[story] a shaggy dog story
author: M% (37_percent)
Hello, my name is Polly and I'm three years into transition. I work in an organic bakery two streets down from my flat and volunteer at a local library. I'm not much of a sports person, I prefer to stay indoors and read a book or watch the rain through the window. That's not very impressive, I know, but... Well, I worked hard to get to this point, so I should get to appreciate the little things, right?
What? That sounded too rehearsed for you? Too much like a formal introduction? Yes, you're probably right. But that's how things at AA work. And before you ask, no, it's not the AA you know, otherwise I wouldn't be out at a bar and talking to you instead of ordering drink after drink... All right, that was cruel, sorry.
Back to the point, before I talk you through AA, my kind of AA, and the story I actually intended to tell you, an explanation of transitioners would be in order. This is the boring part of the story, but it's rather important, so sit back and try not to fall asleep? I promise I'll be as brief as possible. Cross my heart.
First of all, transitioning is not a new idea. It originated ages ago somewhere in Asia... Or at least that's where our earliest records come from. Secondly, believe it or not, but you probably heard of some transitioners without ever realizing it. Talks of raised-by-wolves children, women giving birth to a litter of cats, werewolves and shape-shifters... Half the world's lore comes from our smaller and bigger slip-ups. Fact is, if the transition is supervised and done in a controlled manner, you can barely tell a difference... Unless you have kids, that is, which can go from hilarious and confusing to dramatically wrong fairly quickly. That's why the Hauser Act was introduced somewhere around the late nineteenth century - just a fun fact there, nothing you need to remember. And before you arrive at completely wrong conclusions: No, I'm not saying every man in the bar who eats like a pig and every girl with a horse face that you blind dated or those kids with buck teeth are transitioners. But some of them? Yes. Although you shouldn't really be on the lookout for snake or fish transitioners, I never heard of any of those... Must be the whole legs and hands deal. Pretty confusing even if you had the right number of limbs originally.
Me? A quail. And I did have a hard time adjusting to my new "wings", believe me. Also, it's a bit rude to ask these things, just for future reference.
Anyway. With the expansion of human settlements the rate of transitioners in the world skyrocketed... Our group supervisor uses this word a lot. I like it. And as more and more of us moved into towns and cities, some decided to try their hand at business, which resulted in many exclusive transitioners shops, offices and clubs popping up. Counselling bureaus, help groups and job agencies, too. Some even went as far as opening up to human customers as well, but that's still not as popular as I think it should be. Of course I'm also nowhere near old enough to remember all this first hand, but the history of transitioning is included in our introductory course.
But back to the point. Sorry for digressing so much (or am I?), the counsellor told me I should work on that more.
The AA, which actually stands for "Animals Anonymous", was the support group recommended to me by the welcoming counsellor - a very polite Kingfisher, "god bless him", as you say - that was just forming at the time I completed my introductory course. This of course translated to the first two meetings spent with everyone sitting on their hands, not looking at each other and exchanging awkward head jerks, or waggles, or just generally trying to sink into their uncomfortable plastic chairs. Even the group name started as a failure. We were originally called "Friends of Nature", a seemingly inconspicuous name which managed to attract a swarm of animal rights activists and self-proclaimed wildlife protectors... Don't get me wrong, we do on the whole appreciate their effort (most of the time), but it's hard to discuss a sudden moulting problem and how to deal with it when the person to your right is only thinking of saving pandas and rainforests, not to mention said person being... Well, human. Three months in we managed to change the name to what it is now, "Animals Anonymous", and apart from some... Bizarre incidents I'd rather not talk about, it proved to be the right solution.
So anyway, after a few the initial bumps the group began functioning in earnest, meeting twice a week (unless there's an emergency) and discussing all sorts of things, from taking care of the household to sending letters and filling tax forms, to coping with transition-induced stress and reining in our original habits and instinctive reactions - after all, we can't afford, for example, hibernating through winter or flying south when it starts getting cold; we'd end up with no job, no funds and most likely no home to return to. We also had meetings with older transitioners who made some sort of career in the world and talks about how we ought to approach and treat non-transitioners. Our closing mantra is: "A human is just a different kind of animal. A city is just a different kind of jungle. Together we can make this place our home". With that the session ends and we either split and go home or go somewhere together - either a transitioner-only place or, if we feel bold enough, a 'mixed' place, like this one. But if we do split, I make sure to walk Brian to his apartment before returning to mine.
