The Mustache
In late August Jim decided to grow a mustache and by early September it had begun to take over his brain. Take for example, the new hat. Jim was not ordinarily a hat wearer. But this hat, a black fedora, went so well with the mustache that, after trying it on, he had walked directly to the cash register and pulled out a fifty dollar bill, the hat never leaving his head. They spoke the same language, the hat and the mustache. It was the language of early noir films in which women were “broads” and sentences often ended in “see.” Jim had consulted a book of mustaches before beginning the growth process—he’d never grown one before and wanted to make sure his mustache didn’t look amateurish—and chosen one in the style referred to as “The General.” But with the addition of the hat, the mustache took on a decidedly gangster lean—and so did Jim. He noticed, for instance, that he’d started talking out of the side of his mouth—quickly, and in what could only be categorized as a mutter. The other day he had accidentally called his boss “toots” after a particularly “high stakes” meeting with some clients and had had to fake a violent coughing fit to cover it up. His boss was a jowly man in his late 50’s, graying around the temples and ardently clean-shaven. He did not react well to pet names of any kind.
Jim’s girlfriend, Samantha, seemed to find the mustache endearing at first. “My manly, manly man,” she’d say, smoothing its well-trimmed tips. She treated the mustache as a novelty gag, something to spur amusing conversation among their culturally savvy and well coiffed friends at dinner parties or over drinks. But when months went by and the mustache was still firmly planted on Jim’s upper lip, she was no longer so keen on it. She complained that it was scratchy against her face when he kissed her and that it gathered particles of food. She complained that it smelled funny, like sardines and bourbon and pipe smoke (yes, Jim had also started smoking a pipe since the advent of the mustache). It reminded her, she said, of her sleazy Uncle Melvin. The mustache was still a humorous topic of conversation at dinner parties, but now Samantha’s laughter was strained, and she tried to change the topic as quickly as possible. At home she always seemed to find something to do in another room of their tiny apartment, and most of their conversations were held this way—him in the bedroom, her in the living room, him in the living room, her in the kitchen, and so on. Jim’s new style of speech wasn’t helping matters, and Samantha was always yelling “What?” from her station in the other room. Sometimes she simply pretended not to hear Jim at all.
Jim noted the growing tension in his love life, and yet he had never felt so alive—in a shrewd, cynical sort of way. In the past he’d always felt like a bit of a fraud, turning up the bravado in the company of other men, feigning his way through talk of football games and lawnmowers with older relatives or coworkers. Now he felt justified in remaining silent through these conversations; his mustache put him above this kind of tedious interaction. He was a man of few words, a man of action. He was a man with nothing to prove.
And he was a man with an acute understanding of the complicated and shady workings of the business world. For instance, when Bob came into his office to ask if he had the numbers for the Phillips account, Jim said, “Bob, the numbers aren’t the point. There’s something larger going on here. We have to think about motivations. Those guys at Phillips are up to something, see? We’ve got to keep our eyes on the big picture, that’s the ticket.” Jim pulled out his pipe and lit it.
“I don’t think you can smoke that in here,” said Bob, looking confused.
For Thanksgiving Jim and Samantha flew to visit her family in Montana. Jim had always liked Samantha’s family. They were salt-of-the-earth types, trustworthy and well intentioned. Sam’s mother wore a checked apron and baked pies by day but wore extravagant cocktail dresses to dinner. Sam’s father was a carpenter and prize-winning wood whittler; he was known for his ability to whistle any song on any jukebox anywhere in the US of A. Sam’s grandmother knit bikinis for Sam year round. But then there was Grandpa Jack. Grandpa Jack had fought in an indeterminate number of wars and had sported a handlebar mustache through all of them. He did not take kindly to newfangled mustaches of the Generation X variety, no matter how seriously the wearer took his status and responsibilities as a mustachioed man. When Samantha and Jim walked in the door, Grandpa Jack took one look at Jim and made a harumphing sound deep in his throat. Samantha went over to give him a kiss where he was seated in the Barca Lounger.
“Hello, sweetheart,” he said, his face softening for a moment. Just as quickly his scowl returned as he looked over her shoulder and gave Jim a curt nod, followed by another, barely concealed, harrumphing noise.
“Don’t mind him,” said Grandma Rose, and ushered her guests into the kitchen to sample the gravy.
Up until the actual Thanksgiving meal Jim was able to avoid Grandpa Jack, and in fact spent most of the day lurking on the front porch, smoking his pipe and muttering to himself about the Phillips account. But by 4 PM everyone was seated at the large dining room table and the showdown could no longer be avoided. Grandpa Jack scowled at Jim over the steaming mashed potatoes. He purposely passed the string beans to the other end of the table when Jim complimented Grandma Rose on their nutty flavor. In fact whenever Jim spoke at all, Grandpa Jack suddenly had something to say, expounding loudly on the outlandish price of oil or his recent bout of arthritis. Samantha, seated across the table from Jim, shot him meaningful looks. They were of the “Just keep your mouth shut” variety.
“So, Jim, how has work been?” asked Samantha’s father, looking sincerely interested as he scooped mash potatoes onto his plate.
“Well, the thing is, see—” Jim began. He was prepared to bring everyone in on the shady dealings involved in the Phillips account, but was quickly interrupted by Grandpa Jack.
“This boy doesn’t know the meaning of work. Back in my day, a man worked with his hands.” Grandpa Jack swirled his leg of turkey in gravy and tore off a hunk of flesh with his mighty dentures.
