Lying About Mustaches
Kate LaDew
So Doby was drawing mustaches on all the covers of Selantro’s magazines and Selantro demanded an explanation.
“I demand an explanation, Doby.”
“For what?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“For drawing mustaches on all the covers of my magazines. Mine, Selantro.”
“I know whose they are.”
“If you do, why?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are mine.”
“You make me so tired, Selantro.”
“I make you tired?”
“Yes, and I don’t know why you have to.”
“I do not have to.”
“If you do not have to, why?”
“Hm,” Selantro said, hm-ing to himself. “I think you’re changing the subject.”
“What subject?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“I think you’re trying to steer the conversation away from the topic at hand.”
“I’m not steering anything.”
“That’s right! You’re not steering! You’re drawing! Drawing mustaches on all the covers of my magazines!” Selantro pointed fiercely. “That’s the subject! That’s the topic at hand! The defacement of my magazines! I demand an explanation! I, Selantro, demand it!”
“So, so tired.”
“Well, get used to it.”
“I am used to it. But I mind. I mind so much. And I am so tired.”
“Tired of me but not tired of drawing mustaches on all the covers of my magazines, I see.”
“Of course you see. I draw the mustaches to be seen. How could I draw a mustache that would not be seen? I would have to not draw a mustache at all.”
“I wish you would.”
“You wish I would what?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“I wish you would not draw a mustache at all.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you draw mustaches on the covers of all my magazines?”
“Why not?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
Selantro crossed his arms and looked down, watching the pen scratch up and down, up and down. “What type of mustache is it then? If you are going to draw them I might as well know.”
“What kind of mustache do you think it is?” Doby pushed a magazine towards Selantro. “The answer says a lot about you.”
Selantro’s eyes narrowed, first at Doby then at the magazine then at the mustache. “Well, it is not a very big mustache.”
“No. It is not.”
“It really doesn’t take up much space at all.”
“No. What else?”
“It is vertical,” Selantro said, counting the mustache’s attributes on his fingers. “Residing at the center of the lip. Very dark. Shaved on both sides. It is not dissimilar to a toothbrush.”
“A toothbrush?” Doby nodded. “You would say it looks like a toothbrush?”
“Yes. I would say it looks like a toothbrush,” Selantro paused, watching Doby. “Hm,” Selantro hm-ed. “There is a look on your face I do not like, Doby.”
“On my face?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of look is on my face?” Doby leaned forward. “The answer says a lot about you.”
“Well,” Selantro coughed. “It is expectant.”
“Expectant?”
“Yes. As if perhaps I have said something unwise.”
“Have you, Selantro?”
Selantro looked at Doby. He looked at the magazine. He looked at the mustache. Then did it all over again. Twice.
“What are you doing?”
Selantro jumped, startled out of his thoughts. “Huh?”
“Huh? Did you just say ‘huh’ ?” Doby shook his head. “It’s not like you to say ‘huh,’ Selantro. This mustache has really gotten to you.”
“No mustache has gotten to me. No mustache has gotten to me. How absurd. How absurd. That a mustache could get to someone. A mustache of all things. It is-- It is-- “
“Absurd?” Doby replied with a growing smile.
“Preposterous is what I was going to say. Preposterous.”
“It’s only Charlie Chaplin.”
Selantro blinked. “Yes. That’s what I was going to say.”
“You are a liar.”
“I am not a liar!”
“You are, though.”
“I am not! It’s obviously Hitl-- Charlie Chaplin! Obviously.”
“What did you say?”
“I said Charlie Chaplin.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Selantro crossed his arms. Doby crossed his arms. Selantro blinked. Doby blinked. Selantro bit his lip. Doby smiled. “Fine,” Selantro sighed.
“Fine?”
“Fine. I said Hitler okay. I said Hitler.”
“And thought it, too.”
“And I thought it, too.”
“You think this looks like Hitler?”
“Everyone looks like Hitler with that mustache.”
“No. Hitler looks like Hitler with that mustache. Everyone else looks like Charlie Chaplin.”
“Charlie Chaplin had a hat.”
Doby frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“Charlie Chaplin had a hat. That’s the difference between Charlie Chaplin and Hitler.”
“That’s the difference?”
“Yes.”
“The only difference?”
“Well,” Selantro paused. “I believe there was most likely a disparity in their personal ideologies.”
“So that and the hat.”
“Yes.”
“Mmhm,” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You weren’t going to say Charlie Chaplin no matter what and you know it.”
“No!”
“You’re a liar who thinks we’re all fools.”
“I am not a liar!” Selantro shouted. “And who’s we?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I-- I’m confused.”
“You can say that again.”
“Oh, just shut up! Just shut your mouth.”
“Mmhm.”
“Just keep drawing your Hi-- Chaplin mustaches.”
Doby smiled, pen scratching up and down.