Now, Brian... Where do I start explaining? Brian is one of our youngest transitioners, only half a year out of his original birthplace and, boy, he had the roughest start of all. Shortly after (barely) making it past the introductory course, he was asked to attend at least half a year of private counselling and group meetings before even thinking of applying for a job market course. Not that that's extremely unusual, it's rather common with the skittish sort of transitioners like hares or... Yes, quails, too. One way or another, Brian was assigned to Dr. Joseph Simm, a pleasant enough guy once you get over him being ridiculously handsome. Some of us are just lucky that way, I guess. So, Brian visits the good doctor diligently, makes steady progress and somewhere along the way they start to have a not-quite professional thing going on. And it becomes quite serious and involved and kind of cute, too... Until, in some twist of circumstances or other, Brian finds out that Joseph is originally a falcon, which literary sends him into a five-days-long comma. He was still terrified once he snapped out of it (the doctors claimed it to be a miracle, probably), but one of the nurses was in the right mind to tell him how Joseph brought him to hospital, demanded the best of care and refused to leave his side until shortly before his awakening. Cue lots of apologies, a change of psychiatrist and, since last month or so, the first try at sharing a flat. Joseph told me he'd also love to coax Brian out of his shell a little, but he's just too busy with his patients, so I take it upon myself to invite him for coffee after every session. He's never responded positively so far, but he'll come around. Baby steps, baby steps.
You seem like a regular here, so at least I don't have to explain The Crow's Nest to you. Well, maybe just a little. You ever noticed how nobody, literally nobody, be it one of yours or one of mine, calls the owner-slash-bartender by any other name than 'Crow'? Yeah, it's unsettling. His looks, too. He's that...Oh, you know what I mean. The epitome of that enigmatic and vaguely creepy character you should avoid by all means but in the end you are bound to take him up on the offer? He smiles like that, too, and it just makes matters even worse. What? Oh, right, his co-worker calls him a different name, but that guy is just plain intimidating and I hope to never ever come in close contact with him. Still, the place itself is as good as any to have a drink and chat with people you sometimes barely even know. Socialising, as they told us, is important.
I'm taking too long explaining, aren't I? I can see it from your face. Sorry, I'll stop, eh, "beating around the bush" is the correct expression, right?
The thing I actually wanted to tell you about happened... Not so long ago, relatively speaking. And the thing in question was actually not a thing at all, but a person who introduced himself as "Jerry". The problem with Mr. Jerry, as we learned immediately afterwards, was that not only was he human from the start and somehow found out about us, but he also wanted to become one of us... The "original" us? He actually used "animal", but it's in bad taste to say that about transitioners; still, it's hard to require proper terminology from an outsider.
I could see by the looks on the faces of all my companions that they were just as shocked as myself, if not more. One or two even mouthed the dreaded f-word, but our supervisor, the only person who managed to keep their calm, shook her head with conviction. Finally, when the silence had thickened so much it became stifling and quite unbearable, the supervisor spoke up, pretty much in the name of us all:
"Sir, I'm not entirely sure what you wish to gain by coming here, but from the way you expressed your wish, I gather you have gained some knowledge of transitioners," here she gestured broadly at our group, "and have at least some idea about who we are and why we meet here. While our sessions are open and I cannot force you out, I would nevertheless ask you to reconsider your future participation, as we can't grant you what you're looking for and, what might have come to your attention, your presence inconveniences other participants."
All of this was delivered in such calm and controlled manner I had to restrain myself form giving her a standing ovation. Mr. Jerry, meanwhile, apologised for his intrusion and asked whether he could at least stay until the end of the meeting, because of the downpour outside and the fact that our room was far warmer at that moment (only then did I notice his clothes were soaking wet... And actually quite old and worn-out, too). After a quick vote he was granted just that. But, funnily enough, by the end of the session the intruder in our midst had managed to gain sympathy of everyone, even the most skittish participants - and that included Brian, which probably counts as some kind of a miracle. Maybe it was his age and the good-natured look on his face; maybe his readiness to remain silent and just listen to others, a trait very rarely seen in other humans and not even that often amongst ourselves; or maybe it was the gentleness and genuine interest with which he asked about our community and the transition process itself. As for our supervisor, she also made good use of our accidental new acquaintance by devoting the last quarter of an hour to a round of questions for Mr. Jerry, a sort of show-and-tell where he did his best to reply truthfully and without any air of superiority whatsoever. Actually, once the group was dismissed, this strange interview continued in a cafe nearby. Ginger, who transitioned almost a year ago to join her parents, a couple of successful real estate agents, bought coffee and croissants for all. By the time we finished talking, Mr. Jerry had gained the title of our semi-official outside consultant - a post he accepted with much gratitude and in infallibly good spirits.
