[This is part 2 of the story of Curmudgeon’s hike. If you’re too lazy to read part 1, the story began when the Curmudgeon got himself a pair of hiking poles and unleashed his presence on an urban park, a place far too civilized for a free thinker such as himself.]
Before he’d completely worn himself out but well after he’d already “overdone it” (many of the Curmudgeon’s exercise schemes alternated between “nothing” and “way too much”) the walking/bike path changed its nature. It dumped him into an upscale urban sector.
This was another alien world to the Curmudgeon. There were delicatessens, microbreweries, and various other businesses that used too many syllables in their name. The Curmudgeon patted his pocket to check his wallet. It was in place and unopened, and he intended to keep it that way. He was in danger! This was a zone where two beers and an appetizer would blow a week’s budget.
The many microbreweries were open for business, yet nobody was coming or going. In the heat of the midday, an oppressive miasma hung over the concrete courtyards. As the Curmudgeon traversed the burning expanses he caught glimpses of hipsters peering from the dark recesses of their air conditioned artificial caverns. Out in the blazing sun, the Curmudgeon hiked alone. He still heard blaring trumpets in his mind; “Gettin’ strong now, gonna’ fly now…”
The Curmudgeon’s idea of an ideal population density was somewhere around that of Death Valley. The dense urban core would’ve freaked him out except for the hot sun. Protected by the harsh conditions, he wouldn’t have to interact with anyone.
Everyone, including the Curmudgeon, knows hipsters cannot bear direct sunlight. It’s an observable fact. Perhaps, as a variant of nerd, their pasty skin never spent enough time outside to acclimate to the environment? The Curmudgeon’s theory was that hipsters are undead; possibly turned that way by over-consumption of social media and expensive IPAs. Despite their position on a scale that included vampires and zombies, they weren’t particularly fearsome. Hipsters seemed about as masculine as a lace doily and they were probably vegan. If a hipster was a vampire, it would just be a sparkly Chad analog swooning over some forgettable girl. A being of immense power and dark knowledge? Impossible!
The Curmudgeon, still living the Rocky montage, wanted nothing to do with them. He presumed the feeling was mutual. The worst risk was that undead hipster traits might be communicable. He’d rather kill and eat one than endure a lecture about recycling only to find himself converted into “the lifestyle”. He shuddered pondering a fate worse than death; desperately fretting over student loans taken out for ill defined purposes, emoting over avocado toast, and putting “product” in his beard!
Alas, he was tempted. The microbreweries had excellent AC. He could feel cool breezes wafting through open doors. It was hot and he’d been moving at a fair clip for a long time. Maybe he needed a drink? The interiors looked so chill and shaded.
No! Don’t give in, climb that next stair!
Sighing, the Curmudgeon encountered actual stairs. He slowed to a walk. He began trudging up.
The trumpets from Rocky began to fade. A new sound emerged.
It was Chuck Mangione, playing Feels So Good. The siren of the hipsters sent sweet, dulcet notes floating toward the Curmudgeon’s cooked mind.
Chuck Mangione didn’t want you to punch a side of beef. He wanted to hand you a glass of sangria. He had air conditioning.
“Join us. It’s cool inside. The seats are padded.”
“Never!” Hissed the Curmudgeon.
“We have WiFi.”
The Curmudgeon began to slow.
On a landing between flights of stairs, he shrugged off his day pack. He slurped lukewarm water greedily. They had ice in there. He wanted ice! The brand new trekking poles slipped from his grip and clattered to the pavement. Stairs continued in two directions. He could go left or right but the only way out was up.
Maybe it was time for a break? He could afford a few drinks. It was so damn hot out. Chuck’s unhurried trumpet called from a microbrew on the left. “Take a load off…” the trumpet soothed.
To the right Maynard Ferguson stepped into the sun. He had seized Gonna Fly Now from Bill Conti! Expanding on the high energy source material he’d turned the dial to eleven. He was doing unnatural things to his trumpet and it responded with notes no trumpet expected to make. He bent the air around him; shattering Mangione’s relaxed vibe.
