“I want to die on this motorcycle.”
(coughs whiskey) “Wait, what?”
“I want to die on this motorcycle.’
My bartender, an unexpectedly engaging Haitian immigrant, diligently manning the bar at Blue Prime in Miami, revealed this to me because when there is nothing else to talk about, the incredible truth is as good as anything else.
He had just talked me through the glorious details: the pointlessness of helmets at 180 mph, the speed at which cops, for the safety of all nearby, will not chase you, the highly illegal kill switch for the lights.
“We shall drink to knowing how you want to die,” I toasted him, with scotch whiskey, neat.
There had been a lot of near-dying around me recently: hospitals, subversive genes, assholes on the Turnpike. I had once, in my formative years, full of the type of pathetic angst/hubris that later became known as “emo,” written a fairly meaningful short story that concluded with the line “I don’t want to die screaming.” It got me a lot of ass, and was complete bullshit.
When you’re 17, and string together a handful of marginally impactful words, they don’t have to mean anything. They’ll ring true to idiots who don’t know any better. From there, all you had to do was pretend you believe it, and BAM, nothing but flannel shirts hitting the floor.
Sitting at that bar for the dying passions of middle-aged men in downtown Miami, on my 10th finger of expense-report scotch, I became determined to decide how I wanted to die. I already knew the answer wasn’t at the bottom of that particular bottle, so I got up and left.
I walked along the water, considering the played-out catalog of bullet, orgasm, and robot related deaths, with nothing quite seizing upon the combination of didacticism and spectacular bad taste that I was looking for. I got to the hotel and noticed a gaggle of my fellow conference attendees at the lobby bar. I hated them, but thought it might be fun to ask them how they wanted to die. So, I walked on up.
I was going to describe all of these people, but I’m getting tired, so lets just hope Raving Buffalo, Coal Miner, and Just Happy to Be Here covers it. Well as it turns out, like the butcher said to the lamb before making sausages (sorry, been reading Pickwick), they were talking about my favorite TV show: Man vs. Wild. They were discussing the episode where he survives the Everglades. I made my entrance to the conversation by interjecting my concept for a spin-off of the show that would be called “Urban Survivor,” and pit Bear Grylls against the wilds of Staten Island, Newark, the Bronx, and other harsh terrains. My audience found this idea hilarious, and ran off several of their own ideas. It wasn’t long before Just Happy to Be Here though surviving Miami would be an interesting episode, at which point I felt it necessary to point out that she was an idiot.
“You’re an idiot,” oops, that was blunt.
“You don’t think it would make good TV?” she said and glared at me.
“No. Anyone could survive Miami, this town is soft. It’s 80 degrees all of the time, there are practically no laws. He wouldn’t even have to drink piss and eat bugs, there is fruit hanging…… everywhere.” Mid sentence, I had noticed that there actually was fruit hanging EVERYWHERE. The lobby of the intercontinental had palm trees in it, and that balmy January evening, they were laden with big green coconuts.
I already knew where the conversation would go, and I already felt that I would do it.
“Really?” she said condescendingly.
“Okay, not everyone. You would probably die.”
“Well I would like to see you…”
“Baby, shhhh. Watch.” And I was climbing. I could see it now, retrieving the coconuts, cracking them open with a dull tool, or Just Glad to Be Here’s face, taking my choice of the women under my arm, and leading them to the bar where the bartender would add rum to the fresh coconut milk. Except I hadn’t really climbed anything in a while. Also, it burns the shit out of your thighs. Awkwardly. Slowly. I hadn’t stopped yet, so for all intents and purposes, I would have got those damn coconuts, before the clucking momma-hens bellow me caused enough of a stir to alert the front desk. By the time I was maybe 15ft up, a surly looking dude was already yelling and running over, presumably to…I don’t know….shake me out of the tree? It wasn’t happening, so I decided to come down. I slid for a few inches, but that burned my thighs even more. I was going to have to let go. I was drunk enough that it wasn’t going to be a problem, but I fucked up the coordination and let my arms go before me legs. My torso levered out, so I fell almost parallel to the ground. For a second, I gazed up at those beautiful coconuts, under the dozen false suns of the hotel arboretum. I smiled.
