FSE

Furry search engine

formerly SoFurry search engine

I had not been to the coffeehouse in six years. It was somehow both familiar and unknown to me, which is not a feeling all that uncommon to anyone who's been away from a place for a while. The décor was much the same as I remembered. The business had remained staunchly unaffected by the economic trend to turn everything into a drive-through or an app-only system where customer and barista don't even have the chance (or desire?) to say hello, to know names and brews and casual circumstances. It was still determined to keep going, resistant to the depersonalization of mere capitalism and isolationism. It was less a coffeehouse than a coffee-home.

The place was empty, when I padded in at a quiet midmorning hour. I reacquainted myself with the trappings of this beautiful location. From the entrance -- wood double doors with glass inlays -- one entered into a large space set about with a dozen wooden tables, their nicely-lacquered tops easy to care for and providing part of the home-like ambience. The chairs set about them were also wood, sturdy types that tend to last well. Along the back and in two corners, booths offered quieter locations to think, chat, or otherwise enjoy the place. To my right, the stone wall with the built-in bookshelves, and the hearth where a proper fire burned low, friendly, adding warmth to the heart and to the room. The bookshelves held books as well as games, for the customers' pleasure; they were good ways for strangers to become friends. The rafters, thick wooden beams treated and painted to a dark mahogany, crisscrossed above my head, as hanging "air ferns" brought a sense of living lightness to the place.

At my left, a wide passageway led to the larger, tavern-like space where the ceiling was a little closer, the lights a little lower, and a small corner with two small, kind spotlights could highlight a singer, a poet, an instrumentalist, a teller of stories, anyone wanting to share a performance for a small gathering of appreciative listeners. A service window back there allowed customers to get their beverages and snacks without having to go all the way around to the front again.

Speaking of the front, I heard movement from near the long wooden bar behind which lay all the necessary devices, accoutrements, utilities, utensils, and ingredients of the finest coffees and teas I've ever had the pleasure to experience. The barista in question was Quixos, a zebra with a white hide and bright stripes of red, green, and blue. He hailed me from behind the bar, his arms thrown open wide, his muzzle split with an enormous grin.

"Welcome back, Grigio! It's nice to see you again. Will it be your usual?"

I had to chuckle at the welcome. "It's wonderful to see you too, Quixos," I greeted him. "You still know my usual, after all this time?"

"Unless the season calls for something _un-_usual, you prefer a white chocolate mocha, with an extra pump of white chocolate syrup. In the fall, you might indulge in a pumpkin spice latte, and in December, it's all about the peppermint mocha."

The zebra grinned at me from his superior height (about a dozen or so centimeters taller than me). I nearly expected him to provide a "ta-daa" for having performed that trick so very well.

"I'd ask you how it is that you remember everyone's drink so well, but I think we've both overused the line from that movie too much."

He chuckled, offering me a forepaw across the bar. "You taught me well, my good wolf. So, what'll you have?"

I took his forepaw and returned his chuckle as well. "Mocha, and don't spare the whip."

"Kinky."

"Whipped cream."

"Still kinky." He laughed softly as he set his dexterous forepaws to work. "So, my friend, what brings you into the café today... other than to seek consciousness?"

"Actually," I said, taking care to be gentle with the news, "it's you. You bring me here."

"Not that I'm complaining, mind you, but how did I bring you here?"

"Because you have another story that needs telling. At least, that's what you said in the dream you sent to me last night..."

He paused for the briefest of moments, casting his eyes at me, then returning to the business at paw. "I wasn't sure if you'd get the message."

"Am I really that deaf?"

"Sometimes." The handsome zebra's voice held no malice, simply truth, understanding. "For my two cents, it's because you don't trust yourself enough. Grigio, you make language sing, when you let yourself bring out your voice. You tell the stories that others ignore, as we tried to explain to you when you were here last."

I nodded slowly. "He's in the corner booth, isn't he?"

"Your usual spot. We don't have reserved spaces, but it might as well be yours anyway." He passed the ceramic mug to me, this one a quietly understated grass-green, no logos or witty sayings on it. The elixir within was at precisely the right level -- less would have been churlish, more could have prevented the happy likelihood of a refill. "You go ahead; I'll join you soon."

"Do you have someone to cover for you?"

"Perhaps," he said, giving me a meaningful look.

