Chapter 19 Orion
ORION
“Orion!” Carl says, “I’m so glad you’re joining us. I’d give you a hug, but…”
Carl, Bob, and Pops are all dressed in Edwardian splendor, complete with top hats and tails, with their beards styled in elaborate loops and curlicues. Hugs are obviously out of the question since I wouldn’t want to break all that wax and hairspray.
“I’ll take one after the competition,” I suggest, looking forward to that. I guess it comes with being a bear…all these guys give the best hugs.
I’ve been nervous all day, and even more so on the drive over.
I’ve never been to a bar in my life. My only experience has been what I’ve seen on TV, so I have no idea what to expect.
Crowds, certainly. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all, and the bar is already packed.
Brawls? Maybe not, not with the care everyone seems to be putting into their clothes and grooming.
There’s an energy level in this group I haven’t experienced before, an electric buzz of excitement.
It’s easy to get caught up in it, and I intend to.
Hideo promised to stay close all night, but here I am, barely in the door, and Carl is already taking me by the arm and steering me away.
Surprisingly, now that I’m here and immersed in this sea of beards and beard-lovers, I’m not freaking out.
Bertie’s costume is helping a lot. He made me a big cape and cowl, so my face is hidden deep in shadow.
It makes it easy to hide, but I’ll be able to lower it if I’m feeling brave.
“I like the beard cuff—it suits you,” Carl says, steering me expertly through the crowd. “I have some people I want you to meet.”
I lose track of names after the tenth one.
A dapper couple done up in Renaissance gear with fancy Van Dykes.
A shy fellow with the longest beard I’ve ever seen, brushed to cover his entire chest and hanging all the way to his beltline.
A biker in full leather gear, arms and neck covered with tattoos and sporting a gigantic handlebar mustache and an ear-to-ear grin.
His girlfriend (wife?) hangs on his arm, sporting a fancy knitted beard.
I begin to wonder if I’ve found it, a community that will accept me.
When Carl introduces me to a fellow dressed up as Captain Davy Jones, beard done up as tentacles, I start to believe. I think I’ve found my tribe.
None of them even blink when Carl introduces me. I guess the dim light is helping, and Bertie’s camouflage.
I feel an arm circle through my elbow, and Hideo says, “Let’s get you a drink.”
“If you actually make it to the bar, get me a beer, Hidie-ho,” Bertie requests. “I need to go talk to the lighting guys.”
Hideo and I bump our way through the crowd, eventually snagging some beers just before the competition starts.
“Welcome, fellow devotees of the whiskered way, to the 53rd incarnation of the New Year Beard Bash! We have an exciting lineup tonight…”
“Let’s get settled,” Hideo suggests, guiding me along with our bottles. “We usually save a place near the back. With luck, Bob and Pops have staked out a table.”
“Bertie tells us you’re going to compete!” Bob says when we arrive. I place myself at the back of the little stand-up table, up against the wall, so I won’t block anyone’s view.
“If I don’t chicken out, yes.” The nerves are already building, but I’m determined. I can do this.
“Don’t worry. We’re all friends here and it’s all good fun. I think Hideo is going first this time, after the mustaches.”
Bertie explains, “In the nationals, they have tons of categories based on style and length…”
Pops adds, “Beard queens are also size queens.”
Bertie continues, “...but for the Bash, they always pare it down, so there will be enough people in each category. Hideo is in Partial Beards, I’m doing Full Beard Natural, and the rest of you are in Full Beard Freestyle.”
They work through the five mustache contestants, and then it’s Hideo’s category. He’s decked out in his white coat and stethoscope, taking the microphone and saying, “The doctor is in. Are you ready for your examination?” The light captures his model-perfect face as the audience cheers and jeers.
My nerves mount steadily as the show proceeds, and I barely register Bertie’s walk across the stage, done up in steampunk gear, as I repeatedly rehearse my lines.
I hope it won’t be too dark for this crowd, but the quote somehow captures the place I’m at right now.
And most importantly, Bertie helped me pick it out.
“You’re on, handsome,” Hideo says, squeezing my arm. “Knock ‘em dead.”
I slip off the beard cuff, releasing my tentacles, and I’m ready. At least I hope I am.
This is the largest category and there’s a line of guys waiting to go on stage. Pops and the crew are near the front, and I’m after two twins with fancy asymmetric beards, mirror images of each other. There’s no going back now.
