To Tame a Wild Mustache

By Rosemary E. Johnson

I collapsed in the shade of an acacia tree, panting. My legs still tingled from the countless scratchy beards that had stampeded our direction.

Beside me, Archibald Waverly, renowned safari guide and wild mustache expert, lay flopped on the ground, pith helmet askew. “That was a close one.”

It was a moment before I had enough breath to speak. “And I thought it was too chilly for beards today.”

With the approach of the rainy season, wild beards—and mustaches, too—were getting scarce. During the colder months, both species gathered in caves to wait out the wet. It was my second time espying beards in the year I’d lived in the Serengeti with Archibald, and I still got a thrill with each elusive sighting. Last month, we’d spotted a flock of eyebrows and stopped to gape, marveling at the rare sight fluttering across the brazen blue sky. My heart beat faster just thinking about it.

I brushed a stray beard hair from my knee. “What cake are we trying tonight?”

“Oh, I’ve moved past cakes.” Archibald waggled a book under my nose. Once he held it still enough, I read the title: Wilderness Necessities II: Soufflés, Sweet and Savory.

“Wow. You’re getting fancy.”

Archibald adjusted his helmet. “Never hurts, trying new things. Ready to head back?” He jangled the keys to the quad.

I plodded after him to our vehicle. His words made me ponder. Childhood dreams danced in my mind. Finally, maybe, they’d come true if I only took the first step. “Archibald, I think I’m starting on a personal safari tomorrow.”

“Oh?” He stuck the key in the ignition, revved the quad, and lurched forward, almost sending me flying from my seat.

“I’d like to see if I can tame a mustache.”

Archibald was silent, either because he was thinking or because a gnat flew into his mouth. Once we were back in our mud hut with steaming cups of coffee, he finally spoke. “You’ve learned a lot since we’ve been together, and I’m definitely not going to stop you from trying. Best of luck, young man.”

So, next sunrise, I took my pack and plunged into the Serengeti. Elephants trumpeted in the distance and wind bristled the tall grasses. Far in the east, thunderclouds gathered. I’d be lucky to see a mustache, let alone tame one, but I was going to try.

I hiked until noon, then stopped at a watering hole for lunch. I watched giraffes lower their necks to drink and alligator snouts ripple the water’s surface. After refilling my canteen, I pressed onward. Toward evening, I set up camp, keeping an eye out for mustaches. They liked cavorting at twilight.

Nothing, though. Just a pack of hyenas and a leopard in a nearby tree. I curled into my bedroll, disappointed but hopeful.

I walked for five days, searching and observing. It seemed I saw everything but mustaches. I even found the herd of beards that had stampeded us the other day, but I steered clear. After the first day’s initial thunderstorm, it was sunny skies and crisp breezes that dried any sweat beading on my brow. With each passing hour, though I searched every nook and watering hole, my efforts were fruitless.

On the sixth night, I woke to thunder rumbling. It sounded close. I rolled over, glad I’d set up camp on high ground if rains hit again, when a scratching sound came from just outside my tent. I froze.

Scritch, scratch, scritch.

I sat upright. “Hello?”

In the glow from my campfire’s dying embers, a fuzzy, handlebar-shaped shadow appeared. I stifled a gasp, lest I frighten it. The first drop of rain splashed onto the tent, and the shadow shuddered. A little whimpering noise escaped its whiskers.

“There, there.” I kept my tone soft and soothing. “I know it’s raining, and you hate being wet. If you’d like, come into my nice, dry tent. I won’t hurt you.”

The mustache quivered near the campfire. It was hard to tell, but it seemed reddish brown, a few shades lighter than my own hair. I wanted to run out and snatch the bristly creature, but that would only terrify it.

More rain splashed down in big, fat drops. The mustache squealed and hopped closer.

“That’s right.” I held out my hand. “Come on, little fella.”

The mustache hesitated, swiveling between the worsening rain and the unknown of my tent.

It was time for my secret trick. On our last mustache safari, when Archibald was still into making cakes, I’d brought some of his favorite ovenless chocolate cake. I’d dropped some crumbs while eating, and a few wandering mustaches hopped right up to gobble them down.

Pulling a slice of cake from my pack, I set the wedge of deliciousness on the ground at my feet.

The mustache scuttled into my tent and snarfed the whole thing down in three bites.

“Wow, you were hungry.”

The mustache bounced a little, and then, oh miracle! It scampered up my arm and settled beneath my nose.

“My name’s Jeff. Jeffrey David Scheiner, if you want the whole thing. I think I’ll call you Clyde.” I gave him a gentle pat.

Clyde wriggled, tickling my lip, and made soft cooing sounds.

I’d done it. After years of dreaming and research and days of work, I’d tamed a mustache.

I returned to the mud hut with a spring in my step and my head held high. Clyde stayed on my upper lip the whole journey back, except when we stopped at watering holes to get drinks. When it rained yet again, he hid in my shirt collar.

Archibald hollered when he saw Clyde. “You did it, young man! You did it!” He grabbed my arms and swung me around in a crazy celebratory dance.

That night, as I listened to distant drums, singing crickets, and a far-off lion’s roar, Clyde snuggled under the crook of my neck, and I smiled.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Rosemary E. Johnson lives in Northern CA with her firefighter hubby, their 10 month old nerdling, and two cats. When she’s not reading, writing, or worldbuilding, she enjoys crocheting and taking hikes. Her favorite stories have dragons in them. She has several stories published with Havok and works as a submissions coordinator for them.

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