He didn't show up at each and every meeting, obviously; after all, AA was still about us first and foremost. But the man became a regular in the same way old men feeding pigeons become regulars to the park. We discussed matters of the human world with him occasionally. We also visited exhibitions and participated in events together - many a time it was in fact Jerry who brought the news of this or that happening in the city to our gathering. It seemed a tad odd to me, however, that during the entire time we never once heard about his original reason for joining the group. Knowing him as I do now, he probably decided that would be considered impolite. But it confused me (and most likely others as well) quite a lot back then.
Be that as it may, days slowly got shorter and reports of incoming harsh winter began to appear on each and every weather channel, squeezed in between seasonal sales offers and Coca-Cola Christmas commercials. In almost perfect sync, Brian swapped his coat for a thicker one made of artificial fur, which made him look even more the hare than he usually did... Especially when topped off by a ridiculous ushanka he got at one such pre-Christmas sale. We were also reminded by our supervisor that we might expect some new arrivals soon enough - many transitioners finish their first adjustment course around the end of autumn in order to escape the cold and lack of food the winter brings.
And, as if on cue, Mr. Jerry disappeared.
We didn't realise at first and didn't pay much mind to his absence. He wasn't exactly obliged to be present every week, none of us were. But after almost a month passed without any appearance from our friend, we grew nervous, more so since we had no way to contact him and make sure he was all right.
I wish I could say that when Mr. Jerry returned, a day or two after the first major blizzard of the winter, we all breathed a sigh of relief... That's not entirely true, though. Our Mr. Jerry looked terrible; his clothes were dirtier and shabbier than we remembered, his face paler and devastatingly thin. In spite of all that, he greeted everyone with a smile and apologised for his long absence. That alone did not manage to lighten the atmosphere in the room; every pair of anxious eyes was fixed on the emaciated figure of our human friend.
"Would you like to tell us what happened, Jerry?" our supervisor asked gently, slipping back into her role.
"Might as well, madam." Jerry smiled, but his face fell again when he started explaining that he might no longer be able to visit us, as the place he lives in at present is on the other end of the city and he doesn't really have money for public transportation anymore. "So if we get snowed in again," he concluded in an apologetic tone, "I might not make it on foot."
"So you... Walked all the way here?" Peter - previously a toad, back then a year and a half after transition - gawked so hard I was sure his throat would blow up, all frog-like, like that one time when he got really excited at a tennis match.
"I used to be on my school's relay team. These legs are still good to go, so to speak." He laughed, patting one of his bony thighs fondly.
"Jerry," the supervisor took over again, "is your present situation connected to what you asked us about the day you first came here?"
"It's probably hard to deny that now."
"If it's something you'd rather not talk about..." she began in a soothing manner, but Mr. Jerry held up his hand in protest.
"That's all right with me, madam. I just wouldn't want to bore the lot of you," he said, but when nobody confirmed his suspicion, he began explaining in words I doubt I could ever forget:
"You know by now that I'm a poor man - a beggarman, even. And you can see that I'm an old beggarman, too. I used to play an accordion back when things started to go sour for me, just to earn enough money to eat and maybe sometimes pay for a night at a cheap hotel, if there was one around. But I had to sell my accordion because my fingers became too numb with age. I used to get some clothes from charity, but I don't go there anymore. One day, when I stood in front of a shop, the shop owner came out to chase me away. I asked, 'Sir, could you give me anything to eat? I have no money, that's true, but you must have some meat or bread that's no longer fresh enough to sell. Why don't you share some of it with me?' And the shop owner said, 'I'd throw out the old meat to the dogs if they came begging, but there's nothing for the likes of you here'. And as I moved away from that shop and its display window, I thought to myself, why not? Why shouldn't I try and find a way to become a dog if I'm already treated like one? I find my food in trash cans and sleep in the street like a stray. All I lack is two more paws instead of my useless hands and some fur over my skin. Fur must be much warmer to walk around in, too. And maybe if I beg really nicely, some old lady in the suburbs would let me sleep under her porch when the rain comes. The more I thought about it, the more reasonable it sounded... So I found out about you and decided to come asking. Made a bit of a fool of myself back then, though. Still, you took this here old dog in, gave it some joy and purpose to stick around. That counts for something, too. It counts a lot."
