Funky mustache

I'm standing in line at the super market hoping to God that I have enough in my checking account to cover the bananas, apple cider vinegar and yogurt that I'm cradling in my arms. No luck on any work prospects yet. I watch the incredibly incompetent cashier fumble manically. The more I watch him, the sharper the pain becomes in my chest. How is it possible that this hopeless individual has a job and I don't? I shake my head and stare at the gum. I feel guilty for thinking these thoughts. Now I want gum, but I probably can't afford it. I bet the cashier can afford gum. Negativity begins to tumble down like an avalanche onto my fragile psyche. I need to divert myself.

I stare at a magazine. The cover of a particular rag exclaims the shame of fat celebrities. Only the bodies of these obese individuals are shown. If I want to know who those genetically shamed bodies belong to, I have to actually open the magazine. I can feel the fat around the trunk of my own body strain and huff against my clothes. I refuse to get a larger size of clothing. I will lose the weight. But right now, I'm fat. If I were famous, I would be on the cover of this very issue. If I were famous I could afford gum. Well, here I go again.

The beeps from the scanned purchases ring infrequently. The cashier is still struggling. The elderly woman at the counter is carefully picking coupons out of her purse. Age has slowed her down tremendously. I wonder if she remembers what she was doing when Abraham Lincoln was shot. Watching her really gives me so much to look forward to. I feel like returning my own items and getting cat food instead. At the rate that I'm going, Friskies will eventually be a part of my diet, I may as well get used to eating it now. I really need to learn to stop thinking.

I finally reach the part of the line where I'm able to set my stuff on the conveyor belt. I hear someone come up behind me. I reflexively grab the little stick to keep our stuff separated and let him try to cram what he can on the little space that is available to him. I'm nosey. I look at what he's buying. You can tell a thing or two about a person by what they're buying. This guy is buying several types of hair product and pasta, lots of pasta. I presume him to be a financially lean person with perfectly coiffed hair; a guy with dignity and a starchy belly. God Bless him. I position myself to subtly steal a glance of my fellow pauper, and when I do, I nearly poke myself in the eye with his cartoonish handle bar mustache. Yikes! The wax in this thing is definitely doing it's job helping this thing to stick straight out, a few inches away from his face, then go into a satisfying curly cue on each end. No doubt, he had to have spent a good chunk of time to get this thing so perfectly poised. I wonder what it looks like in the morning after a night of heavy drinking.

This fellow has got to be an incredibly serious chap to be able to look at himself in the mirror and not laugh himself silly. He's caught me staring at him. I close my mouth and smile at him. He nods politely. He has the mustache of a man who has tied up a dame or two on a set of railroad tracks. In addition to his facial attire, he wears part of the uniform of a Civil War soldier. His blue cap is delicately and impossibly placed on his head so that it tilted ever so slightly. He has to be using bobby pins. He has on a blue frock coat with big brass buttons that's fastened all the way up to his throat. I'm glad that, at the very least, he chose a Union uniform. He must've left his sword in his car. I bet he has a job, perhaps at a Civil War reenactment camp, but it's a job. Damn him.

I knew this was no joke, nor was he headed to a costume party. I've seen too many of these Civil War people out in Brooklyn to believe otherwise. It's the thing to do amongst this group. All I could think, is that you have to come from money to do these things. Though, it is a nice coat, I can't imagine blowing half of my paycheck on it. I would have to forgo food, my cell phone bill and any hope of a few nights at the bar for the month if I did. It vaguely crosses my mind to mug him in the parking lot. I could probably get two hundred bucks for that coat.

"Nice shirt," he said.

"What?" I asked.

I didn't expect him to talk. Usually these guys don't respond to anyone other than their own. It's part of their policy as stipulated by the hipster union. Any hipster caught speaking to a non-hipster will be shunned by other hipsters. Their name will also be printed in The Hipster Journal, a weekly periodical, along with their crime, and every hipster will gasp and judge, that is, until it's time to scorn other things.

"Your Led Zeppelin shirt. They're the best," he tells me.

I looked down at the shirt that I ganked from my brother. Is it possible that I'm actually having a human connection in Los Angeles? Led Zeppelin is so amazing that they even get people in this town to come together.

"Thanks...I like your mustache."

I mean it. Anyone who has the kind of dedication to groom and pamper that chunk of hair on his face is intriguing to me.

"Thank you," he laughed, "my girlfriend likes it. It's funky, but it's fun."

I detect a bit of coyness when he talked about it. The more I look at it, the more I like it. It IS a very funky, yet fun mustache, a perfect distraction from all the annoyances that slip into the cracks and crevices of the day. One can meditate by simply staring at that mustache. It's Zen-like.

I feel myself smile for the first time today, "It's the best thing that I've seen all day."

I had enough on my card to buy my stuff, including the gum I had been eye balling. I went home and drew my own funky, fun mustache in the mirror so that it lines up to my face perfectly. I would have a stroke if I was able to grow my own mustache. That's the stuff that nightmares are made of. But this pretend mustache makes me smile, and deep down, I get the feeling that everything will be alright. My girlfriend looks at me, as though I'm off my medication, as I chew my gum and meditate into the mirror while wearing my funky, fun mustache.

My dog comes up behind me and hits me with her nose. It's her way of reminding me to take her for a walk. She's also probably thinking I need some fresh air. Maybe I do, maybe I do.