Midlife Crisis
Man-To-Man with Ev
What could have been
It was a Friday after work, and I was chilling with my friend, Ev, in a bar downtown.
I ordered a soft plum Syrah, because I’m a penny-pinching Top Writer snob, while the billionaire founder of Medium coolly called for Frankie’s “most expensive Russian Vodka”.
Clearly we would not be walking on eggshells over a mere invasion of Ukraine. No boycotting by this realist billionaire.
Really, I just wanted to go home after work, as I was dead tired after a stressful day in the office. Plus I had ten cent best sellers to write for Medium. But our billionaire tech king of leisure insisted he had something very important to tell me.
Had we not gone back a long way, back to our younger innocent days, discussing such classics like Dostoyevski’s Notes From Underground and Mary McCarthy’s Venice Observed on those gloriously foggy mornings in Sebastapol at our favorite cafe, Dreamer’s Cup, I would have just given this needy billionaire the finger.
But we had a history, Ev and I. If it wasn’t for a mere twist of fate, I might have been the billionaire while Ev would have been the one pushing wheelbarrows of fictive bullshit uphill on Medium for pennies.
Alas, Fate, as usual, made the wrong judgement call.
So here we were, Admin Slave/aspiring Medium Poet/Satirist and Billionaire Tech Co-Founder of Twitter and Medium. Two opposites that make Cain and Abel look like loving like-minded BFFs by comparison.
Alright, enough set-up, you get the picture. What the hell did Ev find “so important” that he needed my exhausted ass to meet him downtown for drinks after work?
“Carlo, I’m having a midlife crisis.”
I’m thinking, Christ, not another baby billionaire suffering from too much leisure again? Does he need a hug? What does he want from my ass? I’ve got ten cent stories I need to write!
“I’m sorry to hear, Ev. Is it more serious than the one you had last month?” I tried to sound sympathetic, and hoped I wasn’t leaking what I really thought.
“This one is even more serious. I’m starting to doubt the choices I’ve made this life.”
I thought to myself: Oh really? You want to swap, baby?
“Don’t say that, Ev. You’ve done well for yourself. You should feel proud.” I mean, what else am I supposed to say?
My words went straight through Ev. I’m not even sure he was listening.
“Carlo, I’m ashamed of the direction my baby, Medium, has taken. What started as a noble idea has turned into a Frankenstein.”
“I intended this platform to improve the quality of writing, and instead I’ve created something that encourages and produces cheap, copycat material that can be replicated by your average bot. What have I done?”
“Oh Ev! Ev, Ev, Ev. Baby, come here.” I thought I’d try to give my old friend a hug. But he wasn’t having it. He was inconsolable.
“I wanted Medium to be a refuge for genuinely talented writers. For writers who have worked their whole lives at their craft. I wanted to create a meritocracy and pay talented writers accordingly.”
“Instead I’ve created something where the most unoriginal cynical copycats take home the lion’s share of money while the true writers struggle to make one dollar per day!”
At this point, Ev started really breaking down and crying. I was starting to get embarrassed.
“Oh Ev! It’s going to be ok. Trust me, it could be much worse.”
Was this not fucking obvious?
“Ev, Ev, here, take a sip of your vodka. Thatta boy. How does that taste? Good, good.” Was he like three years old?
“Medium is not as bad as you think, Ev. It is not totally a failure.”
This was the best I could think to say. He then stopped crying and looked at me like I had just insulted him.
“So you think it’s a failure too?”
“That’s not what I meant, Ev, and you know it. Stop putting words into my mouth.” We started arguing like a married couple. Other tables started staring at us. I had to try steer the conversation in another direction.
“Ev, listen up. Time for straight talk. Remember when we were young and you used to tell me you never wanted to be like one of those dumb poor sucker geniuses who live their whole lives in anonymity and obscurity and poverty only to be celebrated long after their deaths, like a Rilke or Van Gogh?”
I waited for Ev to register. He still looked slightly annoyed and upset.
“Yes, go on, I’m listening.”
“Well, mission accomplished! You are a famous rich successful billionaire who is envied today and will be forgotten tomorrow!”
This did not have the effect I intended. Ev was looking more pissed off by the minute.
“What do you mean ‘forgotten tommorrow’?”
“I mean you’re not a sucker like me, Ev! Well done!”
“I’m dumb enough to work a sweat over ten cents and try to write real gems that might stand the test of time, because I’m an idiot. You, on the other hand, are a clever genius that gets to fly around the world and stay in resorts.”
“You have the luxury of as many midlife crises as you wish while you drink premium grade Russian vodka because you never fell for pipe dream notions like sweat and hard work and meritocracy when it came to writing. Trust me, you don’t want my life. And you definitely don’t want Van Gogh’s life. Be glad you have both of your ears intact!”
Then, the incredible happened. Ev slowly got out of his seat, looking volcanically irate, and picked up his bottle of vodka by the neck, raising it high above his head. Fire started erupting from his head like he was Mount Etna.
Then, just as he came down swinging that bottle at my head, my alarm clock went off.
I woke up in a sweat. It was time to take a shower and go to work on my next ten cent classic, my man-to-man dream with Ev.
© Carlo Zeno 2022
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Thanks for reading, and thanks to Michael Burg, MD (Satire Sommelier) and the team at Doctor Funny for providing a space for dreams, and thanks also to Gunner Barrett for his help in editing. If you’d like to support, shout me a coffee, or read and give a wild standing ovation to two more yarns below. Thank you 🙏