The Banana Slug's Cosmic Joke

After I have killed myself, I would like to be cremated and then have my ashes flushed down the toilet. It is a long story, and it began around fourteen billion years ago when the Universe decided to go pop in the aptly named Big Bang. For a long time after that, the Universe remained dark, and if I had my way, I would have made sure that it stayed dark. Unfortunately, the Universe slammed into puberty at the age of a hundred million years and began spurting out stars. Eventually, these stars grew so overburdened by the task of lighting up the Universe that their cores collapsed under their massive weight, expelling heavy quantities of matter. Astrophysicists call this process a supernova. I call it depression. Anyhow, the point is that everything that is something is a remnant of that young set of depressed stars. Do you see it now? When you flush my ashes down the toilet, you flush the remnants of an exploded star down. It is the best joke I have to tell.

Death is supposed to be a celebration of life, and it is a tricky thing to celebrate a life that has decided to end itself, so a death like mine has to come at a time when it does not cascade into melancholic repercussions of guilt and anger. I don't necessarily hate my life, but I find it incredibly mundane; my life is like being stuck at the bottom of a honey jar that no bear can claw me out of. Everything around me seems to make my heart frivolously nostalgic about possibilities that could have been: when I see the person I like, I imagine what life could have been if I asked them out; when I hear people tell me how great their day was, I wish I hadn't spent my day counting the number of squirrels outside the tiny window in my apartment. I'm just tired of not being able to make my life interesting. And my death must represent my own fatigue with this stagnation, which is why it must come at a time when my presence is essentially inconsequential.

My medal of inconsequentiality finally arrived a month ago. My exams had just ended, and Summer break had begun. I had reached a milestone in my undergraduate research project, so I had no further responsibilities. I felt distanced from most people around me. And I was running a fever north of a hundred and three Fahrenheit. I was sick for a week, and no one bothered to ask me how I was doing. Or maybe I did not bother telling anyone. At the end of the day, it is the same thing. I knew, then, that if I died now, no one would weep for me. Of course, some people like my parents or a fistful of those who know me will be sad when I die, but I have always viewed their love as transactional. Some transactions (like me) are meant to fail. I do not know anyone who loves me for who I am. Feeling alone is incredibly mundane.

My first attempt to kill myself was as soon as the fever resided a bit. I stood at the Golden Gate Bridge on a chilly morning. People in TV shows who are about to kill themselves are often shown draped in fancy suits and tuxedos with a small rose flower pinned egregiously somewhere on their outfits. They loom over the edge of a tall building or a bridge as their misty breath eddies through the cracks between their sweaty palms, clasping their mouth nervously. I find this representation offensive. Firstly, do you know the number of pockets hiding in those suits, tuxedos, and pants? Who's going to bother finding any note or possession when someone's wearing clothes with a thousand pockets? Secondly, it makes no sense to have a rose strapped onto you. If you are going to jump or drown, there is a high chance that the rose will not be retrieved. So why bother buying one in the first place? Naturally, I was dressed more reasonably at the Golden Gate Bridge. I wore burgundy sweatpants, a black T-shirt, and a cardigan with fire smoke imprinted on it. My phone and note were sealed in a small plastic Ziplock tucked in my right pocket. The sky was still a palette of dull grey when I hauled myself over the cold, red metal railing to overlook the thick fog covering the Bay beneath me. I wanted to make it quick and do it before the Sun began its ascent so that tourists, especially kids, were not horrified by a bearded brown man throwing himself off a bridge. I looked around, foolishly expecting someone to talk me out of it, but the Bridge was empty except for a single bicyclist who pedaled past me with a warm smile and a thumb-up so effervescent that I was afraid he'd gallop towards me and thumb me down the Bridge himself. "Okay," I shrugged and leered over the edge. That's when I noticed the damned net. I was furious and quickly pulled my phone to look up 'suicides at the Golden Gate Bridge' on Google. I learned those bastards in the government had recently installed a safety net to prevent people like me from jumping off. Disappointed, I headed back home to Berkeley.

