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Mozhem li my otdelit' tantsora ot tantsa?

_ _

Some very few, very fortunate, souls are born into a real family; the rest of us have to spend a lifetime searching for it, and of those, some very few, very fortunate, actually find it. Only in this way do I count myself lucky. I've had to fight for everything else, sometimes red in tooth and claw, but I was lucky enough to have found a good reason to keep fighting.

In the time before I found my family, I many times found myself in a situation that repeated itself all too often. I called myself "Dear Abby to the western world," although the term dated me horribly. I suppose a slightly more modern version would be "Dr. Phil," except that I never did think much of that old walrus. In simpler terms, I was everyone's shoulder to cry on, in one way or another, and I never had the heart to turn anyone down. When I was in college (which some would claim was sometime before the Age of Enlightenment), I had thought that I'd become a psychologist or, more accurately, a therapist, helping people with their problems. After all, even before college, I'd been the wolf who would always lend an ear to high school angst, even when I was going through it myself. The problem was that I would get too emotionally involved; perhaps due to an overdose of empathy (or what one writer called "an excess of soul"), I always ended up taking on the emotions that they were trying to get rid of. I was less a therapist or advice columnist than I was a sin eater.

There will always be a need for sin eaters, but I could neither charge for the service nor find a good way to let go of whatever sins I'd taken on. It has been that way since Hector was a pup and I his pup-sitter. There have been times when I was convinced that I was at least that old. It made me old before my time, and I still have mixed feelings about it. I hope that I've done some good, or at least have done no harm. Each time that I go through it, I come away wondering if it'll be the last time, not because I would give up risking myself in that way, but because I wasn't sure I'd live through it. I have, so I keep doing it. Perhaps I need my own therapist in all this, but I have never been able to find one who didn't want to change my essential nature, the Me that holds the excess of empathy that makes me a scholar, a writer, a friend in need. When the purpose of therapists became to assassinate what is essential to life, I think I made a better choice to be a sin eater. Ultimately, it was this choice that led me to my family, so I'd have to say that it was the right one.

In those long lost college days, I discovered alcohol; it took a few years before I figured out that the old stories they told about the First Peoples are true, and I've just enough native blood in these old wolf veins to add the physiological dangers to the psychological ones. Booze is a depressant, and I was already depressed enough. It makes it difficult to meet people for dating purposes, because that's the usual venue for gay males, unless one wishes to throw the dice on personals ads. There's very little that's truly "personal" about such ads, as little more than physical statistics are exchanged, and names rarely are; the word "relationship" refers most often to something lasting something less than an hour, if that. I feel that places like glory holes and porn-movie cinemas are more honest. Neither is particularly pleasant nor worth the effort, so I've spent thousands of nights alone.

Someone apparently had a brainstorm, at least in terms of creating a good venue to meet people, whether for friendship or benefits. The space had been a bar at some point, judging from its configuration; it had no doubt been some crowd's local watering hole for a number of years and had fallen on some hard times (rumor had it that overt and covert money owed to official and unofficial licensing personnel had become prohibitive, especially after the original owner had that tragic accident involving his dextral patella). The new owner created an exceptionally well-stocked coffee bar without changing much in the way of furniture and fixtures. So it was that mine became a well-known muzzle at a place where darts alleys, a few classic pachinko machines, and a good number of chess, backgammon, and Pente boards were available for those who would no doubt stay sober enough to utilize them properly and safely.

A perfect round of cricket would take only seven sets of three volleys each, or 21 shots. My best game (from some years back) was to accomplish it in 58 volleys, which meant that slightly better than one dart in three hit its intended target. There was a time when I was happy if one in three darts actually hit the board. To misuse the word as so many do these days, there's a certain "Zen" that can be accomplished by shooting darts. Narrowing the focus to the feel of the dart in my forepaw, sensing my arm muscles in preparing the shot, releasing the bolt cleanly, reducing the world to the focus of a single, simple, immediate goal... it lets other things drift away for a while.

"You're a poet."

"No," I softly corrected the big liger. "A writer."

"Distinction noted," he smiled softly. We had taken a break between games to enjoy another joyously non-alcoholic libation. "At the risk of a cliché used in another sort of establishment, do you come here often?"

I too smiled at the comment, trying not to read too much into the statement. "When insomnia and writer's block occur at the same time, I find myself here in the wee hours; otherwise, you might find me here some morning or afternoon with a cuppa joe and my tablet, looking over a manuscript. Yourself?"

"A little quiet time is all. Perhaps an ear to bend, or one to lend. It goes with my territory."

"Which is?"

