Death Bound: Life Support Edition

Fuggin' Do It Already

We brainstormed this sphincter-clenching plan together, Tyler and me. Still, he's who stands on the ledge beside our suicide of the week, hyping her up to jump, while my big, beautiful black ass lounges on a beach chair beneath a hot-pink, flamingo umbrella, stroking my Fu Manchu as I take it all in.

We're six stories high. It's early. The sun's yet to rise, so it's chilly, but I don't mind. While some people drink coffee, I prefer to just dip my marbles in ice water. Wakes you up every time.

Tyler shows Marla our pre-selected spot for people to jump from. There's no ledges or balconies or even flag poles for them to smack against on the way down, so it's ideal.

He says, "Stand there," but he's doing a horrible job pretending to have a Brooklyn accent, so it sounds like 'Stand day-ya' and she doesn't seem to understand, which irritates him.

"Nah, nah," he continues, impatient and jabbing at the spot we spray-painted blue. "Day-ya. Damn. Makin' it difficult. Yooz paid me $3,000 to help yooz jump, and now yooz lookin' at me like I'm some poof fa doin' it."

He turns to me, taps a fist on his chest twice then touches it to the sky as a silent apology for saying 'poof'.

I don't mind. Tyler "The Straight" –as me and mines like to call him— is more family than my family. We're thick as thieves hidden in leaves, me and him. Besides, contrary to common opinion, there's all types of 'poofs'. You got your flaming queens and your show queens and your tink things, to name a few, but I'm extravagant. I'm what you'd call a bear. Meaning, I'm a big, hairy, rough around the edges MF that could snap a man in two, in bed and on the street. Woot woot.

The woman, oddly shaped and not at all pleasant on the eyes, looks at the spot Tyler wants her to stand, then at him.

"Fuggin' do it," he says, folding his arms across his brawny chest.

He's a dick, no question, but he's a mighty good-looking one, which is rare. Ask any dick-pic recipient on Tinder.

"Seriously," he says. "Unlike you, I gotta life ta get back to. Do it."

Her eyes are darting back and forth now. She's taking in the scene. The pigeons. The pigeon shit. The countless windows on the buildings that tower over us. The rooftops of the ones that don't. Then she sees it. The wide-open city sky, which, I admit, feels infinite and is beautiful to witness. The sun is melting across the horizon, its orange, Dreamsicle light reflecting off the East River beneath the Brooklyn Bridge, setting everything ablaze as it gradually births the new day.

It's the perfect time to be doing this sort of thing, and it's not by accident. People need to see what they're giving up. They need to know what they'll be missing out on once they kill themselves.

There's a moment where I see tranquility wash over Marla as she looks at it. She's coming to terms. Stage 1 is complete. Begin Stage 2.

She's hit by a gust of wind and staggers. She looks down, over the ledge. The height. The thought of plummeting. The cold hard truth of smacking face first into the concrete below. No doubt, she's thinking it'll hurt something fierce, but the truth is, when she hits, she won't feel a thing.

"I don't think I want to anymore," she says. She's quivering. Clutching herself.

At the sound of this, Tyler's pissed. Instantly. He has zero patience for wishy-washy people. It's the wishy-washy type that drag things on, tormenting those around them. He prefers to just rip the Band-Aid off. Get it over with.

"We agreed," he tells her, still using his unconvincing accent. "Yooz goin' ova that ledge. One way or anotha'."

Her eyes are wide now. She's scared, which doesn't make much sense. What's she scared for? The life she was all too eager to give up when she met us here?