I next tried the railways a fortnight later. I live on Sixth Street in Berkeley, about four streets away from the Freight train tracks that pass through the town every thirty minutes with a shrill, cacophonous assault on the eardrums of innocent pedestrians. I wore the same outfit that I did at the Golden Gate Bridge and showed up at the tracks near sunset. The tracks stretched out into unpolished, rusty silver ribbons and gleamed as the Sun started bidding adieu. Scorched wildflowers grew around the tracks in bright splashes of verdant green and needle-sharp thorns, dancing in the silent breeze and signaling the train's approach. I cracked my knuckles and stared at the train's Fate Morgana, watching the dot with immense joy. I looked around, deciding whether it would be best to jump in front of the train or lie down and cover myself with the black shroud I was carrying to make it hard for the driver to spot me. When I looked back at the train, I was surprised to find that the dot was still a dot. Why was it moving so slowly? I dropped down on the tracks and decided that lying down would probably be the best way to die. I looked back at the train, and it was still a dot. Dying wasn't supposed to take so long. I took my phone out and checked my e-mail to be sure there were no new notifications, then scrolled through Instagram until I'd exhausted every reel. But the train was still a fucking dot. What the hell was wrong with it? Trains were supposed to be fast! Had it stopped? No, the dot was getting bigger, but the rate at which it was getting bigger was disturbing. No way that this was going to kill me. Worst case scenario, it would leave me injured, and how is a paralyzed man supposed to end his life? Ask someone to wheel him over the cliff? "Not worth it," I grumbled and walked away.

Three weeks after the attempt at the railways, I wander through the fire trails behind my college campus at Berkeley, looking for a nice tree to throw the other end of my noose around. Occasionally, a few people pass by me, eyeing me curiously, which, to be fair, is warranted because I left my home with the loop pre-tied around my neck, holding the other end of the rope enthusiastically in my right hand, and a small plastic bottle clutched in my left hand. Why did I pre-tie the knot? It seemed easier to do it without being publicly scrutinized. It would have been weird to stand under my suicide spot and watch an audience form around me, condemning me for failing to tie a good knot.

The heat this Summer has been jarring, so the trail I walk through is a slumber bed for dried leaves, broken branch sticks, and a platoon of insects. I spot a banana slug and crouch down to get a good look at the slimy, green beast curled around in a ball – its two eyes swaying cheerily at the top of its head. Momentarily, my mind spawns back to a short hike I went with a prospective friend during Spring Break. We'd both spotted a similar-looking banana slug, and while our plan to hang out after the break never worked out, I did learn a few important lessons that day: banana slugs have independent eyes, and they excrete through a corner close to their mouth. It is a pretty happy day to die if a banana slug is the last living thing I see. I return to my feet and wave goodbye at the banana slug. I've reached the end of the trail at Grizzly Peak. I walk off the path and into the wild, unpaved tracks ahead. I've never been this far up the fire trails.

I am engulfed in a warm embrace by the barren, skeletal trunks of tall trees that chortle like wind chimes as the breeze picks up. The bushes are waist high as I cleave my way, sporadically being pricked by insects and thorny vines. Occasionally, a tiger butterfly flits by, encouraged by the sounds of chirping bluebirds. And that is when two things surprise me – the melody of a folk song wafting through the air and the scent of fresh cookies. "Wouldn't hurt to die with a full belly," I say, rubbing my stomach that rumbles in approval. As soon as I have my cookies, I will walk the opposite way, away from the crowd, and back towards a good spot where I can kill myself. I follow the strumming of the old guitar, the music's soulful and high-pitched notes rich with the story of a soldier traversing through a dark forest in search of cookies. "Innovative," I remark, drifting closer toward the spot.

Suddenly, I am no longer drowning in a sea of bushes and insects. I find myself standing in a circular, barren campsite. Crouching near the blazing fire in the middle of the campsite is a mysterious figure in a hooded yellowish-green cloak. Next to him is a box of cookies. "Hello," I wave at the figure, and that's when I realize that the figure isn't wearing a yellowish-green cloak. No. The figure is the yellowish-green cloak.

I am glaring at a six-foot-tall banana slug. I rub my eyes and then rub them harder till circles cloud my vision. Is it a suit? The slick mucus coating on its yellow, mottled flesh with scattered brown spots reflects the embers of fire so pristinely that no fabric can. Two elongated stalks sprout from the creature's head, each end carrying small, beady, granite-black eyes. Below these are shorter, quivering tentacles that seem to incessantly be sniffing the Earthly scent around us. Slowly and mechanically, its eyes turn towards me. I'd heard about hallucinations during suicides, but they usually came after dying. My instinct should be to scream and run, right? Instead, I find myself marveling at the banana slug and the floating guitar playing next to it.

