Mustache

Dave had black wiry hair combed down with an equally coarse brush. The bristles, matted down over years of use, now keeled over, like saplings after a wind storm. 

He was of average height and average weight for most of his life, but as he and his wife created a family, the pressure built on his shoulders and in his stomach. After three children, Dave stood two inches shorter and three inches wider.

His mustache served as a reminder of his simultaneous shrinkage and expansion, holding crumbs of cheese and suds of beer. It also served as a commander, demanding authority from his children. His mustache could withhold his feelings, making Dave mysterious to his children, and for them, unpredictable felt dangerous.

They made themselves scarce, living around Dave in hopes that they could avoid interacting with the mustached man. Late at night, Dave would sometimes pluck one of his children from a bedroom, and his mustache would tell them stories of his past. Of war. Of death. Slurring his words as if the blood of his enemies filled his mouth.

When he’d rest his head for the night, the breeze entering and exiting his thin lips would rock his mustache to sleep, providing it a good night’s rest for another day.

On days of mental clarity, when his garden would yield enough cucumbers and tomatoes, when a praying mantis was found among the thorns of his rose bush, or when the children were particularly quiet, his mustache would tickle his lips, creating a wan smile. On those days, his mustache would declare a celebration, and the house would exhale after holding its breath since morning.

One evening, an evening of celebration, after dining on steaks labeled “USE TODAY OR FREEZE’” and a fresh garden salad, Dave’s mustache, soaked in beer and a jigger full of Crown Royal, stood prickly, looking for a fight. The children, after tip toeing to their rooms, listened to ‘Top 8 at 8’ on their table side radio, volume set at 2. Dave’s wife cleaned the dishes.

His mustache found its target, and spewed vain insults at her. About her weight. About her looks. About the food she consumed and the exercise she didn’t. About how much better their life would be, as a family, if she just lost some weight.

And his wife, with no mustache to assert herself as a force, had enough. Her lips, without cover and protection, lurched forward with words of sobriety. About Dave’s absentee approach to his family. About his prioritization of beer, then family. About his stupid mustache that he hid behind. All these words coming out clear and pointed, no mustache to add absurdities or to twist the path.

His mustache had never been challenged, and since it was an egomaniac, it would not retreat. Dave and his mustache acted swiftly, and stumbled into motion. His wife stepped aside, knowing not to get involved as he murmured under his mustache “I’ll show you. I’ll show you. I’ll show you I’m not a drunk.” She retreated to her bedroom for the night, not caring what he was going to do. She knew whatever it was, it would be fleeting. The sounds that lulled her to sleep that night were of can after can being opened, and the “lug lug lug” of liquid going down a drain. 

The next morning, Dave awoke next to his wife. His head foggy. His stomach full of regret, for what he wasn’t sure. Then the urge in his groin took over his thoughts of tracing back through the night, so he headed to the hallway bathroom. After depositing a nights worth of drink down the toilet, he washed his hands in the sink and noticed little black bristles stuck to the outer rim of the bowl. When he looked in the mirror, he found his mustache was missing. The mustache, blinded by insults and refusing to lose the fight, commanded Dave to shave him off the night before. That’ll show her. That’ll show her that Dave is the same person, a great person, mustache or not. And stroke after stroke, Dave slashed his mustache down, revealing pale gummy skin and pinpricks of blood.

In the mirror, Dave appeared to be just a boy, imitating a man, and doing a poor job at it.