I wrote this in college (but I updated it a little)

  1. Where the Hell is Cassandra? seethed Jonathan as he paced his Park Avenue Penthouse. We cannot be late to this party!

    They had to be there. Whether or not he actually wanted to be there was an entirely different question. (Although Jonathan had no desire to go, he hated being late for things. If he had to go, he reasoned, they might as well be punctual). If it were up to him, he’d be in his Ralph Lauren pajamas by now, and Cassandra would be in her Nick & Nora leopard print pajamas. They’d be eating Chinese food and watching reruns of “Fraiser.” “Fraiser” is one of the only sitcoms they watch, when they have time, which lately has been very rare.

    The dreaded gallery opening has been a tradition for as long as he could remember. It seems like another one of Cassandra’s artist friends is unveiling his or her new collection every two months. The party was supposed to start at 9:00. It was now 6:00, according to his Cartier. If Cassandra wasn’t home, Jonathan was assuming she was still at work. She wasn’t supposed to be at work. She was supposed to be home, having dinner with him and then getting ready for some stupid gallery benefit that he didn’t even want to go to in the first place! But he had to, even though he thought modern art was some of the most boring and confusing stuff. In his opinion, the only period this type of art went through was the “What Are You On?” period. He knew what types of things the museum would try to pass off as ‘art’: upside-down urinals and other weird pieces of crap.

    And because he was Cassandra’s husband, it would be weird if he didn’t show up as well. Her friends, through the work of some unknown spies for all he knew, found out he didn’t have plans that night. They were expecting him there.

    Realizing he had been pacing since 5:30, Jonathan decided he had better stop before he wore a hole in their shag carpeting, the shag carpeting he bought the last time he felt like buying something. In fact, half of everything in their apartment was purchased because he felt like buying something. The other half was when Cassandra felt like buying something. After all, when you’re practically the best architect in the city and you’re wife’s a famous fashion photographer; you can afford to just buy something whenever the Hell you felt like it.

    While he liked spending money, he wasn’t wasteful. He stopped pacing and decided to take a bath. His bathroom was his pride and joy. The entire thing was done in glass and imported black marble. (Cassandra’s was in cream marble). While he was waiting for his tub to finish filling, he decided to shave. He has had his moustache ever since he was sixteen years old. That night, he decided to shave it off. It’s almost a New Year and he needed a new look.

    While he thought it would be such a big ritual, it wasn’t really that big a deal. A couple flicks of the razor and a fourteen-year-old moustache was gone. He was clean-shaven again. The tub was almost full, now, so he dried his chin off, stepped out of his navy blue Ralph Lauren robe and slid himself into the tub. Fifteen minutes later, he stepped out of the tub, let the water drain out and dried himself off.

    He was just finishing tying the tie of his Prada tuxedo when he heard Cassandra burst through the door, throw her things down and stomp down the front hall.

    “Son of a *****! My day SUCKED! Ten whole hours of anorexic, cokehead, permanently pissed-off looking *****es in five gazillion dollar gowns in the middle of the desert! You know I couldn’t even eat my lunch in front of one of the models, because she was such a veggie – loving, all natural hippie freak that she couldn’t bear to see me eat one of God’s creatures?!? I had to eat my chicken salad sandwich later on the plane before she boarded! All natural, my ass! She may be a vegetarian, but her dietary intake is NOT all natural all the time. The only way for THAT to happen is if she made absolutely sure her heroin was made from organically grown poppies! I am a photographer, for God’s sake! I shouldn’t have to be jumping through some damn hoops just to make a bunch of models happy! If anything, they should be the ones jumping through hoops for me! I have won many awards for Photography! Why the HELL am I still working with these damned PEONS!?!”
    Cassandra punctuated the words ‘Hell’ and ‘peons’ by hurling each of her black Miu Miu snakeskin boots against the wall, one at a time.

    Ah, my lovely wife is home, Jonathan thought wryly. She figured out where he was and he could now hear her stomping towards his bathroom, her voice getting louder and louder as she got closer.

    ”Jonathan! I had a lousy *****y day, and I want a damned Bombay Sapphire! Now!”

    ”Coming, Princess,” he muttered under his breath while heading towards the bar in the living room. (The bar was one of Cassandra’s ‘just because’ purchases. It was a fully stocked bar, complete with barstools, all in matching chrome, and fully stocked with top-of-the-line liquors. Jonathan's equivalent to Cassandra’s bar was a fully stocked wine cellar and cigar humidor).

