Ride The Moustache

A man with a distinctive moustache.
 Photographed June 3, 2006 at Galesburg,
Illinois. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I reread the sign, slowly. "Ride The Moustache." I paused, contemplated, and poked my contact lenses to check they were working. Candy floss staining my eyeball, I rereread the sign, mulling over the message in my head.

 I realised I don't wear contact lenses first. Secondly, I realised it said, "Ride The Moustache." The sign definitely invited me - and, I presume, anyone else who could read - to ride the moustache. I examined the ride, nodding thoughtfully, sucking on my teeth, even humming cautiously at one point. It was, to the untrained eye, a teacup ride. Except, the teacups - and they were teacups, once, because they looked like teacups with the handles broken off - were moustaches. Crude moustaches made of teacups, parts of brooms and a lot of black paint, but moustaches none the less.

 "Ride the moustache, good Sir?" Said the portly gentleman manning the stall. He was a typical carnival man, short, squat and dressed in yellow tweed - tweed jacket, tweet waistcoat, tweed plus-fours, tweed deerstalker, tweed monocle, tweed so on and so forth. My eye worked my way up his body, past his tweed and his shirt and bow-tie - both, also, tweed - and eventually, I focused on his moustache. It was not tweed, instead, it was hair and large and bushy and well-suited to a man dressed entirely in tweed.

 For a moment, I froze. "Ride the moustache?" He asked again, his mouth actually obscured by his own moustache. "Ride the moustache?" The giant moustache asked. Slowly, time slowed. I know that sounds stupid, but it got gradually slower before settling into one speed, slower than normal. You understand, yea?

 The lights dimmed. There was nothing but me and the moustache. "Ride the moustache?" He asked again. "Ride me?".

 "I...I, what?"

 "Ride me!" the moustache yelled. "There is nothing but me!"

 "What about the other moustaches?" I asked, knowing the question to be folly. There was only darkness, and the moustache, floating in the air, bands of colour emerging from the hidden face behind and psychedelically slinking into the air.

"RIDE ME!" The moustache yelled again. I can't, I wanted to reply, I don't want to. I've just bought new heads for my razor, and they cost me an extortionate amount of money, so I can't go getting involved with moustaches right now. Leave me alone, I wanted to yell. I stayed quiet. The moustache continued to stare at me.

 I shook my head, and it faded like a dream. Time resumed, the moustache shrunk and returned to the tweed man's face. Noting my disinterest, he turned and headed towards new potential customers. I held my head in my hands and wept. This was getting too strange for me. I must stop huffing bacon-double-cheeseburgers from a spongebag before I go to the fair.

On the Road again.

The Road. (Image credit: Getty Images via @daylife)

"Yes, it really was an awful game." I said to the bartender. "Our team certainly did abysmally."

 We shared a laugh. I tried, once again, to trust my money upon the man, hoping that I could escape this torturous interaction before anyone realised I had no idea what sport we were talking about.

 "Ok, here you are." He said, placing my drink in front of me. "Anything else?"

 "Well, I'll take another for the road." I replied.

 "Thank!" Yelled the road, "You're a good sort... Much better than Franco. Stupid dictator, never bought me any flowers."

 I nodded politely. I hated the road, but he was married to my sister and I was socially obliged to spend time with him. Of course, he was all right sober, but as soon as we reached the bar, Oh! He'd left his wallet in his other layby, would I get this round and he'd get the next? "Oh, I'm sorry, I meant to pop round Tuesday and repay you for the drinks, but I had to wait because some workmen were coming to install some traffic lights on me."

 "Thanks... Thanks again, Alan," he belched and mumbled on my return. "You're a good man, but you'd... you'd better not hit me drunk. You know? Hit the road? Like driving? But drunk, so drunk driving? You know, so you shouldn't drink drive? It... it is a play on words?"

 I agreed, it was a play on words. It wasn't a good play on words, and it hadn't been the first time he told me that joke in 1987. And my name had never been Alan.

 I fucking hate the road.