Maynard wasn’t just doing the Rocky montage, he was doing it hard! Maynard didn’t need to punch a side of beef, because when he blew a note the beef knew it was already pummeled.
The Curmudgeon was momentarily caught between two worlds.
The air conditioned brewery beckoned. Ease and rest and cold beer. “You can always be awesome tomorrow, today you can be just enough.” The hipster trumpet soothed.
The longer cement stairway with Maynard was the opposite. “Do it! Do it now! Get so awesome the antelope have a heart attack when they see you coming!”
The Curmudgeon blinked; sweat stinging his eyes.
“Climb the stair you lazy bitch!” Maynard’s trumpet shrieked.
This was it. The choice we all face. The way we are is the way we do the things we do. The Curmudgeon understood this.
The Curmudgeon scooped up his trekking poles. “Yeeeaaaarrrghhh!” He charged up the stairway; poles held high, aiming right at Maynard’s curly head of hair.
External to his inner thoughts, the Curmudgeon’s exhausted sweaty charge at imaginary soundtracks wasn’t quite so impressive. Within the brew pub, which had no music at all, a hipster looked up from his phone. What he saw worried him. “You think that dude out there is dehydrated?”
Another hipster glanced up from his phone, “Looks like he’s training for an antelope hunt.”
The first shuddered, “Ew.”
They both nodded and returned to doomscrolling.
Outside, the Curmudgeon had worked himself into a real life Rocky montage frenzy. He charged up yet another flight of concrete stairs. He found himself at a train trestle that had been converted to a walking path. He swung his mighty trekking poles at the wooden planks and double-timed across the river. From there he plunged back into the hipsteriffic maze.
Occasionally sighting the river to assure himself he was going toward rather than away from his truck, he blasted through the unknown. He skirted the perimeter of a playground, infested as it was with children, and still hearing trumpets, barged into a construction zone.
There was a chain link fence with a sign; “sidewalk closed”. It was less than concertina wire so the Curmudgeon squeezed himself through a gap in the fencing. Well aware everyone in the city could see him in a blocked off zone, he click clacked his trekking poles straight past heavy equipment, around survey stakes, and down a graded but not yet paved slope. At the end, another section of chain link was strapped to a waist high antique wrought iron railing.
Without pause, the trekking poles were flung over.
Curmudgeon vaulted the wrought iron; exactly like a man his age shouldn’t.
He landed well. He knew he would. The frenzy of Maynard’s trumpet gave him advantage on all athletics checks.
From there he click clacked around a bend and swished right past the other “sidewalk closed” sign. He could see his truck. He was home. The energy surge began to ebb. Bluetooth speakers playing bullshit began to once again penetrate the Curmudgeon’s mental armor.
A young man and his wife, awkwardly managing a toddler and a stroller, watched the Curmudgeon come around the corner from the forbidden zone. The man asked “Can we…”
“Nope.” The Curmudgeon cut the question short. “I did it, but I don’t recommend it.” He waved a pole at the stroller. “Won’t make it.” The Curmudgeon’s breath was coming in deep gasps… he’d be taking an Ibuprofen tonight.
The young dad smiled. “I get it.” His smile showed wisdom surprising in his youth. There’s a lot of things a young dad will soon learn he can no longer do and he seemed ready for it.
He made a little joke. “Gotta’ have trekking poles for the closed section right?”
The Curmudgeon nodded. “Yep, and trumpets.”
He was already halfway to the truck before he realized the trumpet comment would make no sense. He looked back but the young couple was already headed for the little walking bridge. They’d be fine.
Back in the truck, the AC was turned on max and a stashed bottle of cold water was immediately consumed. By the time the Curmudgeon was rolling out of the parking lot and past the Bluetooth speakers, he was already thinking of his next hike.
It was going to be a grand summer.