    Heading from his bathroom to the living room, he could see the remains of Cassandra’s wrath. Her black Louis Vuitton Monogram Multicolore, along with her black Christian Dior leather jacket lay on a heap near the front door. Her boots were on opposite sides of the room, and he could make out black marks where she had hurled them against the wall. The only things she had bothered to regard as fragile, he noticed, was her camera equipment bag. That she had set gingerly on the floor next to the black leather couch. Gingerly placed next to the camera bag were two little shopping bags, both were robin’s egg blue with Tiffany & Co. printed on the side. She’s done a little shopping therapy, he noted. Take two bags of diamonds from Tiffany’s and call me in the morning.
  2. Fixing the drink, all the while making sure he kept his back to her until the very last second, he finally turned around with a flourish, hoping to surprise her with his new look. "Well, what do you think?"

    ”WHAT!?!” Cassandra, clad in black suede Dolce & Gabbana pants and a tight, cream cashmere Calvin Klein turtleneck sweater, snatched the glass out of his hand, downed the gin in one gulp and thrust the glass towards him, indicating a refill.

    ”Come on, Cassandra! What do you think?”

    Again she snatched the glass and chugged the gin. After he finished the question, she slammed the glass down on the counter and demanded, “What the HELL are you talking about!?!”

    Without waiting for an answer, Cassandra grabbed her two Tiffany bags and her camera equipment and flounced to their bedroom. "My moustache!" He called, following her.

    He eventually caught up to her before she stepped into bathroom.

    “What ABOUT your moustache?” She demanded before closing the door.

    ”I shaved it off.” Cassandra poked her head out the door.

    “You never HAD a moustache.” She shut the door again.

    Jonathan laughed, opened the door and stuck his head in. “Uh, yeah, I did.”

    One thing he always found charming and enduring about Cassandra, ever since he first met her was her sense of humor, although it can be a bit strange at times. Like this one time, he forgot when, but he was pretty sure it was ten years ago; she called a friend of hers from across the street. Her friend was eight months pregnant and living on the tenth floor of an apartment building that had no elevator. Cassandra frantically warns her friend that poison mold was growing in the building and she had to get out immediately. Her poor friend got about five floors down before she realized she was the victim of one of Cassandra’s little ‘pranks.’ She didn’t speak to Cassandra for about a month after that.

    ”So, Cassie, do you think I should grow it back?”

    Cassandra came storming out of her bathroom, hair in a towel, wrapped in her (monogrammed) Victoria’s Secret terry robe. “You never HAD a moustache! And DON’T call me Cassie!”

    Forty-five minutes later, Cassandra emerged from her bathroom, her ice blonde hair in a French twist, clad in her new black satin Yves Saint Laurent gown (or, this year’s “Christmas Dress”). Around her neck was a necklace Jonathan had never seen before. He figured it came from one of the Tiffany’s bags she brought home that afternoon. After putting on his full-length Prada black wool coat, he helped Cassandra with her silver fox wrap. (Neither Jonathan nor Cassandra would ever buy a new fur. Cassandra’s wrap was acceptable in their house only because she had inherited it from her grandmother). Clutched in her hand was her Louis Vuitton Monogram Vernis Lexington Accessory Pouch in Pomme d‘ Amour and on her feet were Louis Vuitton La Fabuleuse Pumps.

    For something neither of us gives a rat’s ass about, we sure take a hell of a time making sure we look good, Jonathan thought.

    The black limousine Jonathan had called for while Cassandra was getting ready had arrived, and they both got in the car and settled into the leather interior.
    After a ten-minute ride in silence (they were nibbling on honey roasted peanuts the whole time, or at least she was. He was eating a peanut butter sandwich he had made earlier. He knew by experience how little sustenance they serve at these things. He also made a mental note to do what he always did afterwards: order a pizza. Domino’s thick crust, meat lover’s pizza with a side of buffalo and honey barbecue wings. And he knew that Cassandra would do what she always did: criticize him at first and then dive into the wings and take two slices of pizza. While she didn’t like to admit it, she liked when he ordered the chicken wings and the pizza. It was their tradition.

    Finally, the limousine arrived at its destination: the dreaded gallery opening given by one of Cassandra’s artist friends. After air kissing and cheek brushing her friends hello, Cassandra excused herself and went to the powder room. Before she left, however, she gave him a peck on the cheek and whispered, “hi, by the way.”

    Okay, I’ll see what other people think about my new look, he thought. While taking a flute of Dom Perignon from the (very scant) buffet table, he caught the sight of Cassandra’s friend, Jasper, standing with Garrett, his partner of two years. If anyone would notice my moustache, he thought, they would. They’re artists and they’re gay. They must pay attention to stuff like that.

    ”Jonathan, you’re looking absolutely FABULOUS!” Jack exclaimed, turning to Garrett, doesn’t he, darling?