The rest of the meeting that day is a bit of a blur in my mind, but it's safe to assume very little was said afterwards and we broke up much earlier than usual. I know I was conscious enough to text Joseph to drop whatever he was doing and come fetch Brian himself - by the look on his face, he needed all the cooing and coddling he could get. I probably said my goodbyes to Mr. Jerry as well, everyone else did, but I can't recall the moment he gave us a final wave and headed towards the main street.
Now that I think back to it... There's really no logical explanation for the thing I did. One moment I was with everyone else, talking to Joseph and Brian, the next I was running like crazy, trying to spot the hunched back of Mr. Jerry in the afternoon crowd. You see, the thing about running is, I shouldn't do it. No one of us should. The introductory course states it plain as day - running is not a human thing to do. Well, obviously, humans do run every now and then, some even do it to be famous, but then they are compared... Well, to us. And that's not a thing we're aiming for, right?
The other thing they warned us against was shouting in public. But when I finally noticed Mr. Jerry, I screamed his name at the top of my lungs, so loud in fact that it stopped both people surrounding me for a beat and the man himself...!
You know what the funniest, oddest thing about the whole thing was, though? Throughout this mad chase and breaking every single rule they told me to obey, all I could think of, literally all, was my boots. Yup, you heard me right, my boots. See, my wardrobe is really toned down on the whole; they teach us that as well. 'Choose your clothing so that you can blend in' - like a different, less natural version of our original camouflage. Be forgettable. Blend in. Disappear. And all of my clothes, even the ones not black or grey or brownish, comply to that rule. With one exception: my boots. Garishly green, patterned and louder than hell's bells as they hit the pavement. Bought them on a whim one day without really thinking 'should I?' or 'why these?'. But when I caught up with Jerry, flushed and completely out of breath... You could say I rammed straight into an epiphany I'd never known I'd been looking for.
My boots were everything I was not... Or at least supposed not to be. They were also everything I not so much wanted to, as wanted to be able to become.
"Miss Polly? My, you sure could be a top runner if you tried!" I heard Mr Jerry laugh above me before I felt his hand rubbing my back in soothing circles. "Are you all right?"
"No- Not yet..." I wheezed and forced my shaky hands to dive into the pockets of my woolly coat in search of the wallet. Almost dropping it three times in a row, I finally found what I've been looking for and only then straightened up with a loud gasp. My bones hurt. My legs quivered. My head still felt woozy. The people around us continued their steady trudge, once again perfectly oblivious to our existence.
"Mr. Jerry... I know we... At the AA, can't help you with your... I'm sorry, still out of breath a little..." I coughed and cleared my throat. "With your wish. But go... Go there," at this point I waved the card from the wallet around until he plucked it from my fingers, "and ask for Crow. If there's anyone... Anyone of us, anyone at all who might know something about these things, I feel it's him." With the final exhale I completely deflated again, so much I was sure I'd collapse any minute. But I knew I could now, because I had done what was maybe not entirely right, but the best thing to do at that point.
"You're a wonderful young lady, Miss Polly," Jerry said with a rueful smile. "Well, if this works, we probably won't see each other again."
"Even if it doesn't... Although I hope it will, of course!... We probably wouldn't have a chance anyway. I think I might finally quit the group."
Truth is, I've been thinking about it for quite a while. It's been three years already, how much longer could I hang onto the life I was supposed to abandon completely? The thing was, I'd never really had the guts to make that final step forward.
"Well, in that case," Jerry said, pocketing the card and extending one of his rough hands, "best of luck to us both."
"It's been a real pleasure... Jerry."
We shook hands and parted ways; both of us smiling, but our eyes glistened as if we were about to cry. And maybe we both did. Just a little.
What came out of the whole deal, you ask? Well, for one I still work at the bakery and volunteer as a librarian, because some things don't change and that's also fine. It's been a while since my last group meeting, though. Obviously, I didn't just disappear without a word - I talked with our supervisor, she seemed proud of me; I exchanged telephone numbers with one or two other participants and promised I will pick up when they call... And obviously, I'm still dropping by for tea at Brian and Joseph's, more frequently than before, even. Call me overly romantic, but I have a feeling that in two weeks' time Joseph will finally pluck up the courage to pop the question. Fingers crossed!
And Jerry? I'll probably disappoint you, but there's really no way of telling, is there? Still... On my way here today I saw a shaggy old mutt in the street and once he noticed me, he wagged his tail. Which is of course a thing dogs do and didn't have to mean a thing. But it's nice to think that it did.
Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to finally order a drink.
Hello, my name is Polly and I'm three years into transition. I work in an organic bakery two streets down from my flat and volunteer at a local library. I'm not much of a sports person, I prefer to stay indoors and read a book or watch the rain through the window. That's not very impressive, I know, but... Well, I worked hard to get to this point, so I should get to appreciate the little things, right?
What? That sounded too rehearsed for you? Too much like a formal introduction? Yes, you're probably right. But that's how things at AA work. And before you ask, no, it's not the AA you know, otherwise I wouldn't be out at a bar and talking to you instead of ordering drink after drink... All right, that was cruel, sorry.
Back to the point, before I talk you through AA, my kind of AA, and the story I actually intended to tell you, an explanation of transitioners would be in order. This is the boring part of the story, but it's rather important, so sit back and try not to fall asleep? I promise I'll be as brief as possible. Cross my heart.
First of all, transitioning is not a new idea. It originated ages ago somewhere in Asia... Or at least that's where our earliest records come from. Secondly, believe it or not, but you probably heard of some transitioners without ever realizing it. Talks of raised-by-wolves children, women giving birth to a litter of cats, werewolves and shape-shifters... Half the world's lore comes from our smaller and bigger slip-ups. Fact is, if the transition is supervised and done in a controlled manner, you can barely tell a difference... Unless you have kids, that is, which can go from hilarious and confusing to dramatically wrong fairly quickly. That's why the Hauser Act was introduced somewhere around the late nineteenth century - just a fun fact there, nothing you need to remember. And before you arrive at completely wrong conclusions: No, I'm not saying every man in the bar who eats like a pig and every girl with a horse face that you blind dated or those kids with buck teeth are transitioners. But some of them? Yes. Although you shouldn't really be on the lookout for snake or fish transitioners, I never heard of any of those... Must be the whole legs and hands deal. Pretty confusing even if you had the right number of limbs originally.
Me? A quail. And I did have a hard time adjusting to my new "wings", believe me. Also, it's a bit rude to ask these things, just for future reference.
Anyway. With the expansion of human settlements the rate of transitioners in the world skyrocketed... Our group supervisor uses this word a lot. I like it. And as more and more of us moved into towns and cities, some decided to try their hand at business, which resulted in many exclusive transitioners shops, offices and clubs popping up. Counselling bureaus, help groups and job agencies, too. Some even went as far as opening up to human customers as well, but that's still not as popular as I think it should be. Of course I'm also nowhere near old enough to remember all this first hand, but the history of transitioning is included in our introductory course.
But back to the point. Sorry for digressing so much (or am I?), the counsellor told me I should work on that more.
The AA, which actually stands for "Animals Anonymous", was the support group recommended to me by the welcoming counsellor - a very polite Kingfisher, "god bless him", as you say - that was just forming at the time I completed my introductory course. This of course translated to the first two meetings spent with everyone sitting on their hands, not looking at each other and exchanging awkward head jerks, or waggles, or just generally trying to sink into their uncomfortable plastic chairs. Even the group name started as a failure. We were originally called "Friends of Nature", a seemingly inconspicuous name which managed to attract a swarm of animal rights activists and self-proclaimed wildlife protectors... Don't get me wrong, we do on the whole appreciate their effort (most of the time), but it's hard to discuss a sudden moulting problem and how to deal with it when the person to your right is only thinking of saving pandas and rainforests, not to mention said person being... Well, human. Three months in we managed to change the name to what it is now, "Animals Anonymous", and apart from some... Bizarre incidents I'd rather not talk about, it proved to be the right solution.
So anyway, after a few the initial bumps the group began functioning in earnest, meeting twice a week (unless there's an emergency) and discussing all sorts of things, from taking care of the household to sending letters and filling tax forms, to coping with transition-induced stress and reining in our original habits and instinctive reactions - after all, we can't afford, for example, hibernating through winter or flying south when it starts getting cold; we'd end up with no job, no funds and most likely no home to return to. We also had meetings with older transitioners who made some sort of career in the world and talks about how we ought to approach and treat non-transitioners. Our closing mantra is: "A human is just a different kind of animal. A city is just a different kind of jungle. Together we can make this place our home". With that the session ends and we either split and go home or go somewhere together - either a transitioner-only place or, if we feel bold enough, a 'mixed' place, like this one. But if we do split, I make sure to walk Brian to his apartment before returning to mine.
