The Mayor’S Mustache

By Jeffrey Schmitt

Thomas Culhaven is the ancestor of the founding fathers of Culhaven, Illinois, and he wont go down without a fight! He may be a senior citizen, but when Mayor Mort Cramden and his illustrious council get ambitious, it is Toms land on the line. The mayor has suggested the construction of a superhighway that will connect Culhaven to the nearest big city. It sounds like a fine idea, but not to Tom, whose house will be demolished in the process.

In an effort to stop the inevitable, Tom attends the town meeting to debate the mayors modern ideabut old Tom has something up his sleeve. Hes been working to think of a plan, with the aid of his dog, Buda pet nobody else can see or hear. With their foolproof plan in mind, Tom pleads sensibly with Cramden one last time. When the mayor refuses to cooperate, Tom does what has to be done: he cuts off half the mayors mustache.

Tom is thrown in jail but soon released on two hundred dollars bail. Once free, he realizes his simple scissorsnip has become big news. Apparently, the town sees it as symbolism. Of what, Tom isnt sure, but his harebrained scheme might just work and save his old home. The Mayors Mustache is a commentary on corporate greed and the desperation of old age, but it is also a story of small-town hope and the power of one man to change an entire community.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Mar 21, 2012
• ISBN: 9781458202475

Jeffrey Schmitt

Jeffrey Schmitt lives with his wife, Gina, in Muscatine, Iowa. He worked in marketing, advertising, copywriting, and promotion before retiring several years ago. He now focuses on his literary accomplishments, which include a place in the Anthology of Wisconsin Poets and a sports column for a local newspaper.

Book preview

Contents

INTRODUCTION

1

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

16

17

18

19

20

21

22

EPILOGUE

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

To the best thing that ever happened to me:

my wife, Gina, who provided invaluable help with this book.

To the second best thing that happened to me:

my children, Anne, Colleen, and Tim

of whom I am extremely proud.

INTRODUCTION

The older we get, the more fragile life becomes, both physically and mentally. A fast-paced, youth-oriented world often views one of society’s weakest links as reduced in value and potential, leaving them open to selfish opportunism. This story is both a humorous and serious look at the struggle of old age versus local government greed and suggests that old age does not mean surrender.

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1

A MEETING OF THE MINDS

The mirror was cracked. It had been that way ever since Gwen died, some twelve years ago. I’d hit it with my fist in grief at her passing. Not only fractured the mirror but put a jagged scar on my middle knuckle. While I’m not superstitious, I have to admit that for a while, I considered the bad luck of the past few months to be associated with the cracked mirror. But what had come my way had nothing to do with luck, good or otherwise. It was greed, damnable greed.

Never having replaced the mirror, it was difficult to see clearly enough to shave. Couple nicks, a little blood. Put some spit on the cuts, and that dried them up real fast. I clipped a few of those wild hairs that grow out of your ears when you get my age, took care of a few nose hairs too. Trimmed my bushy, out-of-control eyebrows so I wouldn’t appear a half-crazed old man. After all, I had to look my best for the meeting.

For a man in his seventy-sixth year, I’m not in bad shape. ’Course there are wrinkles all over, but I think they’re nice-looking wrinkles, the type that say you’ve earned them through hard work in the sun. My square-jawed face now has jowls that unfortunately look like two turkey necks. They just appeared one day when I wasn’t watching. Still, my face is a deep tan from being out of doors a lot, a nice contrasting background for my blue eyes, as far as I’m concerned—got all my teeth except a back molar. Hands are calloused from farming and handyman work. Gwen used to say she liked my thin lips ’cause they turned a nice smile. Miss my Gwen, God rest her soul.

I finished shaving, toweled off, and combed my sparse white hair straight back. Like I said, it was important to appear real businesslike for today’s meeting. Not that I like going to meetings, particularly this one. Don’t even like going to church and don’t feel the need to, now that Gwen is gone. Sort of like my solitary ways, having had them for a dozen years now. But some meetings are important, and this one was essential, if nothing else, to maintaining my self-respect.

The black suit I bought for Gwen’s funeral had been hanging in the closet since that day, and while it was lacking some waist size due to my eating habits, it fit well enough, so I wore it with a white shirt and red tie. The shoes were still shined from the last time I’d worn them and, all in all, I felt I’d present myself well to those deciding my fate. I wasn’t going to go down without a fight. But I could hear Gwen now, saying in her sweetest, kindest voice, Tommy Culhaven, don’t you be doing something foolish. Should have thought more about what she said.