    ”Oh, absolutely, darling,” answered Garrett.

    ”Okay, thanks, but anyway . . . did you notice my moustache, or lack thereof?” Jonathan asked.

    ”Um, okay, Jonathan? You never had a moustache,” Garrett pointed out.

    ”Okay, did Cassandra put you up to this? Did you two have too much champagne, or something? I’ve had a moustache for fourteen years, and I just shaved it off.”

    "Okay, Jonathan? We totally don’t know what you’re talking about. But, okay, if you DID have a moustache, but I doubt that, because I would remember it, you look SO much better without it.”

    ”Thanks, Jack, but I DID have a moustache and I just shaved it off.”

    ”. . . . Oh, look, darling! Little lobster puffs!”

    With that, Jack and Garrett went off in the direction of the waiter carrying a tray of said puffs.

    After many unsuccessful tries, Jonathan couldn’t find anyone he could convince that he had a moustache. They were all under the impression he never had one, but if he DID, he looks so much better now. That lifted his spirits a little, but he found it a bit weird that he just now shaved off his moustache but people didn’t remember something he had since he was sixteen. Granted, they didn’t know him when he was sixteen, but still . . .

    At first he thought Cassandra had put them up to another one of her charming little pranks, but he rejected that idea after so many people told him he never had a moustache. Cassandra plays good practical jokes, but even she doesn’t have the time to convince so many people to be in on the joke. Another solution he thought of was that they were probably all high on something, but that was immediately rejected, on account of the fact that other than the moustache thing, they were pretty normal. None of them thought they could fly, none of them had the ‘munchies’ and none of them had hallucinations of giant crayons coming to get them, or that there were bugs crawling all over them.

    When it came time for them to go, Jonathan was still confused about the whole moustache issue. He wanted to talk to Cassandra about it, but she looked so tired (or drunk, he wasn’t sure which. He was too distracted). On the car ride home, Jonathan thought some more while Cassandra slept leaning against his shoulder.

    When they got to their place, Jonathan carried her into the elevator, into their apartment, into their bedroom and helped her out of her dress and into her Agent Provoceteur nightgown. Carefully tucking her into bed, he hung her gown on a hanger and draped it across the chaise lounge in their bedroom, along with the fur wrap. He placed her necklace in her jewelry box. Kissing her forehead, he stood in the doorway, watching her sleep for awhile. She sort of rolled over and snuggled into her pillows. From the white canopy bed, her white satin nightgown, her blonde hair the white down pillows and the soft glow from the dimmed hallway light, she looked like an angel. She may put on such a sophisticated act, but she can be so sweet sometimes, and not only when she was asleep.

    Going over the events at the gallery opening and the whole moustache situation, he immediately thought of something: their wedding album! Old photographs! When he found the photographs, however, he found that while there were old pictures there, there were no photos of him with a moustache. Dammit! Now what? His bathroom! The scene of the crime!
  3. Hurrying into the bathroom while trying not to wake his wife, Jonathan peered into his sink. Remembering he had washed his moustache down the drain, he picked up his razor. The blade was dry, and the shaving cream was capped and where he normally kept it. Now what!?!
    Suddenly the buzzer buzzed. “Cut! Print! The director yelled. This is going to be the best ‘Twilight Zone: Revisited’ ever, people!”

    ‘Jonathan’ or Chris Meloni, closed the bathroom set’s medicine cabinet and turned towards the director, untying his tuxedo’s tie. His assistant came up to him with a glass of orange juice. "Very pulpy, just the way you like it, Mr. Meloni."

    ‘Cassandra’ or Nicollette Sheridan walked out of the bedroom set still in ‘Cassandra’s’ nightgown. Her assistant handed her a sweatshirt and after she put it on, handed her a cup of coffee. "Hazelnut with milk and sugar, just the way you like it, Ms. Sheridan."

    The director couldn’t believe how lucky he NBC agreed to let him film something like this. When he first approached NBC with this idea, he was afraid the president would laugh him out of the office. He also couldn’t believe how lucky he was to get such great actors to play these roles. Chris Meloni's show ‘Law & Order: SVU’ was on summer hiatus. So was Desperate Housewives. If this goes well, hopefully he can make another one. This time, he wanted to do a remake of an old episode. ‘Moustache’ was an original story he wrote based on some famous French novel he remembered reading once. He doesn’t remember the ending, just the events that led up to that particular ending. Using these events, he wrote an original “Twilight Zone” episode.

    Editing the episode, he puts in the familiar music, followed by the opening line: “Submitted for your approval, one Jonathan Tate. . . .”