Bizzy Coy

The Un-alivers

There was a deep and narrow gorge in upstate New York where all the millennials came to kill themselves. It started with one man who smashed his car through a wooden safety rail, launching himself into the grinning siltstone gash. Soon there was a twisted line of vehicles eager to do the same. Rules were established: No holding spots in line. No switching spots in line. Leave the line, lose your spot. First in line was allowed to take as much time as was needed before choosing to jump, or head home, or drive to the back of the line and try again. Sometimes the crucial decision took seconds. Sometimes it took months. Everybody sat and waited. 

The social scene that developed in the line was one of the friendliest the millennials had experienced in their lifetimes. They swapped sandwiches and shared tents and jammed on guitars they were ready to leave behind. Impending death rubbed out all the insecurities and judgments that had stopped them from connecting with each other in the past. Backseats rocked with people newly unafraid to take the plunge. 

Whenever a first car started to grumble toward the lip of the gorge, those nearby would fall quiet. Some closed their eyes and some prayed and some froze mid-coitus out of sweaty respect, until their silence was crushed by the echo of the impact. Those farther down the line were sometimes miles away and didn’t always know what was happening until the cars ahead of them inched forward, like at a drive-thru, where the service was slow and the prices continued to rise.

The government considered stepping in, but its exploratory committee concluded that the millennials were doing everyone a favor. A permanent restroom was established, and a trading post, and a cleaning crew. There was an official sign-in sheet with a spot to indicate next of kin. Grieving family members who came seeking answers were greeted and consoled by a special committee. Stones were stacked in memory. Scrappers showed up, of both the automotive and the anatomical persuasions. In order to prevent them from being crushed by falling cars, a schedule was agreed upon, designating specific hours for scavenging through the wreckage, and specific hours for suicide. 

Some of the millennials stayed in the line for years. Some fell in love and left. Some married, had children, cheated, divorced, despaired, and returned to the line to give it another shot. A group of protestors waved signs and chanted slogans during business hours, but often stayed afterwards to enjoy the camaraderie of the campfires. A few of the protestors fell in love. And a few of them joined the line. 

The quantity of smoldering metal proved to be too much for the scrappers. It piled higher and higher in the bottom of the gorge until it became difficult to die immediately upon impact. It just wasn’t far enough to fall anymore. One millennial suggested that each car be required to carry an emergency firearm in case the jump didn’t finish the job. Another millennial suggested they find a way to empty the gorge and start fresh. The line splintered. Some stuck around and bought guns. Others started new lines in different locations. In upstate New York, there were hundreds of deep and narrow gorges to choose from, gouged by grasping glacial fingers, hollowed by unfrozen tears. Plenty for everyone.

But it wasn’t the same. The glory days were gone. The backseat babies grew into adults. One such adult joined the line, the same line where her parents had met. She couldn’t imagine why they had brought her into the world, knowing how bad it was. So bad, they themselves had wanted out. They tried to reason with her, but it had nothing to do with reason. They followed her back to the line. Without their daughter, there would be no point in going on. They sat in their separate cars, parents and child, one behind the other, saying nothing. They had never been so close. They had never had so much in common. They inched closer to the front. Their engines idled. It was no way to live. They watched the sun smear gold on the open mouth of the earth.

Bizzy Coy‘s writing appears in The New Yorker, McSweeney’s, Vulture, Salamander, Grand Journal, Pithead Chapel, Booth and Stone Canoe. Fellowships include Fulbright, MacDowell and NYSCA/NYFA. Bizzy received her MA in creative writing from Dublin City University. She lives in upstate New York.