Having made my way downstairs to the kitchen, I noticed the dog’s water dish was empty, which meant that Bud, my miniature dachshund, was probably waiting to be let out.

Might as well get to this part now as later, since it impacts what some folks say about my sanity—my dog is as real as a dog can get. Brown-and-black color, long nose, and floppy ears; weighs maybe fourteen pounds—slightly overweight, as I indulge him more than I should. He arrived shortly after Gwen passed on. Just showed up on the front porch and sat there nigh on an hour. Wouldn’t go away, just sat. Well, you can’t leave a dog go hungry, so I brought him into the house. After I fed him, he turned his head toward me and said, Thanks, Tom. This is true, as God is my witness. Unfortunately, I’m the only one who can see the dog and hear him speak. No one else can.

While hearing the dog talk should have sent me trembling to the shrink, somehow it seemed quite natural. As if we were friends for a long time. I asked the dog if he’d mind the name Bud, and he said, Not a problem, Tom. So now I have a dog that isn’t visible to anyone else, and it speaks. Bud is quite intelligent, and we carry on interesting conversations on a variety of topics. He plays a good game of checkers, too. We maybe split fifty-fifty on games won.

Now, the second half of my sanity issue is the fact I talk to my wife, Gwen. Not out loud. It’s conversation in my head. Not only that, I can actually see Gwen in my mind’s eye. Talking to Gwen began shortly after her funeral. At first, it scared the hell out of me. As time went on, it became a normal part of my life. I’ve wondered if Bud and Gwen are figments of my imagination, the thoughts of a lonely old man. Yet it’s all too real not to be real.

At any rate, folks just sort of smile at me now as if I’m some off-my-nut old guy with turkey necks hanging on his wrinkled face. Well, go pound sand, I say. My tractor engine runs just as well as theirs.

Sure enough, I went to the back door, and Bud was sitting there waiting to go out.

Morning, Tom.

Morning, Bud. Need to go outside?

Well, Tom, I wouldn’t be sitting by the door to do much else, now would I?

Bud sounded a bit on the irritated side, so I let his comment go. He probably didn’t sleep well, considering the amount of meatballs and spaghetti he ate. Gobbled the stuff up like there was no tomorrow.

I let Bud out and went to the refrigerator, grabbed a diet soda, and went to the cabinet next to the sink. I had half a bag left of chocolate-chip cookies and took three. Some days I don’t feel like taking the time to make a decent breakfast; maybe a fried egg, toast, and juice. It’s more of a pain to fix that stuff, I’d say. Cookies are nourishing if eaten with milk. No fixing needed. No dishes to clean either. Besides, I was nervous about my upcoming confrontation with the mayor and his cronies and wanted to concentrate on what I was going to say, rather than cooking a meal.

The clock on the wall over the stove showed 9:15 a.m. I had about forty-five minutes to get the papers in order and some odds and ends accomplished.

I heard Bud yelling to be let in, and by the sounds of it, his irritated mood hadn’t left him.

So, what’s the problem, Bud? I asked as he came through the door.

Problem? I have no problem, Tom.

Well, something isn’t right with you. Have I done something wrong? Eaten your dog food? Stolen your water?

Bud headed toward the living room and I followed.

Well?

It’s this meeting we’re going to. It’s got me worried, Tom. They’re like sharks, ready to devour whatever falls into their part of the water. You don’t have much of a chance.

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I sat down on an old, frayed chair—a condition matching the couch and yellowed draw curtains. Yet, it was home, and while it might look shabby to visitors, it didn’t matter much, since I never had any visitors. Guess folks are afraid of the insane guy who lives in a well-worn house.

Bud sat quietly next to the chair, waiting for me to say something about not having a chance. Looking around the room, I would say Bud was right. I’d not kept things up. Don’t have the money to hire some handyman to come fix things for me. Social security doesn’t go that far. A broken system, I’d say.

Speaking of the house, it’s quite old, built in 1861 by my grandfather, Otis Culhaven. He was born in Georgia on a plantation where cotton was sown, picked, packed, and shipped north by the twenty slaves his father owned. He inherited the family plantation in his mid-twenties, and just before the outbreak of the Civil War, decided the concept of slavery was unjust. Otis sold his plantation and moved to Illinois, where he built a house on what turned out to be rich farmland. He raised corn and soybeans and then bought some cows and got into the milk business. His holdings grew and attracted others, who settled nearby, hoping to market what they had with what Otis sold. When train tracks eventually arrived about ten miles from Otis’s land, the small group of farmers could ship their products to Chicago. As the group of farmers increased, they decided their town needed a name, so they called it Culhaven. Otis had a son, William (my father), who inherited the Culhaven legacy. William was as good a farmer as you’d ever find. He taught me a great deal, but he wanted me to know more about farming than he did and insisted I attend an agriculture university. Shortly after I graduated from Iowa State University, my father died. Books can tell you many things, but they can’t tell you how to cope with death, getting old yourself, and not having sons to carry on your name and place.

