by Paul Navarrete

 

My name is Jeff Pepperidge and I have a great beard. It’s not gelled or waxed or twirled or curled. I leave that shit to those old guys who wear Civil War uniforms. Mine’s just full, in fact that’s the category I’m in, “full beard natural.” There’s nothing else to call it, I guess. It’s just thick and covers most of my face, and I trim it, it doesn’t go down to my belly or anything, it stops at the bottom of my neck. It’s classic.

            They call it a “Casey Eaton” because I’m only eighteen. That’s what they call unusually thick beards in young people. So that’s my Team U.S.A. nickname in the World Beard and Moustache Championships. Casey Eaton. We don’t all have nicknames; there’s Governor, he has, like, a fucking French Fork except with four forks instead of two, and Worf, he’s really odd, he has a Klingon beard, which is where you shave the middle of your mustache and leave the ends. But then there’s some normal guys too, like D.J., he just has really cool friendly mutton chops, and this guy Michael has a really solid neckbeard.

            But Team U.S.A. doesn’t win that many awards, it’s these German guys. There are one hundred and forty-six of them. Most of them have the curly mustache thing going, the handlebars. They’re really nice and enthusiastic, the Germans, and the Austrians, and all those guys. This dude from France has, like, a regular goatee with a really long point, and he did all this intricate cutting and waxing and stuff to make the point look like the Eiffel Tower. So all the other guys with goatees are kind of fucked.

            The 2008 World Beard and Mustache Championships are being held in Berkeley, California at the Hotel Durant. It’s a bigger deal than you might think; we’ve got the whole hotel to ourselves, and it’s the nicest one in Berkeley. And there are signs up all over Telegraph Avenue, so people just walk up a block and stroll in and check out our beards. Team U.S.A. is on the top floor, and since there aren’t that many of us, we’re sleeping two to a room. My roommate is this Hawaiian guy, Maleko, whose nickname is King David. He gave me this long explanation about how his beard is called a hulihe’e, and it was worn by King David Something of Hawaii. It basically looks like friendly mutton chops, which are mutton chops connected by a mustache, except he looks really silly. Anyway, he’s a nice guy, he’s really gung-ho about team U.S.A. and us winning the most first-place awards. I think he’s kind of pissed that they put him in the mutton chop category.

           

“Casey Eaton. Good beard, Casey.”

            “My name’s Jeff.”

            I’m sitting at the team U.S.A. table. We have to sit at our tables for a couple hours every day while the public comes in and out, looking at our beards. We sit across from the Chinese table, and they all have Fu Manchus, every single one of them. They’re always glaring at us.

            Of course there’s a huge crowd over at the Team France table, because of that guy with the Eiffel Tower goatee, and everyone’s pretty jealous, except for the Germans who are so fucking good-natured.

            “That guy is pretty popular,” says Maleko.

            “Yeah. Well, it’s no ordinary goatee.”

“They shouldn’t allow that. I mean that should be like a separate category, art beards, or something. But just think of all those guys with pretty good goatees who are getting completely ignored.”

            “OK.” OK.

            “It’s not fair.”

           

            On Friday morning of the Championship, Maleko and I shower, comb, trim, and head down for the buffet breakfast. We’re eating our bacon and pineapple and scrambled eggs when it happens. The Eiffel Tower guy comes running into the banquet room, only it takes everyone a second to recognize him. The Tower is gone. He just has an ordinary goatee, not even a true goatee, a circle beard. He looks like a baseball player or someone’s lame dad or something. And he starts shouting in French, and the Championship Director who knows every language calls for silence and makes an announcement: “Archie’s beard has gone missing. He woke up this morning and the Tower was gone. He does not suspect his roommate. Anybody who has any information about this needs to talk to me immediately. There was also a note left beside Archie’s bed, which I will pass around. Enjoy your breakfast.”

            The crowd goes into an uproar, all the French and good-natured Germans trying to console Archie, all of us dumbfounded, some goateed faces smirking. I had almost forgotten about the note by the time it reaches us, worn thin and soft, written in blue ink on a plain white piece of paper, in cursive:

The Eiffel Tower has fallen. Next: a Billingsley!

WEIRDBEARD

            “Who’s Weirdbeard?” I ask Maleko.

            He looks through the program and finds that no contestants have listed “Weirdbeard” as a nickname.

            “What’s a Billingsley?”

            Maleko has no idea, so we ask Governor.

