THREE BAD BEARDS ON SUMMER HIATUS

Two famous contemporary beards meet up with the my son's beard and spend a summer day at an undisclosed seaside community.

Three Bad Beards On Summer Hiatus
~ by Tony Sienzant

Of the three, Letterman’s beard was the proud puffed-up one. It had the accomplished stature of a regal king, presiding in its quiet but regal way over the other two, who were, as of yet, absent.

Buzzing down the winding road in a 1968 cherry red Corvette (top down), it reveled in the luxuriating breeze coming off the pre-dawn ocean. Ah, that crisp salty air feels better than a pet shop grooming, he thought. And the thatched curls of white danced with the legs of a thousand centipedes.

First stop, off Central Drive, and the bungalow of Lebron.

The horn beeped and Lebron James’ dark wiry beard appeared in the window. A second later, it bounded out the mail slot in the front door, across the sandy lawn to hop on the passenger seat.

“Dude, are you crazy? My master’s still asleep !”

Letterman’s beard harrumphed. “Now that’s cute. You know . . . ” He gave that classic Dave smirk of a pause as he drew out the last word, “Slaves were freed two hundred years ago.”

“Right. So what you call your master?”

“Sir Letterhead.”

Before picking up the as-of-yet unnamed beard number three, they stopped at a place called Orange You Thirsty? No other car was in line at the pickup window. In fact, the shop was just opening up.

A woman’s mountain of hair greeted them, something that might have coiffed the crown of Amy Winehouse. “What can I do for you gents ?”

“Two strawberry smoothies and…” Letterman’s beard turned questioningly to Lebron’s.

“He likes Orange Julius,” was the black beard’s reply.

“Oh yes, Orange Julius !” And with a Pee Wee Herman cackle, they both squealed, “Famous in Pennsylvania !”

On the road again, Letterman’s white pillow beard wondered, “He’s from PA, right ?”

“Lehigh Valley born & raised,” said the black pillowed beard.

“Why are we picking him up again ?”

“He got a beat we gonna rap to.”

And the sun spread its full warm wings across the sky.

* * *

Julian’s beard was smack dab in the middle of a splendid dream: tiny combs and miniature brushes ran across its furls, tickling, cleaning, massaging. The hairs twisted and turned in joy. Ah, so so good !

But gradually piercing this reverie, was the honking of far off geese. Closer & closer they came, louder and louder. Honk, honk, honk until all the tiny combs and little brushes darted off in fear of incoming bombs of yellow green waterfowl poops.

But nothing splatted about at all.

Instead, as the light of consciousness crept over the beard, it suddenly gleaned that the flock of geese was the honking horn of a cherry red 1968 Corvette.

“S**t. I’m late !”

The beard of Julian scurried about, checking itself in the mirror three times, grabbing a dish cloth for use as a beach towel, and hurried off with boom box and CD.

Lebron’s beard made the introductions, “Sir Julian, meet the Beard of Letterman and… Orange Julius !”

“Hey, thanks ! Nice to meet you.” And the two bristled their hair against each other in a Beatles head shake, harmonizing in unison “Ooooo.”

“Nice car,” said the brown beard of Julian.

“It’s vintage,” offered the black beard of Lebron.

“Vintage parts, rebuilt,” clarified the white beard of Letterman.

He revved the car’s engine and they bolted down the road.

* * *

The sky was a picture-perfect postcard. The white hot sand seared retinas blind. The waves swept the shore in its incessant surge and retreat. And a warm breeze rippled the air as the three beards lounged beneath the shade of palm trees.

“So how did you guys meet?” asked the Beard of Julian.

“Sir Letterhead -”

“That’s his master,” interjected the Beard of Lebron.

“Likes to go to the games. He met Lebron on the court,” explained the Beard of Letterman.

“How long you been off his face?” wondered the Beard of Julian.

“Two days,” was the white beard’s answer. Letterman’s facial hair continued, “I got to get away from him sometimes. He’s f*****g crazy.”

“Huh huh huh,” chuckled Brown Beard.

“How do you mean?” asked Black Beard.

“He’s so normal… it’s abnormal.”

“Lebron doesn’t like it when I’m gone. He thinks of me as his insignia.”

“I can see that.” Letterman’s beard was settling into talk show host mode. “What about you two? How’d you link up? How long you’ve known each other?”

“The Palace Hookah.” Lebron’s beard turned to Julian’s. “Remember that place?”

“It shoulda been called The Palace Hooker,” ventured Julian’s beard.

Everyone laughed.

