The Darker Tower

Roger had been sitting around for some time, just kicking back with his friends Rick and Jimmy. They had all been gunslingers in training, but only Roger had passed his test. Why was he still hanging around Lower East Gilead? That's a good question, and it mostly was due to his high school friends, sitting here, slacking. They were all slacking, a tradition passed down from the civilization past. Roger only challenged Mister Curt because Roland had been about to, and he didn't want Mister Dark-Tower-finder-wannabee getting all gunslingery on him before he did. So, he quickly challenged Mister Curt, which was a foolish thing to do because, for one, Mister Curt was one serious badass, and for another, failing would mean that he get sent west, where he'd have to live in housing projects or something equally horrible, he wasn't sure exactly. But, his father told him time and time again that he didn't want to go west, and he believed him. He was a slacker, for sure, but he did believe his father, who was wise enough to pull out of the slacker stage and actually get a job, so he must have known something.

Roger's eyes glazed over again as he fought against the flashback where he defeated Mister Curt. He knocked the memory back, causing it to stumble a bit and land awkwardly on an ankle, and then Roger successfully continued with the shorter, more pleasant memory of leaving Lower East Gilead with his friends.

There they were, sitting in Roger's apartment, drinking a cheap, bitter brew called Old Gilead. About the time that Rick started to burp the alphabet, Roger's father Stephen came charging in, without knocking, no less, and plopped down breathlessly on the old sofa that Roger and Jimmy had rescued from the curbside trash of a neighbor.

"Boys," Stephen of Gilead said, tapping his Adam's apple in a sign of something-or-other, probably respect or tradition, or both.

"Hey pop," Roger said, hiding his half-finished beer behind the ancient, burned-out neon beer sign that hung crookedly on the wall.

"Howdy," Rick said, sitting up.

"Hello, Mister Deschain," Jimmy said in his fakest, most pleasant tone. He licked his palms and smoothed his hair. "How good it is for you to drop in on Roger, Richard and myself. Can I get you a lemonade? We were just discussing the most efficient strategies that Richard and I could take to defeat Master Curt in…"

"No time for thy ass-kissery, James, son of Ralph," Stephen said, waving him off. "I have business to entertain with my eldest son." He gave a hard look at the two boys, and then at the front door of the efficiency. "Gentlemen."

Without another word, Rick and Jimmy stood and headed for the door. With Stephen's back turned, Jimmy pretented to pick his nose, extract a booger, and flick it at Roger's father." As he readied his flicking finger, Stephen interrupted.

"Yar, James of Gilead," Stephen Deschain said without turning. "Thoust best keep thy finger out thy nose and take thy way retardest self outside whilst thy fingers are still attached." He reached oh-so-slightly to his fancy sandalwood-gripped revolvers that all three boys had drooled about for years. Ones which had taken many lives over the years, not the least of which was Phineas the Unclean, who had worn out his welcome in the condo across from the Deschain's house in Gilead proper after just one moaning and groping session. Stephen of Gilead had much less patience than all of Roger's neighbors put together, and Jimmy and Rick knew it.

Jimmy sniveled, wide-eyed, then shot out the door like a rocket from the time before the world moved on, nearly knocking Rick down as he did so, who himself wasn't exactly walking slowly, knowing full well what Roger's father could do with those ancient, deadly weapons.

"Yeah, pop?" Roger said, realizing that for the first time in weeks his two friends had actually pried themselves off his couch for a reason other than relieving themselves. "What's up?"

"Thou arst needed," Stephen said, keeping the old, confusing dialect. "Roland is not quite ready, and therest trouble about."

Roger, who never truly understood a thing that his father said when he got all old-speaky, just nodded.

"I am sending you and your confederates to safe lands, to do business in the Outer Baronies. Thy wits shall sustain you, and thou will be welcome to return when I sendest word."

"Aw, man," Roger whined. "Why don't you send Roland. Tell him that he's going to the Dark Tower. He'll be out if a flash. Zoom!" He pantomimed someone running to the Dark Tower, in a vague sort of could-be-running-anywhere way.

"Roland is not ready. He needs to pass his test with Master Curt, who is still recovering from when thou hittest him with that pastry."

Roger sat back in his chair, smugly remembering his test.

As Roger stood, sitting in the Man in Taupe's abandoned campsite and remembering, he once again fought the urge to recall passing his test. This time, he redirected it by shouting "Look! What's that over there?" And when the memory looked, he went the other way to his recollection of his leaving Gilead.

"What can I bring with me?" Roger asked, resigned to the fact that his father would not be dissuaded, ever.

"Thy two friends, who might find themselves useful for the first time in theirst lives. Also, this." He produced a small pistol, no larger than a starter pistol, and handed it to his eldest son.
Roger took it in his hand, and then looked at his father's sandalwood-gripped pistols that only left his hips when they were in his hands. He looked again at the tiny gun, and then at the gigantic guns of his father. His gun. His father's gun. He suddenly felt very inadequate, like a high school freshman showering with seniors during gym class.

"Thanks," Roger said, not sure he meant it. But, it was better than the sharpened stick that he carried as a weapon over the past few years while he was in gunslinger training.

"Oh, and here's ten dollars," Stephen of Gilead said, reaching into his wallet. "That'll get you a mutant-animal burger or two on the road, and maybe a Pepsi."

Roger knew what he'd get with it: beer. He wasn't worried. He'd eat roadkill along the way or something.

"Thy'll leave first thing in the morning," Stephen said, getting up. "I have already told Richard's father and James's father. Their fathers must have understood my urgency, beause each packed his son's travel bag before I gottest to the endeth of the driveway." He shrugged. Roger's father wasn't much for emotion, so he ruffled his gunslinger son's hair and fake-punched his shoulder.

"But what about my apartment?" Roger said. "What will become of it?"

"Oh, Roland will live here whilest thou is away," Stephen said nonchelantly.

Roger immediately pictured the plethora of Dark Tower posters that would undoubtedly adorn the walls as soon as Roland moved in. That, and probably a black light poster that had a skull on it.

Stephen walked out, but not before imparting a final word of wisdom to his eldest son. "Son," he said. "I'm counting on thou. Thoust a gunslinger, and a goodeth one at that. Maketh me proud and, for God's sake, don't do anything retarded." He tapped his throat a final time, and ducked out the door.

The next morning Roger took off with his two best friends, on horses that were not too great, but at least they weren't two-headed mutant horses or something. They had meager possessions, and Roger did have the little gun. Jimmy had a sharpened stick, while Rick carried around a boat oar. Why did Rick use that oar? Roger had wondered about that for years, and often suggested respectable replacements, not the least of which was Roger's own tried-and-true sharp stick once he passed his gunslinger test. Each time it was the same response from Rick, though. He smartly remarked that he needed it, in case he found himself up a creek. Roger and Jimmy had no idea what he was talking about, since Gilead had no creeks, rivers, or bodies of water larger than a barrel anywhere to be seen. Rick said that that comment would have been really funny before the world moved on, and his two friends just shrugged and believed him, at least a little. Rick was kinda funny, in a obteuse sort of way, and they let him be with his trusty, stupid oar slung over one shoulder.

Roger stared across the darkened desert as he came back into the present. A tear glistened in the corner of one of his eyes. Was it the heat? He pondered that for a moment, clearing his throat. No, it was the additional memory of his two friends, whom Roger led to their grisly, terrible, awkward, unfortunate deaths in his dumb quest to find the Darker Tower, which, in all likelihood, didn't really exist.

…