The twins do a hilarious skit, miming a mirror between them and styling their (and each other’s) beards, and the crowd hits the roof when they take their synchronized bows. Tough act to follow, but here goes.
“And next, a new contestant to our Beard Bash family, welcome Orion to the stage.”
I mount the steps and take my place, looking out over the sea of faces. Panic threatens, but I glance back to our table and they all give me a thumbs up.
The spotlight flips off and a light at the base of the stage flips on, lighting me from below in the best horror movie manner. I let the moment take over, determined to do this on my terms.
I slowly reach up and remove the hood, letting it fall behind my head.
I spread my hands dramatically and let my tentacles go.
Complete silence sweeps across the crowd as I let them writhe, waving and curling, letting them exult in their new freedom and attention.
I tip my head down, mustering my creepiest monster movie glare, and intone:
“In his house at R'lyeh,
Dead Cthulhu waits dreaming.
We live on a placid island of ignorance,
In the midst of black seas of infinity,
It was not meant that we should voyage far.”
Then I pull the hood up, covering most of my face and giving my bow. I breathe a quick sigh, happy to have made it through my lines.
The silence holds for just long enough to make me worried, then the crowd erupts into cheers. I hear exclamations through the crowd: “Did you see that!!?” “Are they real?” “How did he…?” “It must be a trick.”
As I walk back through the crowd, several people give me a pat on the back, and everyone turns to watch, trying to get a glimpse.
The loud buzz of the crowd dies down when the announcer says, “Our next contestant joins us all the way from New York City. Please welcome…”
Hideo guides me to my spot at the back of the table, safe and sheltered. I pick up my beer and take a long drink.
Wow, I just did that.
Bertie leans over and whispers, “That was awesome,” but other than that, the eyes of the entire crowd are on the stage, currently with a fellow dressed as a gold rush miner.
The nervous high from being on display, exposing my deepest secret, slowly fades and I come back to the room, out of my thoughts, and let myself enjoy the rest of the show with them.
“Let’s give a burly-beardy-bash round of applause to all the contestants,” the announcer says, spreading his arms to encompass the whole room. “As always, we’re way behind schedule…”
“And whose fault is that?” someone yells from the crowd, and everybody laughs.
“Guilty as charged, but there’s no holding back this flood of whiskers and talent. As I was saying, we’ll give the judges time to do their judging, and we’ll hand out the prizes after the countdown. So, grab another beer and don’t go anywhere—there’s still a lot of excitement ahead.”
The house lights come up, and Carl exclaims, “That was exceptional, Orion. Way to make it your own.”
People throughout the crowd look our way, so this is it. I put it all out there, and now I need to reap what I sowed.
A biker couple—him with long hair and a truly massive beard, her with a big comb stuck in her hair—wander over first.
“So, man, everybody wants to know. Are they real?”
I let them show off, curling and waving, and say, “Yes, since the day I was born.”
He narrows his eyes and leans in for a closer look, and says, “Radical.” He sticks out his hand and says, “Leroy, and this is my better half Marlene, whisker stylist supreme.”
The rest of the evening is a blur. Our table is mobbed and I don’t hold back.
I give my tentacles free rein and let them enjoy the attention.
Half a dozen people give me styling tips, two dozen people say I’d be a shoo-in for the national convention if I refine my act, and many, after strictly asking for permission, want to touch.
Of course, every silver lining has some clouds, and there are a couple drunk guys who just can’t get past it, but they’re quickly crowded away before we need to call in the bouncers.
I watch with some skepticism through it all, vaguely worried I’m a freak on display at the circus, a bug in a jar, but I don’t get even a hint of that.
There’s a lot of curiosity, which I totally understand—I’m not something you see every day—but the major feeling is a friendly camaraderie, tinged with a playful feeling of I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.
I quickly discover that a few targeted compliments go a long way toward greasing the wheels with these men and their elaborate beards.
Maybe, as Hideo suggests, I have found my people here.
“I’ll try it,” I promise a handsome hipster with a red beard almost the same shade as mine. “It’s certainly doing wonders for you! Your beard is luminous. What’s it called again?”
“Seven Seas Beard Balm. I get mine online…just google it.”
“Ten minutes to countdown,” the announcer calls. “Get your bubbly at the bar!”