"Bartender." He glanced around our home-from and sighed contentedly. "Sometimes, I wish I'd thought of this idea first. T'other paw, I'm glad I didn't, if only so that I have somewhere to go on my occasional after-work wind-downs. I meet interesting people, like yourself. Coffee, conversation, cricket. Nice way to relax."

That was how I met Phil Cooper. The solidly-built liger is a dozen years younger than I, strong enough to be bouncer as well as bar-back. From his sire, a short, chocolate-hued mane that framed a face that no doubt favored him strongly; all across his arms, legs, back, a complex of pewter, powder-like stripes over his orange-tawny fur, showing his dam's genetic influence. I let my loneliness show its heels to my manners only the once; he gently mentioned his lioness mate of some fifteen years, and that although their marriage could encompass the occasional pleasure-soaked dalliance with someone outside the bond, he didn't really have much interest in males anyway. He was good about it, and he was genuinely concerned over my feelings. It took more than just that one night for me to get over it; it wasn't truly a rejection, but it felt like it, as it always does. In this case, however, a little mutual persistence led to our becoming friends, and at some point in our conversations, it led to discussions that I wasn't even really aware of until Abram joined us at the café one night.

Phil introduced the fox to me on one of those nights when sleep eluded me with blunt but effective skill, and my muse was being a singularly insincere coquette. I had ordered my hot chocolate with salted caramel, hoping that an old and familiar flavor might help to relax my heart and my mind. As I should have anticipated, it also brought back old memories and loneliness that I hoped I was keeping from my company. It wasn't easy, as the vulpine was painfully beautiful to my eyes, and old needs and desires ached and churned within me. I had to work hard to be on my best behavior.

"I love to read," Abram said, a playful smile on his lips. The fox looked to be in his mid-twenties or so, a strong and vibrant fellow whose amber eyes could captivate swiftly. "I suppose you're often asked where you get your stories from."

I chuckled good-naturedly. "Often. And to answer the question, my characters usually come to me, asking for their story to be told."

"An interesting change. Usually, it's blamed on a muse."

"Separate things." I considered my hot chocolate, wondered about a refill. "The muse sings to stir the heart and move the forepaws to write; the characters must tell whatever it is that they need others to hear."

"Does one tend to win over another?"

"More like, they are supposed to happen at the same time, and sometimes, they don't dance well together."

The fox's smile softened into something I chose to read as sympathy. "Tough way to make a living."

"Only way I know." I looked again into those amazing eyes. "What moves your spirit, Abram?"

"I'm a dancer. Among other things."

"Servo is one of our stars," Phil offered. In response to my furrowed brows, he explained. "His signature dance is of an automaton, beginning the routine moving like a machine, then slowly breaking into his full physical eloquence."

"More tips, more fluidity." The fox's eyes seemed to assess me. I knew that Phil's establishment, called The Menagerie, was not just a bar but a strip club. The idea didn't faze me. "Would you like to see me dance?"

"Not my usual line of country, but you in particular... yes, I think I'd enjoy that. What music do you use?"

"Probably something you've never heard before. The group is called Kraftwerk."

I raised an eyebrow. "I grew up with Kraftwerk. Let me guess the song: 'The Robots,' perhaps?"

Abram -- or perhaps Servo -- canted his head and nodded with appreciation. "Exactly so. It segues into 'Let's All Chant'."

"I know that one from the film_Eyes of Laura Mars._"

The vulpine grinned at Phil. "I like him. He knows my references."

"The curse and privilege of being old," I chuckled. Draining my cocoa mug, I tried to deny the sharply angular twinge in my chest. I knew what was coming next, and I'd talked myself into it.

"Would you come see me dance?"

"Yes." I felt myself blushing. "I don't know that I'll do so well with the crowd."

"The particular crowd, or crowds in general?"

"The latter. I hope I'm not so badly prejudiced as to assume the former." My ears went back before I could stop them, and my muzzle worked in spite of me. "Writers need their solitude, although I'm not sure if the solitude happened before or after."

"Or because of?" the fox asked softly.

"Perhaps." I looked into my mug, but cocoa grounds are not tea leaves. "Perhaps."

Phil looked to Abram, who nodded once. The liger turned back to me. "Awake enough for a private show?"

* * * * * * * * * *

The café was in what might be called a "respectable" part of town; the parking lot was well-lit, mostly empty at this time of night, so I left my van there and rode with Phil and Abram back to The Menagerie. They managed a balance between silence and awkward chatter, the fox asking some more questions about me, fascinated by my mentioning that I've read Tarot for fully two thirds of my overlong life. He asked if I would read for him one day, and I mentioned that vulpines were difficult to read, but that I would try. He 'llowed as how that was all any of us could do.

