Last Dance with Mr. Brownstone
by J.R. Roth
Staring at the ceiling, Doug cursed the pre-dawn grey gathering outside the window. It wouldn’t be long before the morning sun beat back the calm, soothing darkness that filled his room. He could draw the curtains, but eventually even that wouldn’t keep the light at bay.
Lying on his back in bed, his left arm tucked behind his head, Doug felt a little pinprick on his side. Without looking, he knew it was his book—a paperback edition of William Burroughs’ Junkie. He’d found a kindred soul in the dog-eared and yellowed pages. He frequently read it in bed, letting it fall next to him when he was done.
He returned his attention to the ceiling. The light outside grew, playing upon the stucco finish, casting tiny shadows and revealing hidden shapes. The first image appeared—the face with the tortured smile. The image reminded Doug of Sock, the laughing mask from the Sock and Buskin masks that symbolize the theatre. Buskin’s mask represented tragedy; Sock’s was comedy. But to Doug, Sock’s frozen smile looked more like a cry for help or a wail of torment.
Poppy stirred in the other room. Sometimes, if Doug just lay here quietly, she’d calm back down and not bother him until later. He knew once she woke, there would be no ignoring her. He’d have to take her out for a walk. So, he lay still and watched the ceiling.
The shadows of the stucco moved slowly, and the outlines of Sock morphed. The edge of the mask became the curve of the back of a large cat sitting up tall, tail tucked primly around its feet. The cat made Doug uncomfortable. It stared down at him with eyes that saw inside of him, reading his secrets, judging him. Unnerved, Doug shifted his eyes to the left searching for the triangle that formed the top of the witch’s hat. The hat reminded him of Halloween—he’d always loved Halloween. Sure, as a small boy, the candy was great, and it was fun dressing up, but what Doug remembered most fondly was the thrill of being out at night, in the dark. That feeling of being anonymous; no one knowing who hid behind your mask. For several hours on that one night, you were not yourself, reality was suspended, and anything was possible. Those were the best nights.
Poppy ran into the room and jumped up onto Doug’s chest. “Ooooof!” It looked like quiet time was over; Poppy wouldn’t be ignored any longer.
“Okay, girl. Let me get your gear, and we’ll go for a walk.”
Doug got up. Already dressed, he slid into his shoes and pulled on a red jacket. Poppy whined in anticipation and circled him. “Ok, girl, I’m almost ready.” Doug was also excited for the walk. Affixing the collar and leash onto Poppy, he reached down and petted her. Today they were going for a long walk.
Doug opened the door, stepped through, and closed it firmly behind him.
Poppy pulled at the leash; she’s always a little rough at first, eager to be unleashed and free. Doug walked down the block to the access road to the woods that abutted it. At the edge of the woods, he let Poppy off the leash. Poppy rushed off ahead – wild, unbound. Doug loved this moment, the beginning of his walks with Poppy.
Deep in the woods, Doug followed Poppy, going where she led. He knew the woods well, having come here for years with Poppy, but was always pleasantly surprised when they found a new path that led to an undiscovered area. Today, they were on a new path, one Doug had never experienced before. It was tree-lined and narrow, and it led uphill. Brambles and thick brush grew along both sides of the trail, forming a dense barrier, keeping him from straying. The canopy above kept most of the sunlight out, and what got through dappled the ground with small, shifting spots. The air was cool, even for morning, and felt refreshing as Doug powered up the hill. The path’s dark, spongy soil absorbed the sound of his steps.
His walks with Poppy were his Ikigai. He’s always liked that word—Ikigai. He loved language and the way it changed and morphed. English was particularly adept at adding new words, some made up and others stolen from other languages, like the German word schadenfreude. No other word quite grasped the complexity of the concept of the enjoyment one has in another’s misfortune. Sure, lulz and epicaricacy meant about the same thing, but lulz was social media slang used by twelve-year-olds (and their intellectual equivalents), and epicaricacy sounded so clinical, like the name of a disease or an infliction. But schadenfreude, that just hit the nail on the head.
It was the same with Ikigai. The word was elegant. He had read about the Japanese concept of a passion that brings joy to life. The French have raison d’etre, but “reason for being” just rings hollow once you’ve found your Ikigai.
