Mustache and Puss
In the morning, Mustache lathers up but forgets what the next step is. It looks in the mirror. The godhand delicately washes the lather away. Mustache sees its shine reflecting back, silver whiskers like stars. Like a mouth surrounded by little survivors. Like eyelashes but more aggressive. Mustache doesn’t know what time it is. The bathroom gets darker and darker as it looks at itself.
The godhand is the right hand, the good hand. The left hand is like a heavy loaf of bread. It does nothing but stink up the place. Sometimes the godhand wants to tear at the left hand. Sometimes the shadows on the wall spit and scream like scary animals. Like hands shaped like animals.
Puss lives down the street. There is a rock in front of their house and when they get lonely they put letters under the rock and wait for Mustache to find them, and if Mustache doesn’t find them Puss wants to slowly die. I’ll die right there on the rock, Puss thinks. I’ll let my bird fly away for good measure, too, Puss thinks. Puss has a bird that has never flown before. It was never taught how to fly. Maybe it has no wings. Mustache collects the letters from Puss. It reads them out loud. Then it puts them in a sardine can. There are close to fifty letters. The sardine can is very big. Mustache writes letters back. It writes neatly in Helvetica:
The godhand is the right hand, the good hand. The left hand is like a heavy loaf of bread. It does nothing but stink up the place. Sometimes the godhand wants to tear at the left hand. Sometimes the shadows on the wall spit and scream like scary animals. Like hands shaped like animals.
Puss lives down the street. There is a rock in front of their house and when they get lonely they put letters under the rock and wait for Mustache to find them, and if Mustache doesn’t find them Puss wants to slowly die. I’ll die right there on the rock, Puss thinks. I’ll let my bird fly away for good measure, too, Puss thinks. Puss has a bird that has never flown before. It was never taught how to fly. Maybe it has no wings. Mustache collects the letters from Puss. It reads them out loud. Then it puts them in a sardine can. There are close to fifty letters. The sardine can is very big. Mustache writes letters back. It writes neatly in Helvetica:
I am turning into something new. The moon will be full soon.
Your bird is not really a bird. I will tell you more one day.
One evening, Mustache thinks about its short life. It feels as if they can never come into its own. It can never fully blossom. It just won’t realize its full potential. The godhand feels sorry it. Doesn’t know what to do. The godhand is watching Mustache closely, expecting the worst. There is an ax buried deep in a tree stump in their kitchen. It grew there, the tree and the ax together, like brothers. Until the left hand pitted them against each other. One morning, they awoke to a kitchen full of wood chips. Brown sap splattered all over the wall and on the dishes. The world felt different after that for all of them. The left hand was never the same. It was rough, lumpy, and oozing. For many weeks, the neighbors speculated about what had happened in the house. The left hand could not hide its drip, its dough-like deformity. The godhand seemed to grow and shine brighter during this period of shame. Someone was heard saying on the radio: A dominant hand always needs another hand to hate. The tree stopped breathing after that. It gave up. Paralyzed in its new role as a stump, a table, a footstool, a slab, a chair, an ironing board, and memorial to nature. Sometimes godhand, the left hand, and Mustache ate on it.
Puss checks the rock for a letter one night but finds only a smashed flower. They wonder if it grew there or was placed there. Puss grabs a handful of the dirt there and eats it. Rubs it all over their hair. Howls like a werewolf.
Mustache lathers up again. It looks like a rabbit hiding in snow, quivering shyly. It keeps the lather on. It gets on the subway. It goes to work. It talks to customers and laughs at jokes and buys a cookie for lunch. The lather stays on. Maybe the lather has replaced it. Maybe it’s not actually there any more. It panics. It goes into a public bathroom and looks in the mirror. Another person comes in and screams.
Puss is bereft. Puss fears death. Puss decides to fantasize to ward off their demise. Puss imagines Mustache transforming under a full moon. The golden light spotlighting something that looks half-raccoon and half human, speaking in tongues. Puss walks outside and gets in their truck. There is a piano built into the dashboard and Puss plays a song called Mustache Waltz. The raccoon-human, who is wearing oversized jeans and suspenders, sways and dances. At the end of the song, it reaches inside its pants and grubs around for something. It pulls out a sealed letter and places it under the rock. It is covered in salt and pepper hair, shaving cream, and blood.
Mustache realizes it has turned white. It is not a young mustache anymore. It is home now. It watches television and cries.
The godhand has created a new shadow animal, but it has to use a fork and a screwdriver and a pocket watch to make it work. It is very difficult to make it come alive, but when it does, it will make even the moon hide.
Puss stays up all night fantasizing, but sometimes drifts off to sleep. In their sleep, they can sense Mustache close by. The sensation of Mustache touching Puss, ever so softly, like a shy rat, makes Puss feel lit up from the inside. But when Puss jolts awake, they see Mustache at the foot of the bed. Mustache is reading one of Puss’s letters out loud:
When we don’t know what we are, how do we find out?
Can we make love where there is currently none?
I want us to change each other.
Can we make love where there is currently none?
I want us to change each other.
Mustache and Puss are together in the room now. They lay on top of each other, inside each other, holding each other. They feed each other and wear each other. Blurry. They close their eyes and try to guess what kind of ghosts are haunting them. Puss says, “We should let the bird go. I think the bird is ready to go.” Mustache looks at the birdcage where it watches them, twitching and squawking. Mustache approaches the cage and the bird emits a low growl. Inside the cage, however, is not a bird, but an old hot dog inside a stale bun, buzzing with anger.
The godhand has prepared a party. No, the godhand has prepared an intervention. Or rather, the godhand has cooked a ceremonial meatloaf. Scratch that—the godhand has sharpened the ax. When Mustache is awoken by a foul-smelling aftershave, it knows the world has taken a wrong turn. There is water and steam. Lather and more lather on top of that, as if suffocation is now in fashion. As if this eases the pain, goddamn it! Mustache can feel a cold bite of air. Even the left hand joins in this party, or intervention, or meatloaf. It shakes with glee. But the godhand is steady and does its job professionally. The sink gets clogged. The sink will have to be cleaned.
The godhand has prepared a party. No, the godhand has prepared an intervention. Or rather, the godhand has cooked a ceremonial meatloaf. Scratch that—the godhand has sharpened the ax. When Mustache is awoken by a foul-smelling aftershave, it knows the world has taken a wrong turn. There is water and steam. Lather and more lather on top of that, as if suffocation is now in fashion. As if this eases the pain, goddamn it! Mustache can feel a cold bite of air. Even the left hand joins in this party, or intervention, or meatloaf. It shakes with glee. But the godhand is steady and does its job professionally. The sink gets clogged. The sink will have to be cleaned.