We drove around to the back side of the huge structure, and the liger pulled into a spot marked by a sign reading RESERVED 1. There were eleven other slots, most of them filled. I knew that they weren't customers; as he had told me over our sessions of talking, several of Phil's employees were considered to be more like family, and they had rooms there. There were also other rooms for other activities, discreet and private affairs the likes of which even I had known about in another lifetime, a world away. I wasn't in a situation to afford such luxuries these days, so I would not likely to be numbered among their clientele.

"I'm going to go get changed," the fox said, climbing from the car. As I exited from the rear seat, Abram turned to me and offered his forepaw gently. "Thank you, Tristan."

I fought back the blush again, giving his paw a squeeze. "I don't have much to tip with."

"Not necessary." Abram's eyes held a message I couldn't quite read. "This one's for you."

"Come on into the bar, Tristan," Phil called. "We'll get you the best seat in the house."

Entering a bar from the back is an interesting experience, and I don't mean by that any Freudian connotations. Any entertainment establishment, from restaurants to strip clubs, is a theater -- it's meant to be seen from the front entrance, with all of the glitz, polish, and perfection in view. From the back, you see all the hard work and elbow grease that goes into making something look easy. Everything in Phil's place was well-kept, organized, and quite clean, but it wasn't the façade that most customers get to see. Stories, I reflected, are much like that. Perhaps real families are, too.

Inside, I saw that the place had been put to rights after last call -- inverted chairs on tables, evidence of a sweep and a mop, towels on the taps at the bar. I felt faintly guilty setting paws on such pristine floors. Phil led me to a table perhaps ten meters from the stage and took down a chair. "The punters like to get as close as possible, in hope of stuffing a thong or two, Abram's or otherwise. From this distance, you don't have to break your neck looking up at the stage." He smiled at me. "You're here for the aesthetic. I know Abram appreciates it; not many who come to see him are actually looking at him."

I nodded slowly, seeing the point.

"I'm going to set up the lights and music. We can keep it down a little, since there won't be a screaming crowd to fight with; be easier on your ears. I'll go see if my lioness is still awake, or if anyone else is. If they hear the music, they might want to see what's going on, and I thought you might care for a little privacy in your viewing." He paused, looking at me carefully. "Tristan, for what it's worth, I'd like for you to meet my family here, when you're ready to. That's for later. Tonight, it's about Abram. And it's about you."

He turned silently and padded toward the back of the establishment as I took a seat and continued looking around. Just past the bar, at one side, a sign indicating the restrooms; at the other side, a dark green door with a sign reading ESCORTED ONLY. The bar itself was three-sided, a shorter end toward the stage, perhaps to discourage the screaming hordes from disturbing those who wanted to drink just a little more quietly. With a show going on, those gathering their courage along the bar would not be observed making their way to the green door. Just because everyone knew what went on, that was no reason for everyone to know with whom.

The space above the bar was close, allowing adequate reach for various types of glasses and necessary accoutrements. Above the tables, the ceiling was a good ten or a dozen meters high, to make room for lights and rigging, sound systems, a large and complex series of ceiling fans, and back in the bad old days, a place for all the cigar and cigarette smoke to go. Happily, there was none of that here. On a busy night, I wouldn't doubt for a moment that the scent of booze, sweat, and a wide variety of musk and pheromones would fill the air. Another reason I don't care for the crowds; it's like smelling a smorgasbord from which I could sample nothing.

After a few minutes, Phil came from backstage carrying something under his arm that I thought at first must have been some sort of mannequin duplicate of Abram. It was indeed the fox, ramrod stiff, held parallel to the ground without a single movement to give him away. The liger is very near a full two meters tall, powerfully built. It was as nothing to him simply to take the 165cm fox and stand him on his hindpaws as if posing a department store dummy. When he did so, Abram swayed stiffly as Phil steadied him, then bent to shift the fox's legs, came up to pose the arms, all while the vulpine gave absolutely no external hint of being a living thing. The liger surveyed his work, nodded, and stepped off the stage, and the fox did not seem even to take a breath.

Some seconds later, the stage lights dimmed, resolving into two crossed wide-beam spots on the still-motionless fox. I heard the opening tones of Kraftwerk's "The Robots," and after the initial few bars, the main theme started up, and so did Abram. His movements were astonishingly mechanical, truly robotic without being so jerky as to be foolish-looking. I understood the sobriquet of Servo at that point, as I could almost swear that I heard the soft whine of rotary and linear activators. The facial expression changed only between completely neutral and full-on grin, as if the muzzle were the only thing to have controls created for it, and only for one of those two expressions; those amazing amber eyes didn't blink once. Even that beautiful, full tail was kept in only one of three positions -- down, partly up, and sharply up -- and each time it was lowered, the effect was of watching something on a hydraulic piston falling because the air had been let out of the chamber, completely independent of other actions.