Glancing toward the kitchen area, beyond the swinging door, I searched my mind for a moment. There was a tall mule deer who somehow never bumped his antlers on anything or anyone unless he actively wanted to. He had been a barista here for the past several years, and he knew how to make anything from carefully-formed pictures in the froth of a latte to the finest London Fog (just the right amount of time for the Earl Gray to steep, just the right balance of steamed milk). Before he came here, he had sought a PhD in history from a well-known university; an academic rival (a closeted, jealous, would-be lover who felt wronged) teamed up with a tenured professor who still thought that "faggots should be put in their place," forcing the buck to negotiate for an MA instead. Deciding that academics for its own sake was a waste of his life, he took what he thought would be an interim job here at the coffeehouse, and he since had been very happy to stay right where he is. He is a fine worker, a good friend, and he was known to play a very good guitar, when he participated in the occasional Open Mike nights.

"Vincent," I said to Quixos, just in time for the kitchen doors to swing open and the deer himself to move with exceptional grace to his place behind the bar.

"Allow me to introduce you," the zebra said to his co-worker. "Vincent, this is Grigio, the writer I told you about."

"Glad to meet you." The buck grinned and put out a forepaw for me. I took it, matching his grip with equal yet easy firmness. He was another of the gentle giants in the world, and I was glad to make his acquaintance. I told him so.

Three customers appeared at the front door, entering with reasonable cooperation (the under-caffeinated tend to be tetchy). Quixos jutted a chin toward a corner booth. "Go sit; I'll be there shortly."

I saluted him with my mug and went to my favorite table. Sliding onto the padded seat, admiring once again the smooth chocolate-brown cloth covering, I set my mug on the table and regarded the lean tiger who sat at my right. He could be an imposing sight, with his thick white fur and the intense azure striping across his arms, face, and tail, saturated on his eartips, dipped on the hanging ends of his long white headfur. His wardrobe hadn't changed, because how could one do better than _hakama_and an open leather vest, both black as pitch? I had described his eyes as being "a penetrating steel blue," but today, they held a twinkle I'd not seen in them for quite a while.

"Hello, Zenzero," I greeted him.

"You're looking well, Grigio." His soft voice all but purred at me. "You have been listening."

"Trying to," I conceded. "The call from Quixos seemed important. I thought perhaps..." His eyes held mine, again coaxing truth from me, as he always did. Sighing, I admitted to him, "They're all important, yes. Quixos is a known quantity, in some ways, so it was easier to return to him rather than to hear someone entirely new."

"Appreciate your progress, good wolf. Your ears are realigning themselves." He offered me a smile as tight and knowing as a lynx. "How is Navanit?"

"Doing splendidly." I remembered the argali very well, an exotic visitor who had come to this country on a work visa. He would have to return to his central Asian home after only six months here, and he had found himself falling in love with a young black-footed ferret who had grown to adore him in return. "He and Jericho had a rough time of it, for a while. They made a bond too true to be ignored, and the idea of separating genuinely hurt them. However, Navanit's company, meaning the one he came here to work for, thought enough of his work that he likely would be asked back for another project. The separation was difficult for the two of them, but they kept in constant contact. They even managed to arrange a visit for Jericho. Oh, what a trip that was, for both of them. Despite the obvious desires to stay in a private room, sharing their bodies and their love for the entirety of the visit, they did find time for sightseeing in Nepal, and Jericho loved it so much that he was ready to move there. They were lucky. Only two years after they had first met, Navanit managed a permanent position here, and he and Jericho were married within a year after that. They're still happily together, and they visit the coffeehouse often."

Zenzero nodded his approval. "A love story to be admired." He paused, carefully asking, "What of Kenton and Javier?"

I took a good drink from my mug before answering. "I imagine that they found a private place to satisfy each other's lust. They were surprised that they enjoyed an afterglow together, since they were expecting it to be more of a 'quickie' than anything else. I think they may have seen each other a few times after that." I considered. "Not every love story ends up being a together-forever scenario. It's important that they shared something more than just the naughty bits. A bit more, that's all."

"That's enough?"

"Perhaps."

"Good." The lynx-like smile warmed slightly. "You are listening to yourself now as well. I'm proud of you, Grigio."

Quixos' arrival helped me to calm the sensation of heat rising on my cheekbones. The zebra pulled a chair over from another table and sat himself near us, his own mug at the ready. "Vincent has the front, unless we get slammed for lunch." He eyed me gently, smiling.

"We should be good for a bit, long enough for you to tell your story, at least."

"Yes, I'd rather like to hear it as well, if you don't mind," Zenzero said.