            “A Billingsley is a Bushranger beard which is singed by flame or chemicals.”

            Everybody looks over at the Australians, most of whom sport Bushrangers. They look nervous.

            “Somebody in this room is Weirdbeard,” says Governor, “and I think the Team U.S.A. should take it upon ourselves to find out whom.”

            He winks.

 

            We decided to stay after everybody had finished dinner to start the investigation. It’s me, Maleko, Governor, and Worf. We weren’t sure about Worf. He really plays up the Klingon thing, so it’s hard to get to know him. But we got him to tell us that his real name’s Ira and he’s from Cleveland, so I guess everyone’s a little more comfortable around him. Governor’s the real sleuth, he brought some notes that he made about various contestants. Maleko seems pretty excited about the whole situation; he thinks some of our American goatees have a pretty good chance now. And I have nothing better to do, so I figured I might as well help out.

            “So I think the first group we have to look at is the goatees,” says Governor.

            “Yeah, they were really being cheated. Didn’t I say that Eiffel Tower guy should be in a different category? I did, remember, Casey? I said that yesterday.”

            “My name’s Jeff.”

            “Well, yes. Let’s look over the profiles of some of these goatees. I don’t particularly suspect the Frenchmen; they’re Archie’s teammates, and country comes first. I don’t suppose it was an American; let’s not look into that, anyway. So I’ve jotted down some notes on three goatees: First we have Georg Van Helsing of Germany, who seems grumpy for a German, and very proud of his goatee. His whiskers are a foot long on either side, and his point goes down to his ribs. I would say he had a great chance of winning “best goatee” until this fellow Archie came along. Then we have Ricky T. of Argentina. There are only three Argentines, so he might be trying to gain a reputation for his country. Furthermore, he’s designed his goatee to look like an anchor, very much like Archie’s Tower idea, but it hasn’t received much attention. So I think the motive there is obvious.”

            “Remember that the note was written in English,” says Maleko.

            “Yes, it was. I’m not sure that necessarily means it was an American or Englishman, and certainly not an Australian, poor devils. But my third suspect does happen to be a Brit. His name is Terry Elliott, and he’s got an Imperial, a great bushy one, a tremendous one. An excellent beard. Really, I like it a lot. But there’s something funny about him, and I noticed he wasn’t at breakfast this morning. And, as you pointed out, Maleko, the note was written in English.”

            Maleko beams.

            “Now, I’ve come up with a little plan. Three of us will keep an eye on our suspects tonight, and of us will watch the Australians’ rooms. Remember, the Bushranger beards are the ones at risk for a Billingsley. Maleko, who will you take? ”

            “I’ve got a hunch about this Ricky T. character.”

            “Jeff?”

            “The Australians?” It seems like the easiest.

            “Great. I’m going to have a look at Terry Elliott. I guess that leaves you with Van Helsing, Ira.”

            “I’m going by Worf right now.”

 

            We talk over the plan a little more while we wait for everybody to go to bed.

            “Remember that whoever Weirdbeard is, he will be spiteful and possibly armed with a flamethrower,” says Maleko.

            “What are you talking about?” says Worf.

            “A Billingsley: a Bushranger beard singed by flame.”

            “No way. He’s going to have chemicals. Acids that could eat through cowhide. Or a concoction he’s come up with himself, something homemade. Isn’t the German guy a chemist? Watch out, Governor.”

            “I will. And so should we all, although I don’t think you’ll have much trouble with the Australians, Jeff. It’s for the best, you’re very young, a Casey Eaton if I ever saw one. Team U.S.A. would hate to lose you.”

            “Thanks.”

            This is all very strange.

 

            At one o’clock we take the elevator up to the rooms. Maleko is nervous and talkative, psyching himself up. Governor is serious, solemn. Worf is muttering under his breath in Klingon. Classic Worf.

            I think I’m being pretty much normal.

            One by one we get off the elevator, Worf first, then Maleko, and finally Governor, until it’s just me. Maybe I should just take the elevator all the way, get in bed, forget this whole thing. But Governor and Maleko are so fucking earnest, and Worf too, I guess. I wouldn’t want to let them down, they’re my team. My beard team. What the hell.

