The Mustachioed Gentleman

The hill leading up to their house made leaving particularly easy, and coming back more difficult than it should be. It was an apt metaphor for their troubled relationship. Riding down was always more fun than pedaling back up.

Wind blew through Sam’s hair. “Success is a habit” he had once heard and relished in modeling even when he wasn’t in front of the camera. It was a habit his friends found particularly annoying when they were out with him. He threw his head back and smiled at a pretty girl in a passing car.

“Using sex as a weapon is childish. She can go to hell. I’m not wrong for wanting to cultivate a little facial shrubbery.”

A car door opens.

From inside the passengers seat, a teenage girl shrieks as Sam collides with her door and flies from the bike. A slap greets her ears as he lands on the concrete.

“Oh my god. Oh my god. Are you ok?!” She runs out of the car over to the sprawled man on the ground. A small line of blood is running out of his ear. His arm lies precariously tilted. His bike, now sideways, bounces the bent front wheel back and forth between the forks.

He doesn’t answer.

She pulls a “Hello Kitty” cellphone from her pocket and calls 911.

“Yes, I just hit a guy with my car door….I’m at 2nd and College. … No, he was on a bike… No he’s not… he’s just kind of laying there…Ok I’ll wait.”

“I want it gone. Now.” Sarah said.

“I think it’s classy. You don’t?” Sam asked his girlfriend of two years.

“No. I think you look like a cum-in-your-pants-driving-by-a-pre-school pedophile with that thing on your face.” She was getting angry, and Sarah wasn’t the type of girl to lose her temper.

“I thought you just didn’t like the way it felt on your face when we were making special time.” Sam was pressing her buttons. She hated demeaning titles for sex because they made her feel like a toy there for his amusement.

“I don’t. Every time we have sex It feels like I’m going to open my eyes and Tom-fucking-Selleck is going to be inside me. Get rid of it.”

“So, is it that you don’t like the way I look with it or you don’t like how it feels or you don’t like how other people think I look with it?”

He was getting to the heart of the issue. In the back of his mind, there was some contentment with the idea that if his girlfriend fucked Tom Selleck he wouldn’t be upset. They named a line of condoms after one of his characters.

“I wonder if he would wear a Magnum—”

“SAM. I’m. a. teacher.” She punctuated every single word as if she were counting syllables with her third graders. It was as insulting as it was ineffective at helping him understand.

“Every single day 25 parents send their most prized accomplishment to exist under my care. How does it look for me when they see me in the shopping in the mall next to a guy that looks like he’s going to be down by the school yard sniffing bicycle seats?”

“That’s a stupid fucking reason. They don’t know if I’m a good person or not. And it shouldn’t matter. I’m not sniffing seats. I’m in a relationship with an old woman for fucks sake.” He paused. He didn’t mean to say it like that, and he knew this was a hot button. He stroked his beloved facial hair like an evil mastermind and doubled down.

“An old woman who hates my mustache.”

Her eyes squinted with rage. Sam was a 3 years younger than Sarah, and it brought her some anxiety that while she was turning 30, had a real job, and real responsibilities, Sam was riding his fixed gear bike around town playing Peter Pan with his modeling career.

“If you want to continue to be in a relationship with me, you’ll get rid of it.”

“You’re going to break up with me over my mustache?”

“Fuck you.” She hissed.

“You’re not getting any of this old woman until you shave that fucking thing off your face.” She was screaming now.

Incredulous at how all this spun out of control so fast, Sam was getting upset. Being controlled was his hot button, and Sarah was pushing on it as hard as she could.

“Fuck you! I’d just as soon leave before having a Cuban Standoff with you.” Sam yelled back.

“It’s a Cuban Missile Crisis you fucking moron! And until you get rid of that pervert-stache there is an embargo to all points south for the Democratic Republic of Fucking Morons!” Her voice was grating and monotone. She couldn’t yell any louder.

“Fuck your pussy-embargo and fuck you. Don’t tread on me. I’m fucking leaving.” Sam grabbed his bike, and stormed out the door. His helmet swung on the coat rack and rubbed against the wall with a small scratching sound.

The hospital lights cast hard shadows on the faces. A lone candy striper tinkers with the buttons on his heart monitor, then scribbles something down in his chart.

“Right this way Ms. Cleveland” Said a nurse extending her hand to Sarah and into Sam’s room.

“Oh my God, Sam, are you alright?” Sarah asked in hushed whispers, not wanting her voice to hurt the boy in the bed any worse.

“What happened?” He squinted to see Sarah in the harsh light. She was still pretty.

“Someone opened their door into the bike lane and you hit it.” She said matter-of-factly.

“Oh. I think I remember that.” Sam tried move his arm to stroke his mustache, only to sigh in pain, and notice a new cast on his arm.

“The doctors say you’re going to be fine. You weren’t wearing your helmet. You were really lucky.” She said.

“I know. I wanted the wind in my hair. Are you still mad at me?” Sam asked.

“No, I’m not mad at you, I’m just happy you’re alright.”

“So I can keep it?” Sam asked in as excited a voice as he could muster.

“No, the embargo still stands... But I love you and I’m glad you’re alright.” She said, smiling.

“It was worth a shot.”