HANDLEBAR

HANDLEBAR
by Monica Louzon

Nothing terrifies you more than your dog freaking out at a parked pickup truck with a covered bed. It’s minding its own business, nothing weird about it. No trails of blood, no hiding cat. Just you, your dog, and a truck.

“C’mon, buddy. Let’s go,” you say, tugging the leash.

Something catches your eye in the rear left wheel’s shadow. Movement?

You’re not sure, so you crouch and peer.

Nothing but shadows.

Funny how the light makes a that one shadow under the truck look like a handlebar moustache. 

+++

You’re waiting outside the Q’doba for the friend you’ve known since college, and he’s late. At five minutes after, he pulls up. You put your phone back in your pocket.

You can tell from the way he walks that he’s angry about something. He’s wearing a mask, but you see his eyes crinkle in greeting when he walks up and gives you an elbow bump.

“Long time, no see!”

“Wanna eat outside?”

You hoped he’d ask. “Sure! It’s nice out.”

The line’s longer than it was ten minutes ago, but you know it’s still faster than the one at Chipotle. You distract yourself by asking your friend about his work trip to the West Coast. You catch yourself daydreaming about tacos in SoCal.

You’re so distracted that you almost don’t notice the handlebar moustache when he takes his mask off to eat.

He must see the look of revulsion on your face. His recently-recovered good humor evaporates. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”

“It’s just… I don’t like moustaches,” you reply. “Never have. Nothing personal. Yours… umm… looks healthy.”

“Jesus fucking Christ. You’re supposed to be my friend.”

“Wait, I’m sorry–“
He’s already closing up his food, putting it back in the bag. “Good thing they gave us to-go containers.”

He storms off, leaving you with your mouth hanging open, appetite gone.

You’ve never heard him cuss before, not once in the ten years you’ve known him.

He was never a fan of moustaches before, either.

+++

When you get into the office on Monday, it’s quiet.

The 8:00AM crowd rolls in, masked and angry. Traffic was awful, they say. Commuter trains delayed because someone suicided.

The guy who sits next to you takes his mask off so he can chat while he eats his breakfast.

“What did you do to your beard?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop yourself.  “What the hell is on your face?”

He rolls his eyes. “My wife asked me the same thing. I don’t know—I went out with the guys the other night. I musta had more than I thought. I was blackout drunk and woke up like this.”

You shudder. “Why didn’t you shave it off?”

“I dunno.” He runs a finger over his moustache. “My electric razor stopped working. Besides, I kinda like it. It’s growing on me.”

+++

As the day progresses, coworkers stop by. Some have legit work questions, some just want to vent. Everyone’s having a shitty Monday—you can feel your mood and motivation sinking faster with each new conversation.

Invariably, when the masks come off, all the men have handlebar moustaches.

All.

of.

them.

Some of them explain it away. Others say they felt like it.

The guy who sits next to you isn’t the only man who tells you that he can’t remember deciding to shave his beard down to a handlebar moustache.

+++

When you arrive at your performance check-in, your boss has clearly had a bad day. She’s tense, ready to pounce. You know that this position from meetings. At least she’s just being brusque with you. She clearly wants to be done with this dumb admin burden.

When she takes her mask off, you blink.

Is that a blonde handlebar moustache?

Some women get more facial hair as they age, but you’re not sure whether it’s new.

Chills run down your spine. 

+++

At the end of the workday, you’re exhausted. Too much work, too many people. Not enough productivity. The commute only makes it worse.

On the evening walk, your dog insists on barking at whatever’s rustling under that goddamn pickup truck. You’re too exhausted for his antics and yank the leash. “Come on, let’s go.“

As you walk home, you can’t shake the feeling that you’re being followed.

Every time you turn, you see nothing in the fading light.

When your dog pauses, holds point, growls into the dark, you pull your phone out, turn on the flashlight, brandish it at the grass. The shadows all look like handlebar moustaches.

Your dog starts barking as you drag him to the front stoop and unlock the door.

Once you’re inside, he takes off, zooming around, growling.

It’s so cute when he gets the zoomies.

+++

You’re on the couch, watching TV with dog, when you feel it creeping up the back of your neck, so slowly you might be imagining it.

You rush to the bathroom, grab a hand mirror from the drawer. You turn around so you use it to see the back of your neck in the mirror on the wall.

The dog appears when you shriek and drop the hand mirror, but you’re too busy frantically trying to peel off the moustache that’s racing from the nape of your neck, around your throat, up over your chin to care.

You realize the last thing you want is a fucking moustache climbing down your throat, and you squeeze your lips shut.

Too late, you realize that’s exactly what it was hoping for.

You desperately claw at it, trying to tear it off your face, trying to keep from being possessed by this evil clump of hair, but as it sinks its roots into your upper lip, you find yourself thinking that maybe moustaches aren’t so bad after all. You smile, and your reflection returns the look, with an evil grin beneath a thick, handlebar moustache.

Fiction © Copyright Monica Louzon
Base Image by Myriam from Pixabay

Monica Louzon (she/her) is a queer writer, translator, and editor. Her words have appeared in—or are forthcoming from—Apex Magazine, Paranoid Tree, Shoreline of Infinity, Triangulation: Energy, and others. She is Acquiring Editor for The Dread Machine. Follow Monica on Twitter @molo_writes