The performance was largely dancing, moving as a robotic doll, but it also included a slow strip tease. The fox had begun fully dressed in what appeared to be khaki cargo pants, billowing white shirt, maroon vest, a sand-colored cloth headband with tassels flowing down his back, and some thin golden bracelets and anklets above bare fore- and hindpaws. The first thing to go was the bottom half of the cargo pants, which turned out to be well-fitted Velcro attachments, with each half-leg being removed in an acrobatic maneuver that would have made an otter sore. When those two pieces had gone, Abram began moving his legs more smoothly, although the rest of him still seemed quite robotic. The vest was next, and the upper body grew smoother in its movement. The cargo pants departed entirely to reveal something like modest swim shorts; the shirt sleeves disappeared one at a time. Slowly, more and more of the vulpine was revealed, and his body became more supple and expressive. Ultimately, he was down to nothing but the headband, the bracelets and anklets, and a thong that covered everything and concealed nothing. At that point, every aspect of him from tip to tail became a fluid, full-movement, stage-traversing, expressive dance to the exuberant voices and paw-stomping rhythms of "Let's All Chant."

The full routine was at least eight minutes, every bit of it an exercise (literally) in the finest physical control I'd ever seen. The cutting-together of the music allowed a final voices-only singing of "Let's all chant!", at which point Abram had flung himself to one knee, arms upraised, forepaws open as if embracing the entire club. I leapt to my hindpaws, applauding and making cries of "Bravo!" for as fine a performance as I'd ever seen even on the ballet stage. There was no question that it was erotic as all hell, but it was also a brilliant presentation of the dancer's art. I began to feel myself no less winded than the dancer himself, who hopped happily off the end of the stage to run up and hug me close. I took him into my arms, holding him tightly, forgetting all the reasons why I shouldn't. The fox was so warm, his fur damp with sweat, his laughter, his thanks, his scent, enveloping me as surely as his arms, the flats of his forepaws against my back, the faint tingling in my mind, my heart...

Before I could react to this discovery, I felt Abram slip gently out of my embrace and into the terrycloth robe that Phil had brought to him. Liger and fox smiled at me, Abram still thanking me for my enthusiastic reception. I can remember making the appropriate noises, and I meant them, but they were what was on the surface; I've had years of practice at covering up my deeper feelings, going into a kind of "performance mode" so that I can seem normal to everyone else until I can work up a good excuse to leave, to return home, to shed the fear and simply live in the pain until it passes. A sin eater's belly is always full.

I began the gambit with the "I should probably get back" noises and the "we all must need sleep" comments. I started to think that perhaps I should have driven myself here, to save the fuss and inconvenience. Having my van with me would have given me a better means of escape.

Abram placed a tender paw to my arm, looked into my eyes. "I'm always wound up after a dance. Would you spend a little time with me? I can drive you back when you're ready."

Perhaps courtesy, perhaps the strange aching in my gut, perhaps the moon was in Milpitas and Orion was stone drunk again. "Of course," my smiling lips pushed out, my eyes trying hard to push back the hurt.

Stepping up to hug me, Phil bade me a good night. "Thank you," he said softly into my upraised ear. "It means a lot to both of us."

He released me, turned to give Abram a kiss atop his head, then moved off to leave me with the fox. For lack of anything more genuine to do, I kept smiling as I watched the big liger moved off to the green door and beyond it. When my eyes turned back to the fox, I felt that tug at my innards again, that mixture of fear and desperate need that I have spent decades trying to bury for fear of releasing all those sins, not the least of them my own.

"Tristan." The fox seemed to taste my name. "That was one of the very few times that I've performed for an audience that wasn't trying to paw at me to leave tips in my clothing."

"It was amazing." Ice shards in my chest, emotions shattering within me. "Thank you."

"Thank you for being such a wonderful audience." His tail, comfortably free below the slit in the back of the robe, moved slowly in the light from the stage. "I'm not sure if what I do could be called 'art', but I try. As you said, it's a tough way to make a living, but it's the only way I know."

"I can empathize with that."

"Yes. Yes, you can." The fox looked at me with something that bordered upon sadness, then extended his forepaw. "Come with me to my rooms, would you? I'd like to talk for a bit."