Now, Brian... Where do I start explaining? Brian is one of our youngest transitioners, only half a year out of his original birthplace and, boy, he had the roughest start of all. Shortly after (barely) making it past the introductory course, he was asked to attend at least half a year of private counselling and group meetings before even thinking of applying for a job market course. Not that that's extremely unusual, it's rather common with the skittish sort of transitioners like hares or... Yes, quails, too. One way or another, Brian was assigned to Dr. Joseph Simm, a pleasant enough guy once you get over him being ridiculously handsome. Some of us are just lucky that way, I guess. So, Brian visits the good doctor diligently, makes steady progress and somewhere along the way they start to have a not-quite professional thing going on. And it becomes quite serious and involved and kind of cute, too... Until, in some twist of circumstances or other, Brian finds out that Joseph is originally a falcon, which literary sends him into a five-days-long comma. He was still terrified once he snapped out of it (the doctors claimed it to be a miracle, probably), but one of the nurses was in the right mind to tell him how Joseph brought him to hospital, demanded the best of care and refused to leave his side until shortly before his awakening. Cue lots of apologies, a change of psychiatrist and, since last month or so, the first try at sharing a flat. Joseph told me he'd also love to coax Brian out of his shell a little, but he's just too busy with his patients, so I take it upon myself to invite him for coffee after every session. He's never responded positively so far, but he'll come around. Baby steps, baby steps.
You seem like a regular here, so at least I don't have to explain The Crow's Nest to you. Well, maybe just a little. You ever noticed how nobody, literally nobody, be it one of yours or one of mine, calls the owner-slash-bartender by any other name than 'Crow'? Yeah, it's unsettling. His looks, too. He's that...Oh, you know what I mean. The epitome of that enigmatic and vaguely creepy character you should avoid by all means but in the end you are bound to take him up on the offer? He smiles like that, too, and it just makes matters even worse. What? Oh, right, his co-worker calls him a different name, but that guy is just plain intimidating and I hope to never ever come in close contact with him. Still, the place itself is as good as any to have a drink and chat with people you sometimes barely even know. Socialising, as they told us, is important.
I'm taking too long explaining, aren't I? I can see it from your face. Sorry, I'll stop, eh, "beating around the bush" is the correct expression, right?
The thing I actually wanted to tell you about happened... Not so long ago, relatively speaking. And the thing in question was actually not a thing at all, but a person who introduced himself as "Jerry". The problem with Mr. Jerry, as we learned immediately afterwards, was that not only was he human from the start and somehow found out about us, but he also wanted to become one of us... The "original" us? He actually used "animal", but it's in bad taste to say that about transitioners; still, it's hard to require proper terminology from an outsider.
I could see by the looks on the faces of all my companions that they were just as shocked as myself, if not more. One or two even mouthed the dreaded f-word, but our supervisor, the only person who managed to keep their calm, shook her head with conviction. Finally, when the silence had thickened so much it became stifling and quite unbearable, the supervisor spoke up, pretty much in the name of us all:
"Sir, I'm not entirely sure what you wish to gain by coming here, but from the way you expressed your wish, I gather you have gained some knowledge of transitioners," here she gestured broadly at our group, "and have at least some idea about who we are and why we meet here. While our sessions are open and I cannot force you out, I would nevertheless ask you to reconsider your future participation, as we can't grant you what you're looking for and, what might have come to your attention, your presence inconveniences other participants."
All of this was delivered in such calm and controlled manner I had to restrain myself form giving her a standing ovation. Mr. Jerry, meanwhile, apologised for his intrusion and asked whether he could at least stay until the end of the meeting, because of the downpour outside and the fact that our room was far warmer at that moment (only then did I notice his clothes were soaking wet... And actually quite old and worn-out, too). After a quick vote he was granted just that. But, funnily enough, by the end of the session the intruder in our midst had managed to gain sympathy of everyone, even the most skittish participants - and that included Brian, which probably counts as some kind of a miracle. Maybe it was his age and the good-natured look on his face; maybe his readiness to remain silent and just listen to others, a trait very rarely seen in other humans and not even that often amongst ourselves; or maybe it was the gentleness and genuine interest with which he asked about our community and the transition process itself. As for our supervisor, she also made good use of our accidental new acquaintance by devoting the last quarter of an hour to a round of questions for Mr. Jerry, a sort of show-and-tell where he did his best to reply truthfully and without any air of superiority whatsoever. Actually, once the group was dismissed, this strange interview continued in a cafe nearby. Ginger, who transitioned almost a year ago to join her parents, a couple of successful real estate agents, bought coffee and croissants for all. By the time we finished talking, Mr. Jerry had gained the title of our semi-official outside consultant - a post he accepted with much gratitude and in infallibly good spirits.