“I was never there,” said White Beard.

“Hey, remember that guy at the open mike? He’d wear a toilet seat around his neck,” Lebron’s beard recalled.

“Yeah, and he’d always sing about bodily functions.”

“We should go,” White Beard said.

“What?” Black Beard was confused. “We just got here.”

“No, later, to the Palace Hookah.”

“Hooker,” deadpanned Brown Beard. He passed the vape to White Beard. It took a drag. “Sir Letterhead is against vaping. He did a whole bit about it on Netflix.”

“I saw that,” Black Beard said. “He’s not against it, he just afraid young kids are getting hooked on marry-jew-wanna.”

“If he knew,” countered White Beard, “how often I was high, he’d take a razor to his face.”

“Hey, if we’re going to Palace Hooker,” said the beard of Julian, “you guys can do the rap song there.”

“I’m game,” replied Black Beard.

“Is it open mike night?” wondered White Beard.

“Who cares? You two are famous! They’ll probably put you on the marquee,” enthused Julian’s beard.

Sir Letterhead’s beard nodded. Then he took another hit.

* * *

The guy with the white toilet seat around his neck wasn’t there. But an eight- foot-tall girl called “Carrot” was, dancing around with her miniature ukulele and singing in a Tiny Tim voice, red tresses obscuring her freckled face.

The Palace Hookah was thronged in a swarm of n****e-pierced Mole Men in their googly goggled glasses, teen virgins in pale blue sarongs padding around in bare feet & toe rings, hooded non-combatants leg-shackled to their C.I.A. counterparts, prom-refugeed crack babies just turning legal age, Bob Dylan look-alikes circa 1965 feeling no pain, Star War renegades slurping in alien tongues, fishnet gloved suicide Madonnas, Tarantino extras in various stages of hyper-kinetics & depression, drunk cougars with purple bruises & too much makeup, Clockwork Orange droods in chains brandishing hockey pucks and a lone midget mulatto in dreads fingering a Rubics Cube.

“Looks like the usual suspects,” said the beard of Lebron.

“You feel right at home,” mocked Letterhead’s beard.

The scented air was a mix of cinnamon , frankincense, cherry balm, burnt coffee, a bourbon over ice & the negative ions before a storm hits.

“What’s that smell ?” ventured Brown Beard.

“Cherry balm,” answered Black Beard.

“Burnt coffee?” offered the White Beard.

“No,” Brown Beard replied, “it’s more like … the negative ions before a storm hits.”

“That’s positive,” corrected Black Beard.

“Yeah, I know I’m right,” said Julian’s beard.

“Negative,” cracked Letterhead’s frisky white ruffle.

“What?”

“It’s positive,” stated Lebron’s black beard, “the ions.”

“Ions & tigers & beards, oh my !” cracked White Beard.

Just then a girl appeared in a grass apron. “Can I get you three a drink? We’ve got Shnoozle on special.” She put a braceleted hand on the table & leaned in temptingly with a coy look in her schnoozled eye.

“Sure, three Schnoozles,” said White Beard. “I’ll pay.”

After she’d gone, he turned to Lebron’s hairy bush, “What’s a Schnoozle?”

“You’ll see.”

“Don’t drink it fast,” warned Julian’s beard. “Or you guys will be blotto by the time you reach the stage.”

“Whaaat m**********r? We be good rappers,” Black Beard objected.

“Good rappers we be,” interjected White Beard, “so says Yoda.”

“Can I take a look at the lyrics again?” asked Black Beard.

The Palace Hookah was a dimly lighted joint with comfy sofas & alcoves sectioned off with beaded curtains, with variously elongated decorated hookahs with their pipes & bowls & appendages looking suspiciously like medical apparatus or laboratory equipment. One had to wonder if some strange medical experiment was clandestinely happening before one’s unbridled eyes. Or - - maybe the eyes were bridled since the experiment was hidden ?

The Palace Hookah was presided over by The Mayor.

The Mayor was an extremely affable plump ex-Iraqi defected to the states, ceremoniously clad in a braided garment of kaleidoscopic threads topped with a pink & green turbin. He was fond of shaking your hand. He was fond of saying “I love Uncle Sam” & giving a wink, as he was surreptitiously referring to his own uncle named Sami who successfully took out two American armored personnel carriers when his suicide vest exploded in a Green Zone marketplace early in the war.

Right now, The Mayor wasn’t saying I love Uncle Sam. He was saying, “Now a big round of applause for Carrot, the gal with legs up to her neck. She really knows how to strum that carrot - - I mean uke !”