And Poppy was his Ikigai; He lived for her and their walks.
During these walks, he would just let go of everything. Here, in the woods, he disappeared from the world. Regardless of which path he took or how far he went, he always ended up back home. But lately, though, the walks haven’t lasted as long as they used to. And as soon as they got home from a walk, Poppy started to nag him to take her out again.
Doug crested the hill, feeling strong. The air was still cool, but perspiration gathered on his lip. Up ahead, the trunk of a large tree barred the way forward. Trepidation niggled at the back of his mind. How was he going to get through?
He approached the trunk, worried he would have to now turn around and cut his trip short. Poppy appeared—tongue out and tail wagging—as if to say, “This way, dummy.” She turned and led Doug around some small branches and out the other side of the trunk. Doug’s trepidation and worry melted away and were instantly replaced with a euphoric sense of gratitude.
Doug bent over and petted Poppy. “Good girl.” Good ol’ reliable Poppy.
Happy, Poppy ran off down the trail, tail wagging. She followed the path as it wound to the right and slipped out of sight, making Doug nervous.
Something changed. The air was thicker, harder to breathe. He was also sweating more; the cool air had warmed up, and it was starting to get hot. The soft soil under his feet was now thick mud, sucking at his shoes with each step, making walking more difficult.
There was something else. Another presence.
Doug hurried as fast as he could to find Poppy, growing exhausted from fighting the shoe-sucking mud. At the turn, he stopped to catch his breath, doubled over, hands on his knees. Small insects crawled on the ground around him. Ants? No, they were beetles. No! They’re cockroaches. Hundreds of them—small and slender, big and fat. They marched in time, all with their six long, spiny legs moving in synch; they crawled toward him. They wanted to crawl up his legs, over his skin, and into his ears and mouth!
Doug leaped forward, taking several large steps down the path to escape the cockroaches.
The brambles and bushes that lined the path seemed to have grown thicker and taller, closing in on him. He couldn’t tell if it was getting darker or if it was an effect of the narrowing path.
From somewhere far away, music drifted in and around him. Must’ve left the radio next to my bed turned on, Doug thought dreamily. He recognized the song; it was “Mr. Brownstone,” the Guns N’ Roses song lamenting the band's struggle with heroin. It’s funny, he thought, how heroin has a lot of strange nicknames: Mr. Brownstone, smack, horse, and my personal favorite…
Poppy barked and interrupted his thoughts. It was a beckoning bark, telling him to let go of the music and catch up. Doug pushed forward.
The path grew narrow, and the bushes were tall here. No longer did the sunlight dapple the path with little dancing dots. And though sweat dripped from his body, the air was chilly. But still, he pushed forward.
At last, Doug saw Poppy. She sat square on her haunches, alert, ears up, and smiling at him. As he approached, he noticed she was sitting next to a man dressed in jeans and a light red jacket. They’d seen this man on their walks before, but they’d never caught him or gotten this close. The man stood there as if waiting for Doug.
Doug called out to the man, “I’m sorry if she bothered you. She usually stays close—”
Doug’s words died in his mouth. The man at Poppy's side was a reflection of himself, but thinner and more pale—a gaunt, strung-out version of himself.
I’m not that far gone, am I?
Drawing closer, Doug saw the pale skin on the lookalike’s face was translucent. Beneath the pallid flesh, Death stared out at him.
Doug knew his walks with Poppy would eventually lead him to Death, but he didn’t expect it to be today.
The lookalike lifted its hand, grasped Doug by the wrist, and pulled him down. Forever.
Carson City, NV: Doug Jameson (25) was discovered dead Monday morning in his apartment after roommates complained of strange smells emanating from his room. The police report states he died of a heroin overdose, likely several days earlier. Mr. Jameson is survived by his parents, Dr. Joseph Jameson and Dr. Doris Jameson, of Pasadena, CA. Donations to Narcotics Anonymous are requested in lieu of flowers.
J.R. Roth is a writer of suspense and horror stories. His career in international affairs spanned work with US non-profits and the US Government overseas. He now lives in Northern California with his wife and two teenagers. His writing has been featured in The Raven Review and 101 Words.