Steve Is Going To Die

The plan was straightforward. First I’d buy a cheap motorcycle. Then I would drive up to the coast of Maine and find a small shop that sold chum. I would buy a decent amount, rub it all over my body, and then jump into the water. Then, if all went according to plan, a whale would eat me.



I don’t know much about the whales of Maine, only that they live in the waters. Sometimes they jump out of the water for the people in ships. That seems a nice thing for whales to do. I was betting on their niceness that they would eat me.



The motorcycle part was very easy. I got one cheap off of Craigslist.



An elderly man in Bayonne, New Jersey was asking $350 for an old café racer. It even came with a matching helmet. Both the bike and the helmet were rusted, but they still looked pretty cool.



I asked the old man, “Will this get me to Maine?”



He looked up at the street sign a block away. It turned out that street was called Maine. He said, “Probably not.”



“What’s wrong with it?”



“It doesn’t have a gas tank.”



Lo and behold, I looked at the café racer and there was no gas tank.



“How am I supposed to ride this thing?” I asked.



The old man lifted his finger and winked at me. He said, “I know a trick.”



He went into his house and came out with an empty 3 liter bottle of Jack Daniels and electrical tape.

“I’ll take it,” I said. “But throw in the bottle and tape.”



He threw in the bottle and tape and I drove home with my new motorcycle. The gas splashed around the whiskey bottle between my legs the whole trip. The bike was fast and the wind whipped my face.

It made my pains seem to disappear, if only for a second.



A small voice in my head said, “Steve, maybe instead of getting eaten by a whale you can be a hobby motorcyclist.” But then a bigger, more stubborn voice said, “No, that’s stupid. Life is stupid. Girls are stupid and so is love. Dreams are killers. And true love is found only by true fools who are blind to the world’s deepest terrors. To live is to suffer and to die is to experience nothing. Which is life’s only true reward.”



I was going through a hard time, as you can imagine.



When I got home, I packed my things. I didn’t need much to get me to Maine and eaten by a whale. I brought the clothes on my back, all my cash (as I intended to buy all the chum I could), and some empty bottles of whiskey. I stopped by the gas station before I left and filled the whiskey bottles with gasoline.



There was some whiskey left in one of the bottles so I took a shot before I set off on the road. I fumbled to get the whiskey bottle into the backpack and started down the street towards the highway. The bike wobbled and I realized the whiskey shot was a bad idea because I didn’t know how to ride a motorcycle.



Somehow I steered the damn thing onto the highway and drove it north bound. At the first toll, I went through the E-Z Pass lane. I didn’t have an E-Z Pass, but it didn’t matter because a whale would eat me soon enough. I also didn’t have a license plate, so the E-Z Pass people would only see my ass and the back of my rusty bike.



By the time I got to New Haven, Connecticut, I noticed the whiskey bottles of gas were running low. I pulled into a gas station and undid the tape that held the bottle in place. I paid the gas attendant a twenty-dollar bill and handed him the bottles. He filled them up and handed them back to me. I carefully flipped a bottle and strangled the top of it with tape. Gas went all over my pants so I said, “Shit.”



“Watch your mouth, Sailor,” someone behind me said.



“Don’t tell me what to–“ I turned around and saw people dressed in black robes. They wore animal masks over their faces. There was an elephant, a giraffe, a zebra, a lion, and an owl. There were two children in black robes, too, and they wore kitten masks.



“The Satanists of New Haven have little tolerance for potty language,” said the elephant.



“I’m sorry. I spilled gas on myself and got upset.”



The group walked toward me in unison, feet moving at the same pace. They surrounded me. I was so scared I could crap myself. The elephant reached his black hand into his drooping sleeve. I imagined he would pull a knife and bury it in my chest. That would be cool, I guess, but I still almost crapped.



Instead, he pulled out a Tide stick pen. He held the stick out and said, “Here.”



I took the Tide pen and said, “Can I keep the stick or do you want it back?”



“I was giving it to you to use, but if want to keep it that’s fine. Hail Satan,” said the elephant.



“Hail Satan,” said the others.



“Thanks,” I said. I used the Tide stick but it didn’t work too well. There was just too much gas on my pants.



“You’re storing gas in liquor bottles?” asked the zebra. “That’s weird.”



I shrugged.



“All right, gang. We got our chips and soda. Back to the FJ Cruiser. Let’s go! Hail Satan!” said the elephant.



“Hail Satan,” they all said.



I thanked the elephant again and hit the road. I drove until nightfall. It had gotten very cold and I was sleepy. There weren’t any motels on the road. I nodded off for a moment and almost fell off the bike. That’s when I decided to pull over.



It was cold and getting colder. An abandoned building stood at the side of the highway. The window was broken clean so I crawled in. It was warmer, but the place was dark. It was dark and scary. I imagined the place was filled with ghosts. I heard a bottle break upstairs and screamed, “Ghosts!”



There was a moment of silence and then someone said, “What?”



“Ghosts?” I said.



“Who’s down there?” Lights appeared in a long corridor and danced towards me. Lights shone in my face and blinded me.



“Who are you guys?” I asked.



“You got a lot of balls being here,” said a man.



“Shut up, Dick,” said a girl. “What do you want, dude?”



“Place to sleep. Cool if I stay here?”



“We’re all squatting.”



They took me upstairs to a well-lit area. A dozen squatter punks were huddled around some beers. They were all covered in badly drawn tattoos that looked pretty rad.



“Where you headed?” asked the girl. She had told me her name was Ginger. She had oily, pin straight hair and bangs. Her eyes were pools of green water and her lips were pouty and filled with color. My heart almost beat out loud looking at her.



“I’m going to Maine. I plan on being eaten by a whale.”