Nodding, the zebra took a breath and began. "Perhaps I should apologize for showing up in your dream; I wasn't sure what else might draw your attention. I don't mean that as an insult in any way. It's just not easy to... reach out."

"I've been getting my coffee elsewhere, I'm afraid." I smiled, raising my mug. "I should always come back to where the company and coffee are of the best quality."

"Flattery?" Zenzero questioned.

"Flattering truth?"

The tiger nodded. "A fair riposte."

Quixos took back the reins of the conversation. "The tale is an unusual one..." He held up a forepaw before I could voice an obvious come-back. "Hush. Listen." The zebra took the moment to sample more of his own brew. "I seem to remember that it was Poe who spoke of 'a dream within a dream.' So it may be with my friend. It began, he said with a dream about being part of a warrior race..."

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

...I don't have one in particular. Pick one; sci-fi-fantasy has hundreds to choose from. I wasn't in a war, in this dream; not even fighting. I was, perhaps, being a "proud warrior" simply through my presence, but nothing more was expected or required of me, in those moments. In fact, I was there because of a yowen.

The word "child" was used as a generic term for "not-yet-mature being of any species," to save the need for memorizing every specific term for the many species, although all were two-legged sapients of one kind or another.

So I was in this place in order to help a child. The place was something like a park or playground, alive with activity, parents and yowens alike, no one paying the slightest attention to me, save the occasional glance of the discomfort that one feels -- rationally or otherwise -- at seeing some member of law enforcement. I was not part of any constabulary, but my species and clothing (I assume; I did not see myself) commanded that sort of honorable intent. So many of us are intimidated by those who enforce the law, for whatever reasons. Some few are guilty; others feel that they must be guilty of something; others fear the sense of authority that might, perhaps randomly, fall upon their necks.

In this instance, I was not "after" anyone; I didn't need to play up that part of my image. All that mattered was the child herself. I knew that she was female, and I had some idea of her general features, yet I really had no idea what she looked like, save that she didn't look like anyone I'd ever seen before. Even that was simply an impression. In the dream, I felt sure that I'd been shown some image of her, whether photograph, painting, drawing, sketch, whatever; I could not bring anything about it to my mind.

The feeling of movement wasn't like padding forward. In dreams, there is so often the sensation of viewing as if in a film, where the camera-that-is-you moves forward without any jostling or whipping back and forth. I looked at the great throng of beings, some recognizable, some not, and I had no sight of the "girl" (another of those generic words that sometimes pops up our own society). I had no idea what I would do when I found her, or why I was supposed to find her, and nor did that concern me at all. Even in the dream, that was a disconnect that I couldn't figure out.

On waking, I tried to remember as much of the dream as possible, and that part was the most of it. I got out of bed, a little sluggishly, as if I still weren't able to shake free of the dream. Even as I showered, I kept trying to pull bits and pieces of it back to my mind. What did I know of the surroundings, the park, the other beings there? Who and what was I, in the dream? I don't think I could remember what species I was, beyond knowing that I was somehow part of this warrior race that was so well-respected that no one worried about my presence at a place primarily meant for yowens and their adult caregivers. No one questioned my motives, nor even made eye contact.

I feel certain that I didn't ask for information, stop passers-by to question them. I had no interaction with anyone. I had to do this thing on my own, whatever it was, and my species, uniform, whatever, was supposed to be enough to get me whatever I needed to finish this task, assignment, mission... There was no information in the dream. I don't know what it was that made me so special. Was it confidence or self-absorption?

Habit took me through my day, so much that I can't even remember what I did. I'm sure that I must have done something, but you know how it is when you're in a situation so plain, so unremarkable, that you don't really register it. Nothing was out of the ordinary; the work was the same, the meals ordinary, office tensions were high, but even that was "usual," sadly. It's the just the way things were. It's the truth of my life. I suppose there's something to the expression of sleepwalking through one's life.

That night held dreams, as does every night. That is simple fact; everyone has REM sleep, which is when dreams occur. Most often, we don't remember them. I had the sensation of a dream rather than remembering it. I was that warrior-race being, and I still sought the girl, and no one questioned my presence, and I questioned no one, and no progress was made.