From its obscure beginnings those many long years ago, Culhaven’s population grew to nearly eight thousand, and dirt roads became macadam streets with a fast-food place, bakery, barbershop, and other businesses to support the community. Since I couldn’t farm indefinitely, I eventually began selling off land to residents and business concerns. When it all shook out, I owned a strip of property along the southern border of Culhaven. My front door faces Otis Street, the town’s main drag.

About a mile from Culhaven is the town of Cooper. It has maybe twenty-five thousand inhabitants. It sprang up as more of center for manufacturing farm equipment, rather than farming itself. The railroad accommodated their efforts nicely. There had been talk for several years about Culhaven and Cooper merging. A month ago, both towns held a special vote regarding the merger, and it passed. I guess that means most folks are positive about the idea. I’m not positive about any of it, including the mayor and his bunch on the town council. Bastards.

So you think I’m not up to the task, Bud?

No offense, Tom, but showing some papers won’t move that bunch of cow pies. You need some sort of plan, Bud said, vigorously scratching his right ear.

You have fleas?

For heaven’s sake, I don’t have fleas, just scratching my head trying to come up with a plan.

Well, you’ve got half an hour. I’ve thought a bunch about all this, and all I can do is show the history of this place and the fact that I own this house. It’s all I have.

Bud coughed as if a meatball was going to fly out of his mouth and stick to the window across the room.

Your papers aren’t going to mean squat against eminent domain. No, Tom, we need to get people on our side, maybe a campaign. We need something that will light a fire under the town and expose the mayor for what he is—a greedy chunk of protoplasm.

"A chunk of protoplasm? I think you’re being too kind about that. He’s bigger than one of Mr. Daily’s cows. Nevertheless, I can’t come up with a plan in what is now twenty-five minutes."

Bud stood up on all fours. I think better with a beer.

It’s early for that. Besides, I just had breakfast.

We’ve got to think of something. A beer will help.

Normally, I don’t drink in the morning. When I did last year, I fell and broke my leg—had it in a cast for a couple of months. Inconvenient is not the word. Itched like mosquitoes were celebrating New Year’s Eve under it. But like Bud said, he and I probably think better with a beer.

I got up from the chair, took two bottles of beer out of the refrigerator, grabbed a bowl from the cupboard, and brought them into the living room, where I poured beer into the bowl. Bud lapped it up slowly, seeming to savor every taste of it, and then sat back on his haunches.

Okay, what facts do we know about the mayor that we can use?

He wants my property, I suspect, because he’ll either build something on it himself or have one of his cronies build it for him when we merge with Cooper.

"Right, but what do we know about him?"

He’s fat, looks like Mr. Potato Head, and has a handlebar mustache as long as his arm. Wasted protoplasm, as you put it. Maybe it was the beer, but I couldn’t find anything nice to say about him.

Bud lapped up more beer, scratched his ear again. You know what dogs go for in a fight? he asked me.

Dogfights I’ve seen, they go after each other’s throat.

That’s right, Tom. We need to go for the throat. Do something that will cause a stir in the town, get people on board to see our side of things.

I refilled Bud’s dish with beer and took another long drink of mine. My nerves were easing a bit, and as I looked out through the unwashed picture window, I could see the sun coming out nice and bright, and I figured, if nothing else, the warmth of the sun would cheer me up.

Okay, Bud, so what do you have in mind?

After another couple licks of the beer, Bud told me his plan. When I first considered what he came up with, I was a bit skittish on it, but the more I thought about it, the more I began to like his approach well enough. By the time I finished my beer, I felt the plan was downright good and agreed to it. Damn dog is smart.

We still had about ten minutes, and I went into the den to get my papers. The den is really Gwen’s sewing room, but it’s a bit manlier to refer to it as a den. Her sewing machine, box of needles, threads, and a few dress patterns are still in the room, and I always feel sad going in there, as I fully expect to see Gwen sewing away. When I realize she’s not, well, it’s hard sometimes.

