The Plan

Darryl Dickson was dying.

Not the usual, unspoken, average, run of the mill, dying.

You know the popularised type of everyday dying (everyone's doing it!). For most, it is a painful thought, pushed aside, buried until you cannot repress it any longer. It’s arrival uncontrolled and vicious, as unsolicited tears appear, eventually pooling at your chin. You try to distance yourself...I’m just going to ignore the coffin. It’s just a box, and what’s that on the ceiling? I wonder how they got up there to paint that.....

For some born with a darker sense of humour, daily dying is a sarcastic punchline. A half-joke, born out of frustration as, piece by piece, time disappears through your fingers, stolen by the ineptitude and carelessness of others. The distracted barista (-4 minutes and 32 seconds), your commute home delayed by a traffic jam with no apparent cause (- 34 minutes and 54 seconds) and then the cherry on top, the single teller at the grocery store.. Really, who needs THAT many cans of corn? And they’ve lost their purse? For god sake, we’ll be here for days. I’m dying here! (-9 minutes and 33 seconds)

No, Darryl was not suffering from the commonplace type of dying. Darryl was unique, not in living, but by the foreseen manner of his death.

Darryl had not been #blessed in acquiring the world’s newest, rarest and strangest disease. His specialist had started calling it ‘Darryl’s disease’ due to the genetic name being so long and wordy that it extended across three sentences in standard type font. The Darryls of the world, deeply unhappy with the naming and the implied association with the disease, had formed a coalition to have the condition renamed. The group disbanded after running a highly successful public awareness campaign, managing to increase general recall of the disease from 0.0001% to 83%. Unfortunately, the alternative name proposed had not been as easy to pronounce, and so their campaign had the opposite of its intended purpose, forever cementing Darryl and the disease together. The subject of memes, it soon became an insult, slang, for someone less.

It was without question that the person most impacted by the disease and it’s naming, more than Darryl himself or the other Darryls of the world, was Miranda. Darryl’s wife of over sixteen years. The day he was first admitted to the hospital, Miranda took immediately to bed. It was not until much later that she felt she was finally calm enough to speak. Her anger so palpable it radiated from her being: the hospital visits, the doctors, the phone calls, the media and the mystery. Darryl, the centre of attention, dethroning Miranda from her long-held position. Miranda knew she needed to fix things, restore the order in their relationship, but she didn’t know-how. She knew she needed a new plan, but what?

The idea, finally striking her, like a lightning bolt. She needed to pivot, Darryl was different now, and so she needed to change as well. And so, after three weeks, Miranda finally emerged out of her rage cocoon, reborn. An influencer in black. Miranda, the martyr.

From that day, Miranda had carefully chronicled Darryl’s demise and her “personal journey” across all social media platforms. Her first post had been Darryl’s arm with multiple tubes running in and out. The post captioned #dontask #prayforus #Dickersonsdisease #widow. Her photos and posts were endless. She soon became the world’s first and foremost Hosptial influencer. Miranda’s sponsored posts ranging from IV lines to bedpans #IVandme #hydration+ #bedpans&beyond #nevergetleftbehind.

It wasn’t until March when Darryl’s physician handed down his final prognosis. The Doctor’s words sending Darryl into such a state of shock that he could not recall anything his specialist said apart from ‘3 months’ and ‘live your best life. Even after the initial shock had worn off, Darryl found he could still not recall his diagnosis. However, rather than enquire, he instead irrationally fixated on the Doctor’s use of ‘best life’, the words turning over endlessly in his head ‘best life? What did that even mean?’

Discharged and back home, Darryl felt trapped. His post-diagnosis life had become a series of endless media interviews and photoshoots. He had become Darryl, the dying, the freak, the prop. His relationship with Miranda had begun rapidly deteriorating. Things between them had never been great, but back then, thinking he had the luxury of time, Darryl had always compromised.

'I’m just going for a walk.’ Darryl called out as he closed the front door.

In a daze, he walked without a destination in mind until suddenly finding himself outside of an unfamiliar row of shops.

In the window of the bookstore, a display promoting the recent success of a local author. Copies of the book floated, suspended from the ceiling, their pages open accordions beneath the cover’s wings. Below, a small writing table and chair arranged, the chair pushed out at an angle, giving the impression that the writer had only just stepped away. Upon the table, an open little black book, words scrawled inside a heavy pen, resting along its open spine. A sign read ‘Authentic writing books and pens as previously sold here to the author himself’. Darryl splurged, purchasing not only the matching little black book but also the accompanying silver pen. Inspired by the potential of the blank pages, he headed towards the nearest bar. He was sure that authors always drank when writing.

The bar was small and dark. Large timber booths with heavy mahogany tables and red velvet seats lined one side of the room. Several scattered tables with an assortment of chair types filled the void between the booths and the bar. The bar, not surprisingly, empty at 10.03 am on a Monday. From somewhere below the bar, a cheery voice floated up

'Welcome! Take a seat, and I’ll be over in a jiffy.’