He didn't show up at each and every meeting, obviously; after all, AA was still about us first and foremost. But the man became a regular in the same way old men feeding pigeons become regulars to the park. We discussed matters of the human world with him occasionally. We also visited exhibitions and participated in events together - many a time it was in fact Jerry who brought the news of this or that happening in the city to our gathering. It seemed a tad odd to me, however, that during the entire time we never once heard about his original reason for joining the group. Knowing him as I do now, he probably decided that would be considered impolite. But it confused me (and most likely others as well) quite a lot back then.
Be that as it may, days slowly got shorter and reports of incoming harsh winter began to appear on each and every weather channel, squeezed in between seasonal sales offers and Coca-Cola Christmas commercials. In almost perfect sync, Brian swapped his coat for a thicker one made of artificial fur, which made him look even more the hare than he usually did... Especially when topped off by a ridiculous ushanka he got at one such pre-Christmas sale. We were also reminded by our supervisor that we might expect some new arrivals soon enough - many transitioners finish their first adjustment course around the end of autumn in order to escape the cold and lack of food the winter brings.
And, as if on cue, Mr. Jerry disappeared.
We didn't realise at first and didn't pay much mind to his absence. He wasn't exactly obliged to be present every week, none of us were. But after almost a month passed without any appearance from our friend, we grew nervous, more so since we had no way to contact him and make sure he was all right.
I wish I could say that when Mr. Jerry returned, a day or two after the first major blizzard of the winter, we all breathed a sigh of relief... That's not entirely true, though. Our Mr. Jerry looked terrible; his clothes were dirtier and shabbier than we remembered, his face paler and devastatingly thin. In spite of all that, he greeted everyone with a smile and apologised for his long absence. That alone did not manage to lighten the atmosphere in the room; every pair of anxious eyes was fixed on the emaciated figure of our human friend.
"Would you like to tell us what happened, Jerry?" our supervisor asked gently, slipping back into her role.
"Might as well, madam." Jerry smiled, but his face fell again when he started explaining that he might no longer be able to visit us, as the place he lives in at present is on the other end of the city and he doesn't really have money for public transportation anymore. "So if we get snowed in again," he concluded in an apologetic tone, "I might not make it on foot."
"So you... Walked all the way here?" Peter - previously a toad, back then a year and a half after transition - gawked so hard I was sure his throat would blow up, all frog-like, like that one time when he got really excited at a tennis match.
"I used to be on my school's relay team. These legs are still good to go, so to speak." He laughed, patting one of his bony thighs fondly.
"Jerry," the supervisor took over again, "is your present situation connected to what you asked us about the day you first came here?"
"It's probably hard to deny that now."
"If it's something you'd rather not talk about..." she began in a soothing manner, but Mr. Jerry held up his hand in protest.
"That's all right with me, madam. I just wouldn't want to bore the lot of you," he said, but when nobody confirmed his suspicion, he began explaining in words I doubt I could ever forget:
"You know by now that I'm a poor man - a beggarman, even. And you can see that I'm an old beggarman, too. I used to play an accordion back when things started to go sour for me, just to earn enough money to eat and maybe sometimes pay for a night at a cheap hotel, if there was one around. But I had to sell my accordion because my fingers became too numb with age. I used to get some clothes from charity, but I don't go there anymore. One day, when I stood in front of a shop, the shop owner came out to chase me away. I asked, 'Sir, could you give me anything to eat? I have no money, that's true, but you must have some meat or bread that's no longer fresh enough to sell. Why don't you share some of it with me?' And the shop owner said, 'I'd throw out the old meat to the dogs if they came begging, but there's nothing for the likes of you here'. And as I moved away from that shop and its display window, I thought to myself, why not? Why shouldn't I try and find a way to become a dog if I'm already treated like one? I find my food in trash cans and sleep in the street like a stray. All I lack is two more paws instead of my useless hands and some fur over my skin. Fur must be much warmer to walk around in, too. And maybe if I beg really nicely, some old lady in the suburbs would let me sleep under her porch when the rain comes. The more I thought about it, the more reasonable it sounded... So I found out about you and decided to come asking. Made a bit of a fool of myself back then, though. Still, you took this here old dog in, gave it some joy and purpose to stick around. That counts for something, too. It counts a lot."
