Mr Moustache
It could be a shed for livestock, or farm equipment; anything except kitchen supplies. The dark green paint job looks fresh, trying to blend into landscape; an attempt to appear inconspicuous. Eyes of greasy men watch from across the road, cigarettes dangling from their bearded mouths. Sounds of hammering and tinkering from their garage fills the air. I double-check the address, shrug my shoulders, and knock on the white side door. It opens slightly, a startled eyeball in the gap.
“Are you here for the job interview?” a voice gasps.
“Yes.”
“Please walk to the roller door.”
I step backwards, glance at the green door that clanks loudly as it rises. A smiling man appears; rows of kitchen appliances and cardboard boxes behind him.
“Welcome,” he says. “I’m Gerald.”
I shake his hand, feel clamminess rub against my palm, his grip increase. “Nice to meet you.”
“You’re not what I expected,” he says.
“No?”
His black monobrow twitches; frames a round face and curly moustache. He looks me up and down with green eyes, stares at my arms and torso.
“You work out?” he asks.
“Not really,” I say. “But worked in a lumber yard up near Seattle.”
“And now you find yourself in Aberdeen,” he smiles.
“That’s right,” I say. “Gran needs the help, least I could do.”
His black shoe taps against the concrete floor. “Do you have customer service experience?”
“Sure,” I lie. “I’m good with people.”
He explains that we’re standing in the showroom, though my role would see me in a small office out back. “What do you think?” he asks.
I stare at the beige room: the empty desk, filing cabinets, telephone, and computer. He moves behind me and places a hand on my back; an unpleasant aftershave invading my nose.
“Answer phones, liaise with suppliers,” he says. “Avoid paper cuts.”
I think to my Gran’s care needs; the financial strain with a lack of support from our distant family.
“Sounds good,” I say.
“Just keep them happy,” he continues, breaking into a giggle, squeezing my shoulder. “Keep us all happy.”
“How was it?” asks Emma, holding a menu.
“Weird,” I say. “But it’s a job until something better comes.”
Music and voices grow louder as people mingle, clink glasses, and laugh about their day.
“Here’s to new beginnings.”
We return to our menus. I try to focus on the food, and decide on my order, not think too hard. Her and I. The date, which isn’t a date, just two friends unwinding after a long day. Except her day involved my Gran. And diapers.
“Are you always this indecisive?” she laughs.
“Not al—”
“What is it?” she whispers.
“It’s that guy,” I say, leaning forward, our heads close. “Gerald from the interview.”
“No way!” she says. “Where?”
“Don’t be obvious,” I say, lifting the menu over my face.
He sees us and makes a beeline in our direction, slithering through the crowd. A younger, taller woman holds his hand.
“Fancy seeing you here!” he gushes. “Good night for it!”
“We thought so,” I say.
“Celebrating, are we?” he asks, stroking his moustache between index finger and thumb, eyes darting over both of us.
“Guess so,” I laugh.
“You must have the Brick Burger,” he grins. “They do a great burger.”
“Thanks for the advice,” I say.
“Young man like you needs his strength,” he beams, reaching down, squeezing my bicep. “We’re going to make some magic!”
We laugh awkwardly. Gerald’s monobrow twitches excitedly. The woman stares at my torso but remains silent.
“I’d like you to meet my wife,” he says. “This is Jennifer.”
The younger woman waves, does a type of curtesy. “Enjoy your food,” she says.
“Nice to meet you, Jennifer,” I say.
Gerald nods like a manic woodpecker. “We best leave,” he says. “Have a good night.”
He leads Jennifer by the hand, back through the crowd, and disappears into the night.
“Told you he was weird,” I say.
Emma glances behind me to make sure they left.
“Did you notice his moustache?” she asks.
“Awful, right?”
“Did you see it move?” she whispers.
“What?”
“When he was being creepy and stroking it. It moved.”
“It moved?”
“Yes,” she laughs. “Like it briefly detached from his face.”
I stare towards the exit, half-expecting them to return.
“You think he’s wearing a fake moustache?” I ask.
“Absolutely!” laughs Emma.
“Why would someone wear a fake moustache?”
Emma continues laughing. She sips from her champagne, trying to control herself.
“Maybe it’s for that magic he’s going to make with you!”
“Shut up!”
I hide behind the menu; wish I never came back to Aberdeen, then remember Gran.
“Can I take your order?” asks the waitress.
“He’ll have the Brick Burger,” laughs Emma, pointing at me. “Young man needs his strength.”
Low clouds swirl across nearby hills, shrouding greenery, to create a sense of imprisonment. No escape. I suck in damp air, focus on breathing, and the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement.
“Fit body equals a fit mind,” says Gran.
She probably forgets the conversation, later questions who I am. But I live for glimmers of her former self; the one filled with energy and laughter with endless advice and chats.