“I demand an explanation, Doby.”
“For what?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“For drawing mustaches on all the covers of my magazines. Mine, Selantro.”
“I know whose they are.”
“If you do, why?”
“Why not?”
“Because they are mine.”
“You make me so tired, Selantro.”
“I make you tired?”
“Yes, and I don’t know why you have to.”
“I do not have to.”
“If you do not have to, why?”
“Hm,” Selantro said, hm-ing to himself. “I think you’re changing the subject.”
“What subject?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“I think you’re trying to steer the conversation away from the topic at hand.”
“I’m not steering anything.”
“That’s right! You’re not steering! You’re drawing! Drawing mustaches on all the covers of my magazines!” Selantro pointed fiercely. “That’s the subject! That’s the topic at hand! The defacement of my magazines! I demand an explanation! I, Selantro, demand it!”
“So, so tired.”
“Well, get used to it.”
“I am used to it. But I mind. I mind so much. And I am so tired.”
“Tired of me but not tired of drawing mustaches on all the covers of my magazines, I see.”
“Of course you see. I draw the mustaches to be seen. How could I draw a mustache that would not be seen? I would have to not draw a mustache at all.”
“I wish you would.”
“You wish I would what?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“I wish you would not draw a mustache at all.”
“It’s what I do.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why do you draw mustaches on the covers of all my magazines?”
“Why not?” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
Selantro crossed his arms and looked down, watching the pen scratch up and down, up and down. “What type of mustache is it then? If you are going to draw them I might as well know.”
“What kind of mustache do you think it is?” Doby pushed a magazine towards Selantro. “The answer says a lot about you.”
Selantro’s eyes narrowed, first at Doby then at the magazine then at the mustache. “Well, it is not a very big mustache.”
“No. It is not.”
“It really doesn’t take up much space at all.”
“No. What else?”
“It is vertical,” Selantro said, counting the mustache’s attributes on his fingers. “Residing at the center of the lip. Very dark. Shaved on both sides. It is not dissimilar to a toothbrush.”
“A toothbrush?” Doby nodded. “You would say it looks like a toothbrush?”
“Yes. I would say it looks like a toothbrush,” Selantro paused, watching Doby. “Hm,” Selantro hm-ed. “There is a look on your face I do not like, Doby.”
“On my face?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of look is on my face?” Doby leaned forward. “The answer says a lot about you.”
“Well,” Selantro coughed. “It is expectant.”
“Expectant?”
“Yes. As if perhaps I have said something unwise.”
“Have you, Selantro?”
Selantro looked at Doby. He looked at the magazine. He looked at the mustache. Then did it all over again. Twice.
“What are you doing?”
Selantro jumped, startled out of his thoughts. “Huh?”
“Huh? Did you just say ‘huh’ ?” Doby shook his head. “It’s not like you to say ‘huh,’ Selantro. This mustache has really gotten to you.”
“No mustache has gotten to me. No mustache has gotten to me. How absurd. How absurd. That a mustache could get to someone. A mustache of all things. It is-- It is-- “
“Absurd?” Doby replied with a growing smile.
“Preposterous is what I was going to say. Preposterous.”
“It’s only Charlie Chaplin.”
Selantro blinked. “Yes. That’s what I was going to say.”
“You are a liar.”
“I am not a liar!”
“You are, though.”
“I am not! It’s obviously Hitl-- Charlie Chaplin! Obviously.”
“What did you say?”
“I said Charlie Chaplin.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Selantro crossed his arms. Doby crossed his arms. Selantro blinked. Doby blinked. Selantro bit his lip. Doby smiled. “Fine,” Selantro sighed.
“Fine?”
“Fine. I said Hitler okay. I said Hitler.”
“And thought it, too.”
“And I thought it, too.”
“You think this looks like Hitler?”
“Everyone looks like Hitler with that mustache.”
“No. Hitler looks like Hitler with that mustache. Everyone else looks like Charlie Chaplin.”
“Charlie Chaplin had a hat.”
Doby frowned. “I’m sorry?”
“Charlie Chaplin had a hat. That’s the difference between Charlie Chaplin and Hitler.”
“That’s the difference?”
“Yes.”
“The only difference?”
“Well,” Selantro paused. “I believe there was most likely a disparity in their personal ideologies.”
“So that and the hat.”
“Yes.”
“Mmhm,” Doby said, pen scratching up and down.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You weren’t going to say Charlie Chaplin no matter what and you know it.”
“No!”
“You’re a liar who thinks we’re all fools.”
“I am not a liar!” Selantro shouted. “And who’s we?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“I-- I’m confused.”
“You can say that again.”
“Oh, just shut up! Just shut your mouth.”
“Mmhm.”
“Just keep drawing your Hi-- Chaplin mustaches.”
Doby smiled, pen scratching up and down.