            So I get off at the tenth floor, the second highest one, where the Australians are. All four Bushrangers are sharing a suite at the end of the hall. I figure I’ll just sit outside their room for a couple hours, and then go upstairs and try to get some sleep. After all, tomorrow the judges are coming. Tomorrow is the day that all the careful trimming and inspecting will pay off. Tomorrow I will win “best full beard natural,” of course I will, my shit shreds, oh my god have you seen my beard. In a couple hours I’ll go back upstairs and Maleko will be snoozing away already in his bed and tomorrow we’ll laugh about this, so I’ll just sit here for a couple hours.

            I am asleep.

           

            “Jeff. Jeff. Jeff. Jeff.”

            I am still on the Australian floor. Literally.

            “What time is it, Maleko?”

            “It’s nine. They came to breakfast, Jeff, the Australians! And two of them had destroyed beards, Jeff, really bad, singed all over. One of them actually had some burns on his face! The other two just had the same old Bushrangers. And the Championship Director is starting a new category, Billingsley Beards! Because he feels bad for them. None of our guys did it; we watched their rooms all night. Did anyone go in their room during the night, Jeff?”

            “I don’t think so. I mean, I fell asleep, but I would have woken up. I think.”

            My hands instinctively grope for my beard, making sure it’s still intact. It feels better than ever, coarse but not too rough, spongy, not nappy, and I remember that it will be judged today, praised today. Awarded today.

            The elevator doors upon and Governor and Worf step out. Governor’s French Forks are a little curled at the ends, a last minute touch. His beard looks sort of like a blooming flower.

            “What news, Jeff?” asks Governor.

            “He fell asleep. He doesn’t think anybody went in.”

            “Well, let’s have a look, shall we?”

            Governor tries the door, but it’s locked. He knocks lightly.

            “They’re all down at breakfast,” says Maleko.

            “Just making sure.”

            Governor pulls out a pair of scissors. He sticks the blades between the door and frame, and uses a cutting motion to secure the lock between the two blades. Then, all in one motion, he jams the lock into the door, pushes, and tumbles into the room.

            “Old hotel,” says Governor. “Old locks.”

            We follow him in, and immediately we smell it. Burnt hair, burnt skin. There is no question the Bushrangers were burned here last night. I feel a bit ashamed to have fallen asleep.

            The four of us poke around a little bit, looking for clues, I guess. We don’t find a note, but there are matches strewn all over the place, and a bottle of some pale blue chemical sitting on the desk.

            “Why,” says Maleko, “would you leave your weapons in the room? Surely they knew somebody would search it?”

            The Worf said: “Um…”

            He holds up four straws, long red ones that would come in a milkshake. Two of them are cut to about four-fifths the length of the other two.

            “I think I see what’s going on here.”

            We all turn to face Governor, who stands by the window, absently twirling the ends of his French Forks.

            “Who would want to bring Billingsley Beards into the competition? Of course: the only contestants who have them.”

            I notice a twinkle in Maleko’s eye.

            “And what’s the best way to make a planned crime seem spontaneous? Add it to another one, unrelated. The Eiffel Tower destruction was a diversion.”

            Governor takes the straws from Worf.

            “They drew straws; whoever got the short ones would be a Billingsley, whoever got the long ones would remain a Bushranger. Two out of the four will bring medals back to Australia, in addition to any other Aussies who win something. This could really put Australia on the map as a beard powerhouse!”

            “Governor,” I ask, “Are you saying the Australians did this just to trick the Championship Director into creating a separate category for Billingsley Beards?”

            “That’s exactly what I’m saying, Casey.”

            “His name is Jeff,” says Worf.

 

            The Australians were stripped of all medals, including Bushranger, Billingsley, and Van Dyke. Team U.S.A. was given a special prize for our discovery, which Governor and Maleko accepted ecstatically. Maleko reminded everyone that he knew it must have been either an Englishman or an Aussie because the first note was written in English. The assembled crowd clapped for us, but I don’t think they really understood what had happened.

            Governor won “Best French Fork;” a Japanese guy with eight forks came in second; his nickname was Spyderbeerd. Maleko won “Most Original Mutton Chops” and told anyone who would listen about the origins of his hulihe’e. Worf won “best Klingon beard” ahead of three other Klingons, all from Albania. Those guys were even weirder then Worf. They didn’t even know English.

            My beard, my beloved bush, my dark smoky shock, the picture of hirsuteness, won no prize. “Full beard natural” had three hundred and four contestants, and a good-natured German guy won. He had never trimmed his beard; it flowed to his knees, white, withered, wimpy. My only victory was “Team U.S.A.: Most Outstanding Encompassment of World Beard and Moustache Championship Aesthetic.”

            Weird.