THE NEW BEAR, by David Rutschman
The new bear asks a question and the old bear considers. He sighs, finally, exhales his cigarette smoke.
“The tutu. Yeah.” He scratches the side of his face thoughtfully.
“Comfortable it isn’t, I gotta tell you. But what are you gonna do? My pal Frank tried that King of the Animal World stuff a few years back and let’s just say it didn’t go over too well. Let’s just leave it at that, if you know what I mean.”
The new bear is swinging his large head back and forth. His mouth hangs slightly open. The old bear glances at him, continues.
“You have to make the best of it, that’s where I’m coming from. The accommodations are all right, three meals a day. Shop around. It’s not a bad deal. It could be a zoo for Christ’s sake. Have you seen those cages? No privacy. Here you got afternoons off. Free and clear. Except on matinee days, of course. But otherwise yeah. Every afternoon. That’s something to take into consideration at least. To have in mind.”
He pauses again, then leans back and crosses one hairy leg over the other. He looks up at the ceiling and closes his eyes.
“It itches.” Another drag on his cigarette.
“I’ll be completely up front with you, the tutu itches. It’s going to rub your fur, and it’s going to itch. There it is. But again, let’s try to put things into perspective. What’s a little itching? It’s not the end of the world, am I right?”
The new bear mumbles something.
“Speak up, pal,” the old bear says. He rocks forward, uncrosses his legs, and stubs the cigarette out in the ashtray. He looks around the cage. “Right out of the woods, some of them.”
“I said, I don’t know how to dance,” the new bear mumbles again. He’s shaggy, huge, maybe two or three years old.
The old bear roars. “Don’t know how to . . . ? Oh, that’s rich.” He snorts. “I wish Frank could’ve heard that one. Doesn’t know how to dance. Oh, kid, that’s priceless. Where did they find you?”
He shakes his head. “Of course you don’t know how to dance.” He looks around again, stage whispers, “You’re a bear.”
Sitting back again, chuckling, he fumbles for the pack, lights up. “None of us know how to dance when we get here, kid. That’s why it’s funny. That’s the whole damn point. Otherwise . . . ” He waves his cigarette in the air expansively; smoke trails upward. “Otherwise, it wouldn’t make any sense, am I right?”
The new bear swings his head again. It lurches on the end of his neck like a wrecking ball.
“You’ll pick it up, though.” The old bear nods, lips pursed. “You’re lucky you talked to me, kid. Some of these other guys . . . ” He trails off. “Well, they just don’t understand teaching, if you see what I mean. But me, I’ll show you a few of the basics and you’ll be in good shape. Nothing to worry about there.” The new bear hesitates, but the old bear waves his paw, insisting, and gets out of his recliner with a grunt. He takes a last drag of his cigarette, crushes it out. He leans slowly from one side, then to the other, stretching his back.
The two bears stand facing each other. The old bear is smaller, with shorter fur. He’s got a belly. “Paws here.” The old bear places the new bear’s paw on his hip. “Okay. I’ll let you lead on this one. Just keep the count going, one two three, one two three . . . ” He puts a foot forward, backwards, guides the new bear through the steps. They stride, turn clumsily, come back around again.
“That’s it, kid, you’re getting it.” The old bear’s a little out of breath, but he doesn’t stop, forward and backwards, the two of them, turning, turning, one two three, one two three.
Some of the other bears have gathered to watch. “He’s pretty good,” someone calls out, and someone else whistles. The old bear pays no attention.
The new bear is concentrating, tongue sticking from the side of his mouth, but he’s getting the hang of it, one two three, one two three, to an end of the cage and back, the two of them, dancing, picking up speed, moving smoothly now, in step, one two three, the whole cage watching, the whole cage starting to clap. Step, turn, glide, step back, and the old bear throws in a little shake of the hips like the old days, a little show-off wiggle for the crowd and when he comes back in the new bear’s right there with him, right in time, just like Frank would’ve been. Oh, it’s been so long. There’s something in the old bear’s throat. They move together through another turn, bodies in motion, in rhythm, step step, just right, and the old bear tries a spin, what the hell, and they nail it, just the way it’s supposed to go, come back, step again, turn . . . the old bear whispers, “Dip me.” And the new bear does.
David Rutschman’s stories have appeared in Forklift, Hanging Loose, and The Southeast Review.