I went to the kitchen and rummaged in the pantry for the knife sharpener. It’s one of those electric kinds—bought it for Gwen some years ago. I was hoping it still worked, as it hadn’t been used since she passed away. I plugged it in and pressed the button. Sure enough, the sharpening stones turned just fine. Next, I searched the utility drawer for a scissors but couldn’t find one. Might be one in the den, I thought. I found a pair of cutting shears next to the sewing machine. My hands were a little big for the grip, but I could manage. Besides, it felt good to hold what Gwen had used to create her dresses, and it seemed appropriate that I’d use them to create something too. Back in the kitchen, I sharpened those scissors to a razor’s edge. They cut through paper like it wasn’t there. I put them in the pocket of my suit coat along with my papers.

Meanwhile, Bud had finished the last of his beer and was rolling on his back, trying to scratch himself.

Well, he asked when I returned to the living room, all set?

Yes, Bud, I think I’m ready for this. Just to be sure, I brought another one of these for each of us, but we’ll have to drink ’em quick to get to the meeting on time.

It’s kind of you, Tom; my thanks.

No problem, I said It’ll fortify us for the plan, if you know what I mean.

Indeed I do, Bud replied. Couple of things, though. First, you tie that tie with a blender? It’s all mangled. You might want to straighten it out a bit, you know, for a more presentable appearance.

There’s no way I can retie it, particularly after the beer I’ve had. It will have to do. What’s the other part of the couple of things?

Now, mind you, I’m no fashion model. I obviously don’t have to change my fur. But you’re wearing white sweat socks with your black suit. I’ve watched enough television with you to know something is out of fashion, and your socks are out of fashion.

Well, I was a bit offended by Bud’s criticism of what I was wearing and how I was wearing it, and I let him know it. I don’t have any socks other than sweat socks, and they’re a sight more comfortable than other kinds of socks. You think anyone is going to care if an old man like me wears sweat socks with a suit? I’ll chalk up your comments to a sincere effort to help me do well at the meeting, but I’m a bit put out by your nitpicking.

Bud snorted or sneezed, I couldn’t tell which.

I didn’t think I was nitpicking you. I was trying to be helpful, as a man’s best friend should. Let’s not argue about it right now. We’ve got some serious business to deal with, and we need to concentrate on the events to come. If I hurt your feelings, I apologize. Fair enough?

You can’t very well be mad at a dog, not even if it pees on your carpet. If it can’t hold it, it can’t hold it—probably your fault for not letting the poor creature out enough times. At any rate, I accepted the apology and offered one of my own for being edgy. We finished off the beers.

As we headed for the front door, I remembered not having my reading glasses. I often can’t remember where I put the darn things, and a trip upstairs was wasted, since the glasses weren’t there.

Look in the refrigerator, Bud called out. That’s where you lost them the last time. I’m a bit curious, Tom … do you read in the refrigerator?

I chuckled a bit over that but honestly couldn’t answer the question as to why I left the glasses in the refrigerator. Nevertheless, I opened the refrigerator, and sure enough, there they were next to a nearly empty carton of milk.

"It is a curious thing, Bud. Wish I could explain it, but I can’t. At least I know where to look for them now. Are you ready?"

It looked to me like Bud was smiling when he said, Tom, I’m ready as can be. Keep your cool during the proceedings and you’ll do fine. Let’s go see the mayor!

I was careful going out the front door, not wanting to fall and break my leg again—or something else. The door closed quietly, as if it was keeping secret the plan Bud and I were taking with us.

2

HIPPIE IS AS HIPPIE WAS

Like I said, the sun was shining and the air warm, a combination conducive to a pleasant walk, however brief it would be. The courthouse where the meeting would take place was a block from my home and located next to a fast-food place, where I suspect the mayor ate most of his meals. As I approached the corner crosswalk, I saw the familiar figure of Ms. Constance Custer, the town’s activist for all causes. She’s nearly as old as I am, so her activism must have started sometime during the cold war. Rumor has it she was a hippie during the sixties and something close to a chronic protestor. Maybe she even protested the Vietnam War, which I won’t hold against her, though I put some time into that fiasco. To each his or her own, I say.

Hello, Mr. Culhaven, she greeted me as we approached one another at the crosswalk. Fine day for this meeting, eh? she asked with enthusiasm, as if being indoors was preferable to a gorgeous day outside.

She had wrinkles too. Her face was thin, with a long, pointed nose and lips that seemed wider than they should be on someone’s face. Her white hair was pulled