Traffic interrupts these thoughts. Trucks hurtle past with timber to nearby mills, engines invading morning quiet. Fog drifts below, hovers over the grey Chehalis. I pause and balance on a leg, stretching my quad.
“Idiot!”
The car speeds past, coughs exhaust into the air. I remind myself it’s a temporary situation, but I’m adrift and floundering in a small town where I don’t belong. Thank God for Emma. I resume my jog. The green shed emerges into view, a freshly painted sign staring back.
COOK-IT-UP APPLIANCES
I grimace at the cheesy name I’m now attached to. Men from the garage across the road talk among themselves, watch me enter. “Good luck, brother!” they yell.
The showroom is empty and silent. New boxes lay stacked in a corner, unopened. I enter the corridor and see light coming from Gerald’s office. I approach the doorway, see him at his desk, eyes fixed on an open magazine. A supermarket flyer. The deli section. His hand moves beneath the desk. Grunts and soft whimpers fill the room.
“Fuck,” I gasp.
I flee into my office across the hall and shut the door. I frantically change from running gear to work attire, hoping to forget. I stare at my desk: the orders, suppliers, and numbers. I struggle to focus, can’t remove the image seared into my brain.
A quick knock on my door and it opens. Gerald stands there, one hand moving around in his pocket.
“Sorry about that,” he giggles.
“All good,” I lie.
“You want anything for lunch?” he asks.
“Fine, thanks,” I say.
He bounces on the spot. “Okay,” he says. “Jennifer will arrive shortly if you need anything.”
“Cheers.”
My leg vibrates. A text from Emma.
How’s it going with Mr Moustache? Lol
My thumbs dart across the screen.
You won’t believe this.
It’s low tide and the Wishkah stinks like shit, but it’s a reprieve from a cold, beige room, and pervert boss. The stench provides distraction; takes me away from Gerald and his strange workplace.
“Everything okay?” a voice asks.
I turn around to see Jennifer carrying shopping bags.
“Just over this relentless fog,” I say.
“Better get used to it,” she laughs. “And please, call me Jen.”
“I must be heading back,” I say. “Lunch break’s over.”
“I’ll walk with you,” she says.
I help with the bags and when we arrive at the warehouse, Gerald is nowhere to be seen. We take the shopping to the office supplies room. I place groceries into the fridge. Jennifer brushes against me as she manoeuvres a bag onto the table.
“Sorry,” she laughs.
Gerald emerges in the doorway; monobrow flickers in time with the light bulb dangling from the ceiling above our heads.
“You should come to dinner,” he suggests.
“Do you like Italian?” asks Jen.
“Love Italian,” I say.
“Very good!” beams Gerald.
I feel trapped in the small room; my honesty and need to please others driving me into the corner, signing me up for something I don’t want.
“Gerald loves cooking,” says Jen. “But we rarely have guests.”
“You can bring your girlfriend,” smiles Gerald. “Emma?”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” I sigh. “Just a friend.”
Jennifer watches my lips as I talk.
“We thought—”
“She’s a nurse,” I explain. “Helps take care of Gran.”
Jennifer gives a pathetic smile and reaches out, strokes my arm back and forth.
“Old meat,” grunts Gerald.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“It was nice to meet,” he says. “Emma.”
We stare at each other. Jennifer awkwardly rifles through an empty shopping bag looking for something that isn’t there.
“I thought you said—”
Gerald lets out a high-pitched shriek, rubs his hands together. “Are your ears playing up?” he asks, shifting closer to wiggle my ear between his fingers.
A phone rings.
“You best answer that,” he instructs. “Show us what you got.”
I walk briskly to my office, relieved to escape.
“Thank you for calling Cook-It-Up Appliances,” I say. “How can I help you?”
Gerald and Jennifer linger in the doorway whispering to each other.
“He’s going to be good,” says Gerald. “You’ll enjoy him.”
The bus hits a puddle sending a spray of water over the road. Wipers swish in overdrive, fighting the heavy rain. I reach for my phone to text Emma:
Why am I doing this? You should be here x
My phone buzzes seconds later.
Because you’re a professional lol. Tell me about it after my shift xx
I disembark on East 1st and break into a jog, pulling my jacket up to avoid the downpour. The houses all look the same; ramshackle places backed onto alleys; some under renovation, others never having known care and respect. I find the address; one of those newly renovated houses.
“Please come in!” yells Jen, swinging open the front door. “Get out of the weather!”
I land in their immaculate cloakroom; soggy, water dripping from my nose.
“You poor thing!” she says. “Wait here!”
The scent of herbs, meat and vegetables waft through the house, mixing with the wet dog smell lingering on my clothes. Jen reappears with towels, and clothes I assume to be Gerald’s, despite not his style.