The rest of the meeting that day is a bit of a blur in my mind, but it's safe to assume very little was said afterwards and we broke up much earlier than usual. I know I was conscious enough to text Joseph to drop whatever he was doing and come fetch Brian himself - by the look on his face, he needed all the cooing and coddling he could get. I probably said my goodbyes to Mr. Jerry as well, everyone else did, but I can't recall the moment he gave us a final wave and headed towards the main street.
Now that I think back to it... There's really no logical explanation for the thing I did. One moment I was with everyone else, talking to Joseph and Brian, the next I was running like crazy, trying to spot the hunched back of Mr. Jerry in the afternoon crowd. You see, the thing about running is, I shouldn't do it. No one of us should. The introductory course states it plain as day - running is not a human thing to do. Well, obviously, humans do run every now and then, some even do it to be famous, but then they are compared... Well, to us. And that's not a thing we're aiming for, right?
The other thing they warned us against was shouting in public. But when I finally noticed Mr. Jerry, I screamed his name at the top of my lungs, so loud in fact that it stopped both people surrounding me for a beat and the man himself...!
You know what the funniest, oddest thing about the whole thing was, though? Throughout this mad chase and breaking every single rule they told me to obey, all I could think of, literally all, was my boots. Yup, you heard me right, my boots. See, my wardrobe is really toned down on the whole; they teach us that as well. 'Choose your clothing so that you can blend in' - like a different, less natural version of our original camouflage. Be forgettable. Blend in. Disappear. And all of my clothes, even the ones not black or grey or brownish, comply to that rule. With one exception: my boots. Garishly green, patterned and louder than hell's bells as they hit the pavement. Bought them on a whim one day without really thinking 'should I?' or 'why these?'. But when I caught up with Jerry, flushed and completely out of breath... You could say I rammed straight into an epiphany I'd never known I'd been looking for.
My boots were everything I was not... Or at least supposed not to be. They were also everything I not so much wanted to, as wanted to be able to become.
"Miss Polly? My, you sure could be a top runner if you tried!" I heard Mr Jerry laugh above me before I felt his hand rubbing my back in soothing circles. "Are you all right?"
"No- Not yet..." I wheezed and forced my shaky hands to dive into the pockets of my woolly coat in search of the wallet. Almost dropping it three times in a row, I finally found what I've been looking for and only then straightened up with a loud gasp. My bones hurt. My legs quivered. My head still felt woozy. The people around us continued their steady trudge, once again perfectly oblivious to our existence.
"Mr. Jerry... I know we... At the AA, can't help you with your... I'm sorry, still out of breath a little..." I coughed and cleared my throat. "With your wish. But go... Go there," at this point I waved the card from the wallet around until he plucked it from my fingers, "and ask for Crow. If there's anyone... Anyone of us, anyone at all who might know something about these things, I feel it's him." With the final exhale I completely deflated again, so much I was sure I'd collapse any minute. But I knew I could now, because I had done what was maybe not entirely right, but the best thing to do at that point.
"You're a wonderful young lady, Miss Polly," Jerry said with a rueful smile. "Well, if this works, we probably won't see each other again."
"Even if it doesn't... Although I hope it will, of course!... We probably wouldn't have a chance anyway. I think I might finally quit the group."
Truth is, I've been thinking about it for quite a while. It's been three years already, how much longer could I hang onto the life I was supposed to abandon completely? The thing was, I'd never really had the guts to make that final step forward.
"Well, in that case," Jerry said, pocketing the card and extending one of his rough hands, "best of luck to us both."
"It's been a real pleasure... Jerry."
We shook hands and parted ways; both of us smiling, but our eyes glistened as if we were about to cry. And maybe we both did. Just a little.
What came out of the whole deal, you ask? Well, for one I still work at the bakery and volunteer as a librarian, because some things don't change and that's also fine. It's been a while since my last group meeting, though. Obviously, I didn't just disappear without a word - I talked with our supervisor, she seemed proud of me; I exchanged telephone numbers with one or two other participants and promised I will pick up when they call... And obviously, I'm still dropping by for tea at Brian and Joseph's, more frequently than before, even. Call me overly romantic, but I have a feeling that in two weeks' time Joseph will finally pluck up the courage to pop the question. Fingers crossed!
And Jerry? I'll probably disappoint you, but there's really no way of telling, is there? Still... On my way here today I saw a shaggy old mutt in the street and once he noticed me, he wagged his tail. Which is of course a thing dogs do and didn't have to mean a thing. But it's nice to think that it did.
Now, if you excuse me, I'd like to finally order a drink.