Page 5 of Tasty Tentacles

“I’m fine, but…” I say. It’s such an odd request.

“Please, humor me,” he says, so I roll over the chair and plop down, facing him and giving him my full attention. He has some reservations I don’t yet understand.

“Prepare yourself,” he says. “It can be a shock the first time.”

Now it’s becoming clear. He’s shy, or embarrassed, about his condition. I should have guessed—it happens all the time, but usually not to this extent. I’ve seen a lot of unsettling conditions during my days of medical school, internships, and practice, so there shouldn’t be a problem. After all these years, it takes a lot to knock me off my feet.

I put on my friendliest face and say, “I assure you, I’ll be happy to help with whatever is troubling you.”

He peels off his mask to reveal a beautiful ginger beard, shimmering with an ombré of auburn and bright gold, and perfectly groomed, with a full curve and arching handlebars at the mustache. I can’t help it. I give a little sigh, truly wishing Bertie were here to see this.

Then, a miracle happens.

His entire beard unfurls, or unwinds, or extends…my mind struggles to understand, to classify what’s happening, to fit it into the textbook cases I studied in medical school. There’s nothing. This is something entirely new.

I feel my jaw drop and I stare, but luckily, I catch myself after a shameful moment and snap myself out of it. He’s here for help. He’s watching me with a tired look in his eyes, a look that’s entirely my fault. Could I be more unprofessional, sitting here and gawking?

I take the time to examine, critically, as his doctor.

They’re fingers, narrow, boneless fingers. No, they’re tentacles, extending from around his lips and off his chin. Two dozen, maybe more, each covered with that remarkable ginger fur. And mobile, constantly moving.

“Are they something new, or have you always had them?” My mind is racing, trying to understand and trying to formulate a sensible course of examination. They’re strangely beautiful, the way they wave and curl, and in their own unusual way, they’re completely natural, like they’re meant to be there.

“I’ve had them as long as I can remember, so I guess I was born with them. Funny, I never asked my parents about that. Without the beard, of course—that grew in when I was a teenager.”

“Is there any pain, any discomfort?”

“Not in the least, apart from scaring people.”

A wave of shame floods across my face, and I say, “I apologize for my response. That was unprofessional.”

“Not at all,” he says with a wry grin, and the tentacles on either side of his mouth dance into little curlicues. It’s mesmerizing. “I’m used to it. That’s why I asked you to sit. I’ve had people faint on the spot.”

“Thank you,” I say, deeply impressed by his consideration and unable to imagine what his life has been like. But he’s here for a reason, so I bring us back on track. I have so many questions.

“Let’s continue. So, you’re in no pain, and from what I can see, they have extensive motor function.”

“Yes, often too much.”

“All of them?”

“Yes. The ones on my chin are stronger, but they all move.”

“And you have conscious control of them?”

“Yes. Most of the time, but they have a mind of their own if I’m not paying attention.”

“When you came in, you had them tucked under your chin.”

“Yes, I’ve gotten good at that over the years, out of necessity. As you can imagine.”

He tucks them all back under his chin, and the upper lip tentacles rest in the position of a waxed mustache. It’s like magic—in seconds, he transforms himself into a ginger hipster, a quite handsome one at that, certainly not anything that would cause panic. I wonder why he needs the mask, with this level of dexterity. I never would have suspected anything, seeing him like this on the street.

“That must take a lot of control,” I observe.

He gives a small smile and lets them all unfurl again, and my head goes light. It’s beyond belief, and I have to force myself not to stare.

“You could say that. I can usually hold them in for five or ten minutes. Try this. Contract your tongue as small as you can, and touch backward in your throat. It feels like that.”