“Here you are,” she smiles. “Need to get you out of these.” She tugs at my jeans.
“I can do it myself,” I smile, not wanting to be rude. “Do you have somewhere more private?
“Follow me,” she says.
I remove my sodden footwear and follow her inside. The smell of cooking grows stronger.
“What’s for dinner?” I ask.
Gerald hovers over the stove, prods the meat with a large fork, as if checking it’s dead. He doesn’t turn around.
“Veal scallopini,” says Jen.
She leads me to a bedroom with dark purple wallpaper, silver stars plastered over the ceiling to give the impression of night sky. She places towels and clothes on the double bed littered with cushions and teddies.
“Don’t mind the bears,” she says. “They help Gerald feel safe.”
“Safe from what?” I ask.
Jennifer laughs and backtracks out of the room. “Dinner will be ready soon!” she says, bouncing away and closing the door.
The bedroom has a distinct smell, hard to place. It overwhelms my nose, burning the back of my throat. There’s a scent of cleaning products mixed with a perfume counter as if situated in a butcher’s shop. I dry myself with one of the towels, feeling the grumbling hunger in my stomach.
The borrowed clothes resemble those worn by someone younger, and I wonder if they have housemates, a younger sibling or child. I remove my jeans, my phone falling onto the hard floorboards, sliding under the bed. I crouch, locate it beside plastic containers with various labels. Different names and dates. I place my hand on a lid.
“Dinner is ready!” they yell.
“Coming!” I reply.
I enter the dining room. A chandelier hangs above the modest dining table covered in fancy tablecloth; cutlery and decorated names at each sitting place.
“Wow,” I say. “Wasn’t expecting this.”
“Only the best for you,” smiles Jen.
Gerald emerges fresh-faced at the table; naked without his customary moustache. A tea towel is draped over his arm.
“For your pleasure tonight,” he announces in a strange voice. “Italian veal scallopini with garden fresh vegetables.”
“Looks great,” I say.
“It’s a shame Emma couldn’t make it,” sighs Jen. “She seems lovely.”
“She’s a good person,” I say.
My knife cuts through meat, and I try to forget the unusual setting.
“How is it?” asks Gerald, bouncing his leg under the table.
“Good,” I say, finishing a mouthful. “Unique.”
He watches my lips as I eat, plays with the food on his plate. “Not hungry, darling?” asks Jen.
“Leaving room for dessert,” smiles Gerald. Jen touches his arm, then looks at me.
“Did you grow these vegetables yourself?” I ask.
“We have a small vegetable patch,” he says. “Do you like?”
“They’re great,” I say.
“We prepare the meat ourselves too,” he continues. “Everything in-house.”
“Yeah?” I reply, eyebrow raised. “You hunt?”
“Something like that,” he laughs.
“More wine?” interrupts Jen.
“Thank you,” I say. “Didn’t realise I was empty.”
Jen pours while staring into my eyes.
“Where is your bathroom?” I ask.
“End of the hallway, just past the bedroom,” she says, waving her arms around like a traffic controller.
Framed paintings litter the walls: nature scenes and familiar locations. Snow-capped Mt. Rainier, Multnomah Falls, and surrounding forests of Aberdeen. A naked man poses in each, lying down, eyes closed, as if asleep. Or dead.
I relieve myself in the bathroom, stare at my reflection in the mirror. The veal keeps repeating, its strangeness, like the hosts. I search the medicine cabinet for antacids, only to find sedatives and pain relief. The more I think about the veal, the more my heart pounds. I silently curse myself; the desperation that led me to accept the job.
Music travels from the dining room and kitchen. I walk slowly, pause at the entrance to their bedroom, stare at the bed, pondering what lies beneath. I crouch silently, reach for a container, an Italian name with a more recent date.
Laughter mixes with music. I grab at the lid, place it on the floor. I stare at the packing tissue, the wrapped silhouettes. Corners of a wallet emerge from beneath paper. I unravel one of the small packages.
Toes. Dried toes. Human toes.
“Shit.”
I tear at another, stomach churning. A detached tongue. Human. A shrivelled penis. I roll away in horror, clutching my chest. Footsteps echo down the hallway.
“Do you need help?” yells Jen, followed by manic giggling from Gerald.
I run towards the nearest window, but my legs feel stuck in quicksand. The walls close in. My hands press against the glass, pushing up, the window slightly ajar.
“Oh, you do need help,” laughs Jen. She stands in the doorway, observes the opened containers on the floor. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Hands wrap around my waist, and I fall backwards, descending until blackness surrounds me, and thoughts cease to exist.
My head throbs in rhythm with the engine. Everything dark and vibrating through my body. Pain reminds me that I’m still alive, yet trapped in a coffin. A moving coffin. The trunk of a car. I hear music and sounds from the road. A song playing. Willie Nelson makes music with his friends.
