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—”