Darryl considered his options, finally settling on the booth furthest away from the window. Seated, he pulled his purchases out of the paper bag. Pen in hand, Darryl was struck by a wave of pensiveness, concerned that his words would degrade the flawless white pages of the small black book before him. Paused, he slowly looked around the room before finally glancing up. To his surprise, the ceiling had been plastered over, in what appeared to be an assortment of banknotes. He recognised only a few—a collection of unknown faces and animals, the green Presidents’ amongst an international rainbow.

'Now then, what can I get ya to drink?’ The barman’s voice bounced around the empty room.

'Oh, um,’ Darryl hesitated, he wasn’t a day drinker. 'Maybe just a G&T, thanks.’

'Ah, you’re a writer and gin drinker, I see. Just like the great F. Scott Fitzgerald himself.’

'Oh, um, no’, Darryl said, his face hot with embarrassment.

'So what’s the story with that?’ Darryl said, gesturing towards the ceiling, hoping to redirect the conversation.

'Oh, that’s our international visitors. After a couple of drinks, they decide that they need to add to the collection. No-one can remember how it started, but once it started, well, we can’t stop it. Worth a small fortune, I bet.’

'Listen, I’d like to make a recommendation, the barman said as he placed a tall Collins glass on the bar.

'I think this is what you need. Perfect for inspiration and one of Fitzgerald’s favourites. It’s called Gin Rickety. It’s just gin, lime and soda water. Whaddaya think?’

'Um, okay, great, thanks, ’ Darryl replied.

'Here you go, enjoy’, the barman said, placing the drink in front of Darryl, his eyes warm.

The cut crystal of the glass cast a rainbow of diamonds across the table. ‘Was it a magic potion?’ Darryl pondered as he took a small sip.

'Oh, that’s good!’ He exclaimed in surprise. Taking a much larger sip, he found the glass soon empty.

'I’ll get you another one’, the barman called out.

As he waited, Darryl’s gaze once again floated up to the bills on the ceiling.

'Oh,’ he thought. ‘It’s not too late. None of it is too late.’

The hours passed as Darryl sat, drank and wrote, filling page upon page of the small black notebook.

'Are you ok, mate?’

The sudden appearance of the barman jolted Darryl out of his thoughts. How long had he been here? It felt like only a few hours, but the fading light outside suggested otherwise.

'It’s just you look..’

The barman’s sentence interrupted by the appearance of a young woman

'Hey’, she exclaimed loudly, ‘aren’t you that guy?’

She pointed at the page open on her phone.

'Oh,’ he said, squinting to read the screen, shocked as the details slowly came into focus. Was that his wife? And did that read missing?

‘You’re missing’, the stranger explained.

'Oh no, sorry, I think there’s a mistake, I’m not missing, I know where I am.’

'Well, where are you then?’ the young stranger inquired, her voice laden heavy with concern.

‘Oh, She thinks I’m demented’, thought Darryl.

'Well. I’m here, of course!’

He said cheerily, whilst hastily attempting to rearrange the reversed letters marked in the front window ‘n, o, i, t, a, l, i, h, i, n..’, slowed by the gin, there was no way he could do this. Maybe if he tried to explain things, but did he even understand what was going on?

'Thank you, but I’m fine. I just went for a walk, and I think my wife well, she..how do I put this nicely?’

He paused, struck by the thought that he was unable to put it in any way, nicely.

'Well, young lady...’

The stranger’s eyes narrowed as she interjected. Her words hissed out behind clenched teeth.

'I’m not a “young lady” you are totally being completely ageist. I feel sorry for your wife. I’ve seen her posts. She has done EVERYTHING for you. You totally don’t deserve her. There she is devastated, whilst you’re drinking? You boomers totally disgust me!’

As she stormed away from the table, Darryl noticed the phone held in her hand.

‘Did she just film that?’

'Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out’, said the barman, leaving Darryl to himself once more.

‘A boomer?, she thinks I’m a boomer, Jesus.’ Darryl muttered to himself.

A deep sense of dread settled in Darryl’s stomach as he pulled his phone out from his pocket, the screen updating him of 39 missed calls and 63 new messages.

Miranda.

He opened his Facebook, clicking on the link to the page Miranda had made. How could she have done all of this so quickly? For goodness sake, he’d only been gone what, eight hours?

Hundreds of photos of the two of them appeared, Miranda’s skin smoother, her eyes larger and brighter than in real life. The images only half edited, Darryl’s face, red and old, a hard contrast to his wife's altered youthfulness. Did he always have his mouth either open or stuffing it full of food?

He clicked on a video link. Miranda appearing upon his small screen

'Darryl, come home, baby. I miss you, and I want you to know that...’ she stopped, pressing a white handkerchief to her face, an invisible tear wiped away.

'... I forgive you, Darryl.’

'Forgive him? For what?’ he thought.

The thought struck him that he didn’t want to go back.

Did he have to go back, though?

He had the money, $20,000, a small payout of his last earnings. It would be enough.

It was now or never. He could be free. He looked at his little black book. He had a plan. Suddenly fragments of his Doctor’s final words came to mind.

'As the disease progresses....massive changes....DNA..... very unknown... final state...as soon as..’

Darryl looked down at his hands, unexpectedly foreign to him.. or was it just the alcohol?