I kick against the interior, roll around like a seal trying to return to sea after stuck on land for too long. Pain radiates through my limbs, blackness spinning. I push the surrounding walls, feeling bandages wrapped around my hand, warmth trickling down my arm.
“This is it,” a muffled voice says.
Light attacks from all angles, hands grabbing at my body, hoisting me from the trunk, placing me on a stretcher. Tree canopies pass overhead, blue sky teasing dark clouds. I want to scream but can’t. Gagged and useless. Silence, except bird calls and nature sounds.
“Stop squirming!” somebody yells.
The smell of a barbecue overwhelms the landscape. Laughter and ukuleles start playing; gentle hum of camp life in a forest.
“Is this the new range?” somebody asks.
“Yes,” replies Gerald. “One of our new outdoor models. Stainless steel. Beautiful.”
More laughter, then inquisitive faces, looking down at me, staring at a frightened animal, unsure of its enclosure.
Jennifer kneels beside me, strokes my bound legs. “Everything will be fine,” she says. “We’re so happy to have you.”
Gerald appears on the other side. “Thank you for your offering,” he smiles, wiggling a finger in front of me. Not his finger. My finger. Detached. Fuck.
“Please bring him to the slab,” they say, and lift me to my feet, arms linked under my shoulders. Gerald stands with a small army of people behind him, lingering shadows in the corners of fading vision.
A damp rock touches my back, searing pain jolts my arm. Movement around my feet. The heat from a barbecue flaming beside me.
“You want it to be clean,” explains Gerald to an eager audience of disciples.
I’m centre stage in a deranged lecture at the University of Macabre. Gerald nods to Jen who approaches with a syringe and drives it into my arm. My body lighter and then grinding at my feet; cutting sounds, sloshing of liquid, items dropping into buckets. Applause.
Gerald grins, waves a pair of bloodied socks in my face. “Won’t be needing these anymore,” he giggles.
Crack! A gunshot echoes through the forest. A bullet ricochets off a nearby tree. Bodies scamper. “What the fuck!” voices yell. People shout, more gunshots. I close my eyes. The pain. The screams.
The white clinical room hums with sounds of machinery. “Welcome back,” a soothing voice says. A hand rubs my arm, sends fear coursing through my body.
“It’s okay!” the voice says. “It’s me. Emma.”
My eyes fade in and out, struggling to gain focus. “Where am I?” I ask.
“Hospital,” says Emma. “You’re going to be alright.”
I gaze towards the end of the bed; white sheets covering my body, mass of bandages around my left hand and foot.
“You’re safe,” continues Emma. “They will catch them.”
A figure in a wheelchair moves towards me, places a hand on my shoulder.
“You get one of these too,” says Gran, pointing to the chair. “We can have races!”
A solitary tear rolls down my face, catching the corner of my mouth.
“There are some guys here to see you,” says Emma.
I turn my head to see uniforms outside the door parting for bearded men in shirts.
“Lumberjacks?” I ask, gripping the sheets.
“Not quite, brother,” one laughs.
Familiar laughter and smiles. The garage from across the road; the mechanics.
“How are you feeling?” they ask. “Hate to know what those bastards would have done if we didn’t show up.”
“What?” I ask. “How did you find me?”
“Hunting,” one says. “These forests are ours. Always have been. Usually just encounter hikers, the odd greenie. First time we’ve encountered a cult with a guy on a slab, ready to be butchered.”
“Oh god,” I gasp.
“Police are saying they’re heroes,” says Emma.
“Thank you,” I say. “I’ll have to buy you dinner one day.”
“Sounds good to us,” they smile.
“Me too,” I say, shaking their hands. “Just don’t order the steak.”
In a small family-owned business, in a town where the Pacific crashes ashore, steady beeps accompany a conveyer belt of food. Bananas, oranges, and potatoes. And meat. A man’s hands place each item into brown paper shopping bags, then pause.
“Porterhouse,” the man says. “Good choice.”
A lady pushes her cart through the check-out, barking into her cell phone. The man analyses her purchase, beady eyes scanning over the steak.
“No vein-ends,” he says, pointing at it. “No streaks of sinew.”
The lady nods. “I’ll need a receipt,” she says.
The man presses the screen in front of him, glances up to his colleague across the lane; younger woman, first day training. He nods. Smiles form across their faces.
“Here you are,” he says.
The lady grabs the receipt, continues her loud phone call.
“Do you need help with those?” asks the man. “I’m happy to assist.”
“That would be great,” she says.
The man takes control of her cart, frantically paws at his moustache. “Which car is yours?”
About the Author
Rowan MacDonald lives in Tasmania with his dog, Rosie, who sits beside him for each word he writes. His work has appeared in various literary journals and anthologies around the world.