I took the vulpine's forepaw before I really knew what I was doing, and he led me back through the maze of clean tables and upturned chairs to the green door. There, he paused long enough to put a finger to his softly smiling lips, and I nodded my understanding. We entered a wide hallway, the walls a restful sand color with flat-framed posters artfully hung at intervals between doors. Some were for concerts by performers and bands from my generation -- The Moody Blues, Rush, Gentle Giant, Neil Diamond, Gordon Lightfoot, Dusty Springfield -- and others were reproductions of works by Van Gogh, Munch, Mondrian, and several others. There were no odors beyond a faint wisp of eucalyptus and spearmint scent, and the entire space was clean and orderly, with a good pile carpet underpaw. It was not what I had expected for what I knew had to be the rooms for the brothel portion of the business.

Abram led me to a door marked PRIVATE and guarded by a keypad lock. He entered a five digit number, and I heard the lock release. He waved me inside, ensuring that the door was closed firmly before we continued. The vestibule wasn't large, with a door on the right leading outside, a narrower hallway to the left leading further back into the downstairs space, and a staircase against the right wall. The fox led me up, looking back at me once with that same soft smile on his muzzle. At the upstairs landing, I followed him down a hallway no less presentable than that of the one downstairs, yet somehow more personal. Some sections of wall had what appeared to be artworks in progress, mural paintings by the same artist's paw, each works in progress. Elsewhere were posters for classic films, also flat-framed, protecting what look like original one-sheets for easily identifiable classics of cinema. Each door had been made individual by stickers, drawings, and a name or names of the occupants, while those downstairs had simply the name of a city to identify it. Clients no doubt requested travel arrangements for a "vacation" and were told which city they would be visiting. Here, all was warmer, closer, more personal.

The fox opened a door at the far end and invited me in. The door itself was modestly adorned, as was the interior. The living room was large, in good order, with a door leading to a bedroom, perhaps a bath beyond; I noted bookcases, an area where a desk stood with a computer and printer, and a space with something less than a kitchenette but more than a mere hotel room convenience. The door closed behind me, and Abram noticed my glance.

"We usually take our meals in the big kitchen downstairs. If someone is sick, or just doesn't feel like socializing, there are basic conveniences. In fact, if someone really is ill, we have an old-fashioned dumb waiter to haul up food on a tray."

"You take care of each other."

"Plal." I heard only the sound, not really identifying it as a word at the time. I looked at him, and he waved me to the sofa. "Please, sit."

I did so, a little stiffly. "How are you feeling?" I asked, just as if it made sense.

"More relaxed each moment." He paused, still standing. "Tristan, I wanted to ask you something personal, if you don't mind."

"I'm an open book." I smiled, hoping that my eyes would join in.

Gently, the fox shook his head. "Not really. Most would believe that, but..." His smile returned, still carefully muted. "Would you say there is a theme to my dance?"

I considered, more nervous than before. "In Offenbach's opera_The Tales of Hoffman,_ one of the tales is of the protagonist being offered the perfect female love interest. She is an automaton, but when Hoffman wears special glasses, she appears to move perfectly, like a real furson. Ultimately, he loses the glasses, and she is broken, and his love is shattered.

"Your dance is different. Instead of an automaton becoming real only through illusion, it's more like the real fox stepping out of the guise of the machine. It's like taking off layers of disguise. Taking off masks."

Abram nodded slowly. "Few see that. For them, it's a gimmick, perhaps more clever than some, or perhaps better performed, but still merely a gimmick. You see beyond that."

"Because you wanted me to." The words escaped before I could stop them.

His smile became a little wider. "I wanted you to see, yes, but you are exhausted from the need for illusion, or perhaps from the need of others to hide themselves from you even more than you feel you must hide from them."

The fox padded closer to me, his body moving fluidly, a forepaw reaching out slowly to cup my cheek with great tenderness. He scent became stronger in my nostrils, and something touched my mind with warmth and curiosity, something that was almost a whisper save that it did come to me through my ears. My heart thudded heavily in my chest as I sat, unmoving, not wanting to misread the vulpine's intentions. His robe was still closed; only the creamy white fur below his chin, spilling down into the v-shape of the fabric's opening, and the warm brick red of his facial fur was visible to me. His forepaws above and hindpaws below showed burnt umber to me, his claws black, and his full, lavish tail, swaying slowly behind him in a hypnotic wag, combined the dark colors all the way down to the cream tip at the end.

"I want you to feel that you need not hide from me, Tristan, that you need no masks with me. To do that, I must release the last of my masks before you."

As I watched, Abram's tail shifted, shook, and before my eyes, his tail became three...

...to be continued