letters that begin "I always thought these stories were made up, until it happened to me."

When they finished, and after he regained his breath, he asked once again for a burger and a beer, and they went downstairs.

…