A Ghost with No MustacheA Poem by PamiAnde "Went to bed with a sex symbol.... woke up with Peter Pan." Mike Nichols reportedly on Diane Sawyer after she cut her shoulder-length hair. A man with no mustache orders a glass of white wine, Manila clams, a basket of fries and settles in across from me opening his spiral notebook. He begins to write of music, his feelings, life then pauses to hear my tales of death and hauntings at Bend’s Honkers and old McKenzie’s restaurants. I have been here (Deschutes Brewery) with him time and again but not with this man with the thin upper lip wearing my mother-in-law’s mouth. A girl with a Pebble’s-doo sunglasses balancing on her head disappears in the wink of an eye, probably much like the ghost of the woman seen in the white antique dress. Tourists and locals belly-up-to-the-bar unaware, dressed in summer garb, bottoms planted on stools, sipping pounders of amber and gold, some to numb, some to have fun. The man with me gulps down a long fry like his Emerald Swift lizard chomps down a mealworm, and the waiter watching, applauds. This man, without a mustache draws me a heart in blood red ketchup, emblazoning it with my initials, making me feel special (as one must when a ghost presents itself to you.) Skylights blot white boxes on dark wooden slats, high above my head; philodendrons standing on open beams jiggle to the commotion created by ceiling fans; beer flags waver on pasty walls; and a tall young man hobbles by with a flame covered cast supported by vibrant painted crutches. Waitress Brenda delivers bitter beer-soaked clams who finish their lives to the stirring cadence of Led Zeppelin. Two gray-haired fellows wearing matching khaki shorts Birkenstocks and glasses wait for beers scratching their butts and rocking like the seers of ghosts must have scratched their heads and rocked themselves to comfort like I rock inside and scrinch my eyes to recognize this man in front of me. An acquaintance appears looking pleasingly familiar she carries her great-nephew not feeling the need to show me his identical twin I feel the need (but don’t) show her my husband has shaved off his Mustache! after twenty-seven years. Her gone, him appreciating the last of the clam broth with a sourdough roll never requiring a napkin but using one anyway across the wasteland of skin below his nose I down my second glass of dry red wine, a little to numb, a little for fun and I feel a little braver as one might the second time he or she sees an apparition or hears the clinking of bar glasses or footsteps on stairs when the doors are locked and they know there’s no one else there. During a game of coaster-hockey our cinnamon-apple cobbler arrives hidden by vanilla bean ice cream, we share and call it a night as comfortable as I can be with a man with the mouth of the dead believing in tales of ghosts. Home, I fall comfortably asleep at man-with-no-mustache’s feet watching Paul Newman in a detective movie, then we tumble into bed after I’ve kissed his soft- shaven-lip with my eyes closed, I don’t have nightmares, but I wake the next morning to a dream: My husband’s fresh stubble on his mother’s upper lip.
© 2021 PamiAndeReviews
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PamiAndeBEND, ORAboutMy poetry, prose, short stories, creative nonfiction, and something I call Bedtime Stories for Big Kids will likely appeal mostly to new-agey women. I've been published (many years ago) in Chocolate f.. more..Writing
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