The beards tried clapping to no avail.

“Next up, the man who needs no introduction… the notorious, the infamous, the incredible inedible delectable - - I’m not saying his name because you know who he is.”

An old dude stepped to the microphone with his banged-up Martin acoustic. “Hi,” he said, eyeing the crowd. “I’m Tony Z.”

There was a smattering of claps.

“You’re applauding & I haven’t even done nothing yet …”

“You’re standing up,” called out The Mayor.

Z turned his head toward the turbin.

“For me, quite an accomplishment… deserving of accolades. So…” He twisted a peg & a note slinked up the scale, swrring, swrring, swrring until it hit its proper tuning. “That G string is a b***h,” he said in a low voice, knowing that everyone could hear.

“This song is called Love Kicked Me To The Curb & Said I Did It,” he paused for a breath, “But I Didn’t Do It She Did & She knows It,” he took another breath, “And Love Knows It Too & Now So Do You,” long pause, “So There !”

He started into the tune, a pitched battle between his guitar & his mouth harp.

“I hate this guy,” Julian’s brown beard said.

“Me too,” said White Beard. “No facial hair.”

“He’s got good lyrics,” critiqued Black Beard. “But he can’t sing for s**t.”

And so it came to pass that the song was sung, the three Schnoozles arrived, the beards bathed in the frizzled schnoozle as the walls expanded & the night grew in an elongating tunnel vision until the fateful words were heard over the loudspeakers:

“Three Bad Beards ! Next up, are you out there?”

“Yo, that’s US !” Black Beard spit out.

The three scampered to the stage like furry spiders. Everyone turned to look. They had never seen anything like this before, even at the dungeon hole called Palace Hookah.

Brown Beard took the middle stage & set up the boom box with his master’s beat on CD. Black Beard was to his left & White Beard to his right. The lights went down to a soft glow of amber. Someone in the audience said, “Ooooh, that’s nice.”

Julian’s beard pressed the play button. Exactly two seconds later, a thumping bass drum was heard against a syncopated slinky bass line, a snippet of trombone, a blast of bagpipes & handclaps entered the mix. Everyone in the joint now was bopping their heads up & down to the rhythm but the beards stood still & silent.

Suddenly, a tinge of orange light burned the outer edges of the stage as White Beard & Black Beard began to shimmy & sway back & forth. Their motion recalled the hoolah skirts on the hips of dancing Hawaiian girls.

Then the three began their rap in unison:

“Three bad beards on hiatus, we left our masters ‘cuz they hate us, the wayward winds they do inflate us, three bad beards, don’t be scared, we ain’t weird, we just BAD, how bad can three beards be ? You’ll see, then you can rate us !”

Then Lebron’s Black Beard solo: “Yo, m**********r, don’t be a sucker, like Carlson, you know, Tucker…”

Then it was Letterman’s White Beard turn: “Yo, yo, be like my master, swing low that Yo-Yo faster, make it dip & turn, swing it quick til it returns…”

And the three turned around & shook whatever part of themselves that would be their a*s into the microphones, to make a swishing noise. They bounced around again & offered up the returning chorus once again: “Three bad beards on hiatus, we left our masters ‘cuz they hate us, the wayward winds have no sins, they inflate us, don’t be scared, we just three beards…”

The audience was captivated by the strange ghostly sight of facial hair gyrating in pointed angular motions, the lights now bursting into a myriad of blinkered white & black dots flying in every direction, the incessant beat of the song, the rapped verses coming so quickly it was hard to keep up & the chorus returning with all three voices until the final push toward the end.

And what was the end ?

Some say the beards floated up together like three UFOs in a triangle to swirl in a circle, as the music climaxed on a heavenly E chord, triumphant orchestras, pink elephant trunks blaring an orgy of sound, the skittering of clavinet keys, whistles, harmonica rays of cosmic light.

Others recall a low meditative “OM” overcoming all the sound before it as the three beards hovered, stacked like pancakes with a few inches of air in-between & then moved above the heads of the awestruck crowd, totally silent now, to disappear up, up, up, out a half-open skylight in the ceiling.

The Mayor, not one to be believed, swears to this day that the three beards darted out into the audience to scurry up, down & around inside everyone’s clothes, a weird tickling sensation, a soft caressing shiver that made the girls giggle & gasp & the men to say “oh oh oh !” before the beards linked hairs & with a gust of wind were pulled out the open door to the starry mysterious night.

Yes, everyone remembers it differently but all agree on one thing.

It was bad.