“Right on, dude,” said a squatter. He tossed me a beer. I cracked it open and chugged it down. It was warm cheap beer that tasted like ass. I drank it in three gulps and tried to crush the can against my forehead. It didn’t crush and the pain swelled across my head.



The squatter who tossed me the beer laughed and clapped his hands. He had a green Mohawk and a Mickey Mouse tattoo on his neck.



I asked him for his name and he said it was Cliff. I told him I liked his style.



“If I wasn’t getting eaten by a whale, we could hang.”



“Cool,” he said.



Everyone started to talk about how they hated Capitalism. I never cared for money so I sat in the corner and kept to myself. It was warm and comfortable. I almost nodded off but Ginger came over and started chatting.



“Why do you want to die?” she asked.



“Why do you want to live?”



“I’d be afraid to die.”



“I’m not.”



“So that’s the reason you’re getting eaten?”



“No.”



“Was it a girl?” she asked.



“How did you know?”



“I could see in your eyes that you have passion and sensibility. You probably get hurt badly. She must have done something terrible to push you so far.”



“Yup.”



“What did she do?”



“She slow roasted my soul and kicked me in the balls.”



“Did she really kick your balls?”



“Metaphorically speaking, yes.”



“Ouch. Time heals, you know. We’ve all seen shit but every day gets better.”



We made eye contact for a moment and I felt something. She felt something, too, and leaned in and we kissed. There were sparks at our lips, fire on our tongues. I put my hand on her head and tried to pull her even closer to me. She pulled away and smiled.



“You can stay with us. We’re squatting here until September then heading to Florida. There are tons of abandoned mansions there. We can show you the true beauty of life.”



She kissed me again, then got up and walked away. She looked very good walking away. Cliff smirked at her and Ginger sat beside him. They started kissing. It felt like someone punched my stomach.



I went to sleep.



When I woke up everyone was sleeping. My pants were still on, which was good. I got up and tried to stretch the pain out of my shoulders. It didn’t work. I groaned and rubbed my shoulders.



Ginger woke up. She wasn’t with Cliff – Cliff was nowhere around. She was spooning with some other squatter whose pants were undone. Ginger had a wet stain on her pants between her legs. She rubbed her eyes. She looked very pretty. She looked like someone I could fall in love with. I never would, though.



“See ya,” I said.



I left the room. Ginger made a nervous noise and ran after me. So I ran down the hall and down the stairs. I ran for the door and she ran right after me. She said, “Stop!”



“What’s up?”



“You’re going?”



“Yup.”



“Stay.”



“Why?”



“Because I like you.”



“You like everyone, though.”



"So? Is there anything wrong with that?”



“I think so. That’s what got me here in the first place.”



I walked out the door. She grabbed my arm.



“We’re put on this earth to love. You should love everyone.”



“If you love everyone, it’s not special anymore.”



Then she screamed.



I said, “What?”



On the floor next to my bike was Cliff. He drank two bottles of my gasoline. He was long dead, blue in the face, and staring at the sky.



“How did he manage to drink two bottles?” I said. It pissed me off.



Ginger screamed.



I pried my whiskey bottles out of Cliff’s hands and put them back in my bag. I started my bike and headed up the road. I could still hear her screams.



I drove and saw signs for Portland. I figured it’d be a good place to die, so I drove there. I drove through the streets until I found a tackle shop called The Tackle Shop. The sign was wood made out to look like a bucket filled with worms.



The place was older than electricity. An old man sat behind the counter with an iPad in his hand. The iPad played a song I was familiar with. The song was by Metronomy and it was called The Look. We made eye contact. My shoulders gently swayed to the beat of the song. The old man nodded his head. We shared a moment.



“I wanna help you,” the old man said. “How can I?”



I put all my money on the counter and said, “I want all your chum.”



“You got all my chum.”



He went into the back and banged things around. He came back with two buckets of chum. He put them on the counter, went into the back, banged things, and came back with two more buckets. He did that until there were eight buckets on the counter.



“Any idea how I can transport these? I got a bike out front.”



He looked over my shoulder and saw the café racer.



“You any good at riding that thing?”



“No.”



“Shit. I have an idea, though.” He bent down and stood up and there was a broom in his hand. “You got good balance?”



“No.”



“Shit.” He gave me the broom anyway.



“Let me ask you something. Where can I find myself some whales?”



“What kind of whales?”



“Big ones.”



“I’d try Dead Man’s Peak. It’s not twenty minutes outside of town. You can look down the cliff and usually find a whale or two.”



“Thanks, buddy. You’ve been awesome.”



“You have,” he said.



I slipped the broom through the buckets’ handles and balanced it on my shoulders. I spilled some chum on my leather jacket and the old man tisked and said it was a damn shame.



“It only helps me out later on, brother-man,” I said.



I drove my bike very slowly with the chum on my shoulders. The chum splashed around and the gas splashed around the whiskey bottles.



It took me forty minutes to get to Dead Man’s Peak because I took my time. I drove up a very long dirt road and passed some families who were having picnics.



The way it looked, I was driving straight into the sky, swimming in blue air.



I got to the edge of Dead Man’s Peak and looked down. I saw a shape move beneath the surface of the water. Water sprayed out of its back. Its every fluid motion was smooth and beautiful like passionate sex. In its wake it left thick white foam.



It was the most graceful thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I was grateful to see it.



I put the chum by my feet and scooped it into my pockets. I put it in my shoes and down my shirt and pants. I rubbed it into my hair and saturated my skin.



I threw the rest of the chum into the water in hopes it would attract the whale.



The drop was twenty feet. I jumped with the buckets in my hands, held my breath, and snapped my eyes shut. The water rushed at me and flooded my nostrils. I kicked wildly until I felt the relief of oxygen.

​

Then I started swimming to the whale. And, oh, happy day, he swam to me.