At the office the next day, nothing was normal, usual, or uneventful. I was sent to an office of a senior member of management, my boss' boss. I had not met her before, although she seemed to know all about me. One of her secretaries was with us, and we were told to sit together, with chairs brought into the office for the purpose, to face a large display screen. We were there to watch a video about proper office procedures for the company, although the information was ridiculously simplistic. I think part of it included the "proper" use of a stapler, but I couldn't recall it clearly, it was that idiotic. It quickly became clear that this was some form of punishment, or perhaps retribution, from the highest level of management.

While this was going on, the owner of the company came in, spoke to no one, his face screwed up in exquisite disdain, almost loathing, for the three of us in the room. My boss' boss studiously ignored him, focusing intently on the video. After a few moments of this, the owner bent over the senior manager's metal trash can and vomited, profusely and elegantly, directly into it. I managed to hold on to my own stomach contents by focusing resolutely on the screen in front of me. I still couldn't tell you what I was watching, but I gave it my full attention as best I could.

Prowling around the office, the owner seemed to be choosing a time and place for another volley. This one nearly filled another metal trash can and painted a wall with a tan semi-viscous liquid that ran slowly over the various papers pinned to it. This time, I smelled it: the high, keening, sharp smell of stomach acid, alcohol, some kind of spices that I didn't want to think about in case some future dinner would be destroyed by this memory. Even the senior manager clutched at her nose, made agonized noises in her throat, taking some time before finally getting herself under control.

The owner waved vaguely at the wall, saying to no one in particular, "Get this cleaned up," before moving contemptuously out of the office.

For long moments, I was aware only of the stench, the horror of the display I had witnessed, and the droning of the ongoing presentation that continued making no sense whatsoever. It wouldn't have been new information even for the most junior of part-time office help, and I'm one of the company's accountants. Had we been brought in here just for the owner's perverse pleasure, for us to enjoy watching him puke on everything?

Movement to one side caught my attention, and I saw the senior manager's assistant starting the job of trying to clean off the wall. Her first attempt was to save whatever papers she could, but they were nearly pulped from the onslaught of corrosive bodily fluids. She began trying to wipe the wall with an overlarge sponge, the kind usually used on automobiles. I could hear her sobbing softly, trying hard not to complain. Her clothing would be ruined, because she had no protective gear at all, not even gloves. I started to speak out, to stop her, get her some help, and the senior manager next to me touched my arm, saying, "You'd only make it worse."

I couldn't imagine how anything could be worse, but I deferred to her wishes, if only because I didn't know what else I could do. I had no clout in the company, no ability to defy the obvious chain of command, and I certainly couldn't quit, not in these horrible times. I had no skills to trade, unless it was some sort of brute force, as befits my kind. I couldn't even save this poor secretary. She wasn't the child; she was too old, despite her childlike nature. I just sat in my chair, staring at the screen with the senior manager, wondering what I could do, for the secretary, for myself, even for this beshitted company.

Hell, I couldn't even balance my own checkbook, much less run the books of some huge company, and there was no one I could ask about how to do it, or to ask about the secretary, or about this girl, because no one in this yowen's park would even meet my gaze, because I somehow intimidated them, in spite of being just like them, or just like some of them, at least. I had been there long enough for them to be well aware of my presence. They would know me only by the reputation of my race and position; they would not know my name...

Whatever it was...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Quixos let his tale come to an end. He raised his gaze from his mug of coffee, looking at me calmly, waiting for my response. Zenzero, too, was leaning his elbows on the table, forepaws clasped before his chin, lacking only white gloves and dark glasses to complete an old meme.

"That's quite a tale," I admitted, buying time for me to sip some coffee. It was still hot, as if freshly brewed, which is another reason I loved coming to this shop, when I dared to let myself. The place kept me just drunk enough, as my mentor had put it, so that reality could not destroy me.

"What do you make of it?" the zebra wanted to know.

"Chinese philosophy." It is impolite to be too much of a know-all, especially between friends, but I can rarely resist. "A Taoist philosopher, can't recall his name, woke from a dream in which he was a butterfly. He could not then reconcile if he was a man who had dreamed of being a butterfly, or if he was a butterfly dreaming that he was a man."

Snorting softly, the white tiger smiled benignly at me. "More deflection, Grigio?"

"Not meant to be, although you've set me a challenge." I leaned back in the padded booth. "The idea is still a valid one, although this example is more stunning than others of its kind. Your friend sounds caught between two realities, either of which might be a dream, or perhaps both. You did mention Poe, Quixos -- a dream within a dream."

"What would make you sure of one or the other?"

"To start with, tell me his species."

Quixos smiled. "Cheating, Grigio."

