Suicide Express

“This isn’t about dying; it’s about living, man, Living.”

I can still feel the chill in the air as I walked across the quad. It was my last semester at UCSD and I was absorbed in my studies when Phil motioned me over to the edge of the fountain. As I sat down, Phil gazed into my eyes with Rasputin-like intensity and said, “Suicide Express, ever hear of it?”

I shook my head. “What?…Suicide Espresso? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Suicide Express.” Phil repeats, then leans in and grins mischievously.

“Well, we all gotta go someday.”

As I digested Phil’s words, glossy images of a smoking shotgun, a headless friend, flashed in my mind. My voice cracked.
“Phil… suicide?”

Phil lit up like he was about to share a secret. “Dude, not suicide. Suicide Express.”

I blinked. “That sounds like a distinction without a difference. I mean—dead is dead, or did I miss something?”

Phil stood and planted himself in front of me. “Man, you’re still stuck in the days of Hemingway. This isn’t about dying; it’s about living, man, Living.”

I rose, groaning. “Phil, as your friend, you’ve got to stop dropping acid and reading Friedrich ‘Fucking’ Nietzsche.”

He grinned. Then his brow furrowed. “Just hear me out before you hand me a shopping cart and send me into the streets.”

I sat back down. “Fine.” I glanced at my watch. “You’ve got twenty minutes before my humanities class. Sell me on this ‘Suicide Express’ thing.”

Phil shook out his shoulders like a sprinter stepping onto the starting blocks.
“You’re born. You live. You die. Right?”

“Sure,” I said, shrugging. “Nobody gets out alive. Nothing’s eternal… except maybe Professor Mertz’s lectures.”

“Exactly.” He stepped closer. “We’re all gonna die. What matters is how we spend the time in between.”

I nodded, not quite seeing the runway he was barreling down.

“That’s the ‘Express,’ man. Gotta make every second count.” Phil glances over his shoulder as some dead leaves skitter across the quad, then continues, “You dread getting up in the morning, right?”

I rolled my eyes. “Sure do, especially when it means sitting through another one of Mertz’s lectures.”

Phil leaned down and whispered, “But what if you woke up electrified?”

I grinned. “I do. Black Beauties. Four bucks a pop.”

He laughed, then grew serious. “No dude, without drugs, I’m talking about electrified on life. Think, think—when have you felt most alive?”

“You mean besides that night with Lisa Shobogin?”

“Come on, I’m serious. I’m talking about something that will change your entire life.”

Now I was baffled. Of course, suicide would change my life. Duh! “Alright,” I sighed. “I’ll play.”

Phil squared up. “I’ll bet the moments you’ve felt most alive are the ones where you’ve come closest to death.”

I thought for a beat. “Yeah. Like when I crashed my motorcycle into the river. My whole life flashed before my eyes. It was quick… it’s been an uneventful life.”

“And did you feel alive?”

“Oh, I was pants-pissing terrified. Alive, yeah. Very alive.”

Phil stepped in for the close. “Now imagine waking up every day with that feeling—that pulse, that edge. Knowing you dodged death again, and your next match with the reaper is just around the corner. Or…” he leaned back, “you can rot away in some La-Z-Boy, sucking on suds, munching potato chips, watching the world drift by.”

He let the silence do its work.

My ADHD brain latched on to his rhythm. I felt it—revulsion toward the pale, predigested life. The embers of rebellion caught flame. It’s my life, I thought.

As if reading my mind, Phil said, almost casually, “It’s your choice.”

It is my choice!

With impeccable timing, he asked, “You wanna take a ride on the Suicide Express?”

“Phil… tell me more.”

“Oh, it’s quite easy. It’s a simple mindset shift.” Phil pondered, “You like to hike, right?”

I nodded.

“Alright. Old mindset: you wake up early, pack some water, maybe an energy bar or two, and head out.” Phil turns his gaze skyward. “But on the Suicide Express, you hike at night. No flashlight. No food. No water. No protection. You become prey—stumbling through the dark like a sacrificial lamb to the growing chorus of unseen coyotes and cougars. Your mere presence taunts nature to salivate, “he grins, “and my friend, that is when it gets real.”

“Phil… that sounds like a death wish.”

“No, man. You’re still missing it. It’s not about wanting to die. It’s about earning your life. Living right at the edge.”

And then I saw it, saw my life, captured like smoke in a bottle. “Phil, look around.” I pointed to the ant line of students trundling to their classes. “Is that me?” The millstone of this realization crushes me. “It’s no way to live.” Turning back to Phil, “Phil, let me see if I’ve got this straight. Everyone considers death to be a millstone, yet the moment we accept death’s long shadow is the instant we unlock every delicious second of our fleeting lives.”

Phil beamed. “Now you’re getting it.”

“And when I die, I’ll die being the most alive.” I paused to delve deeper. “And no one will be any the wiser because it’ll look accidental. No messy cleanup for family, no murmurs of ‘What a tragedy’. Just a story, an adventure cut short.” I cracked a smile. “Worst-case, they’ll look at my coffin and say, ‘What a frickin’ idiot.’ Best case? ‘That guy had some brass balls.’”

Phil clapped me on the back. “All aboard. The Suicide Express is now leaving the station.”

I got on that train, and my life has never been the same, not even close.

#

Since that chilly fall day, I’ve lived through a series of ‘Stupid Human tricks,’ where each episode was an encyclopedic lesson of heart-stopping terror, intravenous joy, and solemn gratitude. The Suicide Express has taught me death’s most coveted secret. To truly live, one must dance in the shadow of Death.   

So, when you wake up tomorrow, take her by the hand and give her a twirl and be electrified.

Listen to this story.

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