There was a moment of awkward silence. The old Jim might have been stymied by this sort of remark, but the new Jim didn’t take lip from anyone, even old-timers like Grandpa Jack. “That’s where you’re wrong, doll fa—”
A sharp kick under the table silenced Jim. Samantha shot him another meaningful look. “You better quit while you’re ahead, buster,” the look said. Jim didn’t take kindly to admonitions from an uppity woman, but he saw that he was caught between a rock and a hard place.
“Excuse me,” Jim said. He got up from the table, grabbed his fedora from the coat rack, and went out on the porch to smoke his pipe. The nerve of the old man! Well, Jim wasn’t about to crack; he was made of tougher stuff than that. What he needed was a plan, see? A real man doesn’t get mad, he gets even. Jim smoked his pipe and plotted revenge. Then he went inside and poured himself a double Scotch.
Half a turkey and several Scotches later, Jim and Grandpa Jack were the only ones left at the dinner table. Grandma Rose had fallen asleep in front of the TV in the living room, Samantha had gone, pinch-lipped, upstairs to read, and her parents had retired to their room. Jim squinted across the table at Grandpa Jack. The man was matching Jim drink for drink and looked none the worse for the wear, although truth be told, he hadn’t looked too good to begin with. He was a small man, with shrunken cheeks and only a few wisps of white hair sticking up from his wrinkled, sun-spotted head. The theme song for “The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly” drifted in from the living room, along with Grandma Rose’s snores.
“So, how long did it take you to grow that thing?” Grandpa Jack leaned in, looking formidable despite his diminutive size.
“Three days.” It had taken exactly three weeks and two days for Jim to achieve the glorious state of mustache he now displayed, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Grandpa Jack. Hold your cards close to your chest and bluff to high heaven—those where the rules.
But Grandpa Jack wasn’t buying it. “Harumph,” he said. “Used to be,” he said, “a man had to earn his mustache. A man worked with his hands, earned a living, supported a family. A man knew how to ride a horse.” Grandpa Jack sat back in his seat and narrowed his eyes. Tell me Jim, what exactly are your intentions with my granddaughter?”
Jim set down his glass and gave Grandpa Jack the once-over. “Jack, you’ve been living on the shady side of yesterday. My intentions are clean as a whistle, see, but I’m not sure how that’s any of your business.”
Grandpa Jack’s face grew red and furious; his eyes bulged. “That’s mighty big talk for a two pound guppy. I may be getting on in years, but I’m still the head of this here family. And we don’t take flak from outsiders. So are you going to apologize, or do you want to take this little matter outside?”
“Let’s go, old man.” Jim reached for his hat.
“Stop right there.” Sarah stood in the doorway in her nightgown, hands on hips, hair a-tangle. “I don’t know what’s going on here but you two have had too much to drink, and it’s way past both of your bedtimes.”
Jim gave her the eye and considered his options. He wasn’t too keen on the notion of backing down from a fight, but his mistress had a point: three drinks was his limit and he was usually in bed by nine. And if he pushed this thing too far he could end up sleeping on the couch, like a bum on a losing streak with a deuce in his pocket and his shoelace untied.
He turned back to Grandpa Jack and gave him his best glare. Grandpa Jack glared right back. Jim decided to change tacks. He shrugged his shoulders, grinned at Sarah and Grandpa Jack, pushed his chair back and stood up. As he walked past Grandpa Jack toward the stairs, he couldn’t help but mutter: “This ain’t over yet, Jack.”
Samantha turned on her heel and led Jim up the stairs, her round form teasing him from underneath the gauzy fabric of her gown. “You’re lucky your so beautiful, dollface,” he told her backside, and followed her into bed.
Jim woke in the middle of the night feeling queasy and disoriented. Samantha was straddling him, and he seemed to be somehow attached to the bed. “What the…?” She was holding something in her hand; on closer examination it appeared to be a razor. His brain felt like it was swaddled in toilet paper, but he recognized this turn of events all too well. The conniving vixen had turned on him! The right half of his lip was catching quite a breeze.
“I’ve had enough, Jim. This charade has gone on for too long.” She leaned over and applied the razor to the left side of his lip, which he now realized was thick with lather. The razor scraped like a snake whisper against his skin. He had been undone by a woman, who would have thought? He struggled against the gym socks that held his arms to the bedposts, but to no avail. His own socks, used against him! “You’ll get yours, you crazy broad,” he slurred. The scotch still had a fierce hold on him.
“We’ll see about that,” Samantha said, her deft hands finishing the job with two quick strokes. She swung her leg over to the side and untied his hands. “Now go back to sleep.”
Jim was suddenly, inexplicably, exhausted. His head hit the pillow like a man down for the count.
In the morning Jim woke with a clanging headache and a feeling of rebirth. He felt his clean-shaven lip with the tip of his finger. Yes, the mustache was gone. Samantha rolled over and gave him a lazy smile.
“Good morning, Jim.”
“Good morning, Sam.”
Samantha put her hands to his face and kissed him full on the lips. Then she climbed atop him, her body writhing as if to a disco beat. The beat reverberated through Jim’s body with a growing urgency, a refrain playing through his mind that he couldn’t quite make out. He pushed against Samantha. Oh yes, there it was:
Well, you can tell by the way I use my walk,
I’m a woman’s man, no time to talk…
Jim’s hips were moving in all sorts of ways they had never moved before. This was passion served up right, a new jungle heat, an all-consuming rhythm of desire that emanated through Jim’s body. He even thought he heard Sam call him “tiger” at the moment of wild, pinnacle thrust. Afterward Sam fell to his side, her breath raspy. She reached over to smooth her fingers across his cheeks. Her hands stopped when they reached the newly sprouted scruff near his ears. “What’s this?” she asked.
“Sideburns, baby,” said Jim. He snapped the fingers of both hands, flashing her the universal sign of double guns. “You ready to go again?”