(coughs whiskey) “Wait, what?”
“I want to die on this motorcycle.’
My bartender, an unexpectedly engaging Haitian immigrant, diligently manning the bar at Blue Prime in Miami, revealed this to me because when there is nothing else to talk about, the incredible truth is as good as anything else.
He had just talked me through the glorious details: the pointlessness of helmets at 180 mph, the speed at which cops, for the safety of all nearby, will not chase you, the highly illegal kill switch for the lights.
“We shall drink to knowing how you want to die,” I toasted him, with scotch whiskey, neat.
There had been a lot of near-dying around me recently: hospitals, subversive genes, assholes on the Turnpike. I had once, in my formative years, full of the type of pathetic angst/hubris that later became known as “emo,” written a fairly meaningful short story that concluded with the line “I don’t want to die screaming.” It got me a lot of ass, and was complete bullshit.
When you’re 17, and string together a handful of marginally impactful words, they don’t have to mean anything. They’ll ring true to idiots who don’t know any better. From there, all you had to do was pretend you believe it, and BAM, nothing but flannel shirts hitting the floor.
Sitting at that bar for the dying passions of middle-aged men in downtown Miami, on my 10th finger of expense-report scotch, I became determined to decide how I wanted to die. I already knew the answer wasn’t at the bottom of that particular bottle, so I got up and left.
I walked along the water, considering the played-out catalog of bullet, orgasm, and robot related deaths, with nothing quite seizing upon the combination of didacticism and spectacular bad taste that I was looking for. I got to the hotel and noticed a gaggle of my fellow conference attendees at the lobby bar. I hated them, but thought it might be fun to ask them how they wanted to die. So, I walked on up.
I was going to describe all of these people, but I’m getting tired, so lets just hope Raving Buffalo, Coal Miner, and Just Happy to Be Here covers it. Well as it turns out, like the butcher said to the lamb before making sausages (sorry, been reading Pickwick), they were talking about my favorite TV show: Man vs. Wild. They were discussing the episode where he survives the Everglades. I made my entrance to the conversation by interjecting my concept for a spin-off of the show that would be called “Urban Survivor,” and pit Bear Grylls against the wilds of Staten Island, Newark, the Bronx, and other harsh terrains. My audience found this idea hilarious, and ran off several of their own ideas. It wasn’t long before Just Happy to Be Here though surviving Miami would be an interesting episode, at which point I felt it necessary to point out that she was an idiot.
“You’re an idiot,” oops, that was blunt.
“You don’t think it would make good TV?” she said and glared at me.
“No. Anyone could survive Miami, this town is soft. It’s 80 degrees all of the time, there are practically no laws. He wouldn’t even have to drink piss and eat bugs, there is fruit hanging…… everywhere.” Mid sentence, I had noticed that there actually was fruit hanging EVERYWHERE. The lobby of the intercontinental had palm trees in it, and that balmy January evening, they were laden with big green coconuts.
I already knew where the conversation would go, and I already felt that I would do it.
“Really?” she said condescendingly.
“Okay, not everyone. You would probably die.”
“Well I would like to see you…”
“Baby, shhhh. Watch.” And I was climbing. I could see it now, retrieving the coconuts, cracking them open with a dull tool, or Just Glad to Be Here’s face, taking my choice of the women under my arm, and leading them to the bar where the bartender would add rum to the fresh coconut milk. Except I hadn’t really climbed anything in a while. Also, it burns the shit out of your thighs. Awkwardly. Slowly. I hadn’t stopped yet, so for all intents and purposes, I would have got those damn coconuts, before the clucking momma-hens bellow me caused enough of a stir to alert the front desk. By the time I was maybe 15ft up, a surly looking dude was already yelling and running over, presumably to…I don’t know….shake me out of the tree? It wasn’t happening, so I decided to come down. I slid for a few inches, but that burned my thighs even more. I was going to have to let go. I was drunk enough that it wasn’t going to be a problem, but I fucked up the coordination and let my arms go before me legs. My torso levered out, so I fell almost parallel to the ground. For a second, I gazed up at those beautiful coconuts, under the dozen false suns of the hotel arboretum. I smiled.
It really wouldn't be a bad way to die.