"Good evening!" the banana slug replies in perfect English, its voice surprisingly cheerful and warm. "Would you like some cookies?" Keeping its right eye affixed on me, it turns its left eye toward the box of cookies. The box begins floating towards me. Someone has drugged me. "This is real – the cookies and me! I made the cookies myself." the slug says cheerfully, trying to calm me down.

"What are you? What is this? Did I accidentally ingest some mushrooms on the way? Where is your voice coming from?" I dance nervously as each question retches itself out of my mouth.

"I am real, and I am half-telepathic. I can't read your thoughts, but I can communicate non-verbally. I do have a mouth, though," the slug replies as its head bobs to one side in rhythmic contractions. I can see its mouth – a tiny slit on the side of its head that opens to reveal sharp, rasping teeth. "If you still think I am not real, have a cookie and decide for yourself," the slug says. The box of cookies in front of me does look good. And I guess there is no harm in trying them. Hesitantly, I pick one of them up and force it into my mouth. Within seconds, I have another. And then another. And then another. No matter how many cookies I grab, the box never gets empty. "These are amazing," I say with wisps of cookie crumbs lining the corners of my mouth.

"My name is Sol. What's your name?" The slug says, its eyes worryingly twitching in different directions. The mucus from its body drips down and soaks the soil around it in thick, white, slimy puddles.

"Bo," I reply.

"What are you doing in the forest, Bo?"

"Oh, I am about to kill myself," I say. I let my shoulders drop, tension dissipating. After all, the slug looked harmless.

"Do you know why?" it asks.

"I'm not sure," I shrug.  I scratch my chin, deciding if it is worth enough to open myself up to a slug. A ripple rapidly flows down its muscular frame. I've tried therapists before, but never a six-foot banana slug that is most likely a hallucination. Hesitantly sipping air in, I say, "Everything just seems mundane and routine-like. I wake up and do the same thing again and again. There's nothing exciting going on. Every day is the same day!"

"I see," the banana slug drawls. "I would hate to do the same thing every day, too. I love making cookies, but selling them daily would be a hassle."

"Selling cookies? Are you going to charge me for these?" I put the cookies back into the box, which never seems to get empty, and scramble around looking for my wallet.

"Oh, I won't charge you. You look like you could really use these cookies. And a friend," Sol replies. The mouth slits near Sol's head broaden, and I think it is smiling. I smile back. "If I may pester you a bit, why do you do the same thing every day? If you're tired of the same thing, why not do something new?" Sol asks.

"I have nothing different to do or nobody to do different things with."

"No friends?"

I shake my head.

"You always have yourself, though," Sol argues.

"Not a big fan of myself. I remember having a breakdown once when I realized that I had to spend my entire life with myself. So, I see no point in living with myself anymore," I laugh.

"And what's the point of dying?"

"Come again?"

"You said that you want to kill yourself because there is no point in living. I agree. But there is also no point in dying, is there? By your own logic, there is no point in anything. So why not live because you can and die when you die?"

I struggle for words. "Well, I already tied this noose around my neck. Seems pretty late to chicken out, doesn't it?" For some reason, my face feels hot, like it is about to melt off, and my heart seems to be bouncing around in its little corner. I realize that I'm crying. I do not know why. I do not understand why. I walk towards the banana slug and sit on the log next to it.

"You feel invisible, don't you? Many insects and animals I know feel that way when they are close to ending their life. They think feeling invisible makes them special enough to end their own lives. But guess what? They're wrong. You're not special at all. You're not special enough to end your own life. Your life and your death don't matter to the Universe."

"That's rather depressing, isn't it? My life is a joke. I am trapped in being alive, aren't I?"

"You're only trapped if you trap yourself. If you think your life is a joke, tell a bloody good joke." Sol smiles.

"These animals and insects you mentioned earlier…do they change their mind about dying?"

"Not always."

"Do you want me to change my mind?"

"Of course," the slug says, and the guitar stops now. "When life seems dark, remember that there is always a cookie with your name on it!" Sol pulls a small bag from under the log it sits on and gently pushes it into my palms. "These finish themselves, unlike the box, " Sol adds. My hands are full, with one hand around the rope and the other around my bottle. I bite my lips, free one of my hands, and grab the bag of cookies.