One of the short stories in my new, darkly comedic book, Death Bound: Life Support Edition, is called Fuggin’ Do It Already.
Fuggin’ Do It Already is a story about two unlikely people coming together to help those who believe suicide to be their best option. It was inspired by Chuck Palahniuk’s Fight Club, and the humor in it comes more from the narrator’s voice, and not so much the story, which is a deadly serious one.
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.”