Colby picked up his grandé half-caf soy latté with triple stevia sweetener from the barista and joined his Thursday evening poetry slam group at the familiar gas hearth fireplace and leather festooned lounge of the Urban Village Bean Café. Rider and Hunter were already in discussion of their latest compositions.
“… I found this website called Mustache Gourmet. Everything you need to know is on there. Styles, trimming tips, it’s amazing,” said Rider.
Colby rolled his eyes.
“Hey,” Hunter said to Colby.
“Hunter. Rider,” said Colby with a nod. He sat down and listened as they waxed poetic on mustaches, global warming and politics. Colby’s attention soon drifted off.
“Earth to Colby. What’s up, man? Your latté’s getting cold,” said Hunter.
Colby sighed. He didn’t care about cold coffee, or whatever you call the liquid candy he was drinking. A profound sense of discontent boiled over. “I can’t do this anymore. Sorry guys,” he said.
“What are you talking about?” asked Rider.
“I’m leaving the city. I just can’t take it anymore,” explained Colby.
“I totally get it. You need another weekend soul retreat. I need those every now and then myself,” Hunter said to Rider. Rider nodded in agreement.
“No. I mean leaving for good,” said Colby.
“For what city?” asked Rider.
“No city, just the country,” said Colby.
“You’re leaving the country?” asked Hunter.
Colby rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. “I’m not leaving this country, I’m moving to the country. I’m moving to a place with no city.”
Rider and Hunter stared at him with blank expressions. Rider broke into laughter. Hunter asked, “Why?”
“Think about it. None of us really knows how to survive. If, or when, the world falls to pieces, what are we going to do?”
“Falls to pieces? Like what, a zombie apocalypse? I don’t think that’s really possible,” said Rider, sarcastically.
“Look around, man. The world’s going crazy. Think about it. Terrorism. What happens when out power grid fails? Or the economy tanks again, but this time catastrophically?”
“So what, you’re gonna live with the rednecks? Seriously,” said Hunter.
“Rednecks know how to hunt and fish and survive. What’s a hipster going to do? Set up sarcasm traps? The only survival skills any of us have involve creative mustache trimming,” said Colby.
“Man, forget the soul retreat, I think you need to refill your Xanax prescription,” laughed Hunter.
“Or stop watching Discovery Channel,” added Rider.
“You do realize that living with rednecks means you’ll have to be, well, a redneck yourself,” said Hunter.
“And listen to country music,” said Rider.
“Bluegrass!” laughed Hunter.
“Yeah. You may even become a Republican,” said Rider.
“As opposed to what? A smug hipster who can’t survive without wifi? You know, the older I get the more I want to be able to take care of myself,” Colby ranted.
“Man, you’re already an adult,” said Hunter.
“But I still have a nanny,” complained Colby.
“Really? Is she cute?” asked Rider.
“I mean the government,” scoffed Colby. He glared at Rider.
Rider leaned over to Hunter and whispered, “I think he’s already become a Republican.”
Colby ignored them. “I want to be independent. Really independent, like, off the grid kind of independent.”
Rider nodded his head in agreement. “I get it.”
“You do?” asked Colby.
“Yep. Midlife crisis,” said Rider.
“That makes sense,” said Hunter. “When should we schedule an intervention?”
“I’m free next Saturday,” said Rider.
“What are you thinking, a wine and cheese or an mustache party?” asked Hunter.
Colby shook his head. “I live in a city of spoiled children.”