That Bushy-Faced Devil Who Shares My Bed

Since my husband now lives in the attic, emerging only to take meals and refresh his glass of low-sodium V-8, he has grown a ferocious beard. The beard is larger than his whole head and exists, presumably, to scare off any intruders when he drops on them, catlike, from the spot he occupies in the eaves.

This is not my husband. My husband is hotter. But a beard does not look good even on this reasonably attractive fellow.

 

The beard is of the ilk that would cause Jeeves, Bertie Wooster's man, to discreetly place a razor at the side of the breakfast plate each morning with a poignant, meaningful "Sir" until the matter were dealt with appropriately. It has quite taken over my husband's dear face, such that I can see his glimmering, beady blue eyes winking through the coarse matting.

Some elements of the beard are asymmetrical and tufty.

I am in some ways responsible for the beard, for I am fond of a "rugged, manly look." I did not know that it would so quickly o'ertake his face! I did not know that it would grow, and grow, as if an angry marmot were ravishing his chin!

I have begun to fear that the beard has addled his normally sharp brains. For example, I often ask his advice on some of my writing projects. He usually responds with appropriate and kindly criticism. But not since The Beard hove on the scene and began, with its coiled tendrils, to tighten its grip on certain areas of the brain responsible for common sense and intelligence. Last night I asked him what he thought of something brilliant I had written, and his response was lukewarm.

"Really?" says I. "I thought it was rather clever!"

"You are wrong," says he.

"Am I?" says I. "You don't think it's prize-worthy prose?"

I heard a voice speaking out of the tufted mass of tangled hair, and it said something like: "No one will ever buy it. No one will ever read it. No one gives a shit about such topics!"

"I will no longer dedicate my book to you, then!" says I heatedly.

"Poo!" he snarked. "Don't, then!"

"I won't!" I cried. "And another thing, I am going to write rude things about you, and post them online!"

"Do your worst clangings and bangings and tippity-tappings!" he said, sounding and looking an awful lot like "Gurgi" from the Chronicles of Prydain.

His beard sharpened into steely points, and we were at an impasse. I have set traps for him, and they are baited with Bushmills whiskey and Guinness.

Debbil Juice

I am in possession of some scientific evidence, which I think may soon point to the conclusion that someone I know well is related to, if not the actual, The Devil.

Observation 1: The person heretofore known as "The Devil" has hung a large portrait of a devil right smack dab in the middle of our living room. The devil in the painting is red, with horns, and seems to be gazing with melancholy ire at our neighbor's house. Like it might want to smite them. Its cloven hooves are not visible but are no doubt implied.

The Devil claims that this portrait was purchased because it is an original done by his favorite musician (also an artist). The fact remains that the portrait is, without question, Mephistopheles, aka Beezlebub, aka Satan. This, coupled with the fact that we are too lazy to hang Christmas lights during the winter season, has led the neighbors to refer to us sotto voce as “those Satan worshippers.” This has not raised our standing in the area.

Observation 2: When The Devil has had more than two martinis, he often says things like “I’m a devil! I’m a devil!” or occasionally “debbil, debbil, debbil,” and runs about the house.

Observation 3: The Devil does not enter churches, unless they are hosting some tag sales with Really Great Bargains.

Observation 4: As if to throw us off the scent, The Devil’s proclaimed favorite band is named The Church. Such a ploy is pitifully obvious. Who else do you know whose favorite, A #1, all-time band is actually The Church? Didn’t think so. As a side note, one of the band members of The Church is the painter of the devil painting (see Observation 1).

Observation 5: The Devil likes whiskey, fast cars, Victoria’s Secret commercials, and other clichéd “devilish” accoutrements.

Observation 6: The Devil gives off a strange, black effluvium that modern science has been unable to identify. One morning we discovered black marks on The Devil’s pillow, which could not be removed through diligent laundering. Was it black Devil Liquid oozing from his ears or pores? No one knows, but occasionally fresh black marks show up and cannot be removed. Is he wearing mascara and frequenting “those” kind of clubs without my knowledge? Or—the more likely explanation—is he The Devil? You draw the obvious conclusion.