"Merely deduction, my dear barista. In your recounting, your narrator mentioned no species of any kind in the office scenario, and no specific species in his warrior's tale, only that there were a lot of them. He wasn't even sure of his own, in the warrior scenario, beyond his being part of that 'warrior species.' This tells me that your dreamer is dreaming two dreams, intermingling them. I confess that I find myself wondering if perhaps, like Poe, he has secured some opiates."

Zenzero nodded slowly. "Some medicines used to alleviate pain have such ingredients, do they not?"

I nodded. "Oxycodone does it to me, and the relief from the pain is offset by very disturbing, disjointed dreams, often nightmarish. I can even experience auditory hallucinations that wake me out of a troubled dozing. I will hear a knock at my bedroom door, and no one is there."

"Not even us?"

"If you do come to visit me directly, perhaps you'd be so kind as to speak my name as well, to let me know that it's you and not some hallucination that I'd rather do without, thanks all the same."

"Then the dreamer is you?" the tiger asked.

"Every time I visit here, yes. I have dreamed all my life, even when I am in pain. I write when I dream, or dream when I write. Am I the writer dreaming that he is the dreamer, or am I the dreamer dreaming that he is the writer?"

"Are they discreet entities, or can they be one?"

"Can the waking and dreaming world be one? If so, I'll definitely take another of these fine coffees before I travel from this one to the next, whichever it may be."

"The fine and glorious mystery that is the Sacred Bean." The zebra grinned at me. "Some mysteries are meant simply to be enjoyed."

"I'll definitely raise a toast to that. However, there's one other mystery remaining from this tale you've spun." I sipped from my mug to heighten the suspense. Looking to the zebra, I asked gently, "Are you the McGuffin, or did you have something in particular that you wanted to tell me?"

Quiet held sway at the table for some seconds. The coffee-home slowly began filling for the first run of lunch crowd. These were folks whose days began an hour or two ahead of everyone else's, so their idea of "lunchtime" was put just as far ahead. One or two might be in for their breakfasts and first coffees, staring half-days, late-days, whatever. There were ebbs and flows here, but rarely is it truly idle. It has to hold so many souls, after all, and so many stories.

Like him, over there -- the cougar who always seemed to be dressed for a Renaissance Faire, his casual garb like a modern and less showy interpretation of the Romany outfits popularized in cinema. Affectation, perhaps, but suited to his profession as a reader of Tarot. His vision was clear, his words always gentle, and his insights rarely off the mark. No one "read the future," if he was honest, because (as he told his clients) "we always make our own futures." He simply told the story that the cards offered him, and the clients saw something different from what they had thought before. The change always made the difference, although sometimes...

The fox with him had been part of the adventure that made the cougar wonder about just how far his gift could go. The reporter was something of a crusader, a job that can draw all sorts of unwanted encounters, one of which caused them to meet in the first place. Quite a story, that one, and I had the feeling that there was more to be told about them. The reader and the reporter made an interesting pair, and it seemed to me that their stories were far from finished.

So many stories, I thought, and not for the first time.

Quixos smiled slowly. "Perhaps both. You are 'Grigio' only here, good wolf. I may be 'Quixos' only here. You come here for coffee, for that pick-me-up of place, time, beings more like yourself. You come here for me."

"And me," the handsome tiger grinned at me. "Sometimes, I have to yank you back into place."

The brightly-colored zebra took my free forepaw into his own. "Your days are painful enough without your dreams adding to your hurt. I came to you to remind you to come home, as often as you can."

"Home," I breathed, nodding slowly.

Casting a glance over his shoulder, Quixos said, "Vincent is going to want help as the customers begin piling in."

"I think Cavenaugh has arrived by now."

On cue, the sable appeared behind the counter, his fine black-brown coat gleaming, his black eyes shining brightly in the uncharacteristic beige mask on his face. His smile, never-dimming, made even the most impolite of customers ease slightly from their cloaks of irritation. Cavenaugh had been an impulse hire who had to be trained almost from the ground up, which wasn't a problem; telling or demonstrating only once was all he needed to grasp the idea fully, unfailingly repeating it properly from then on. He was something of a miracle worker, able to absorb and make happen virtually anything in any situation. It seemed to those around him that he could become anything he wanted to be, from barista to airline pilot, as the need arose. He did what was needed, and being needed was immensely fulfilling to him...

"Even so," the zebra acknowledged, standing, "I'm expected. Besides, Grigio, I would never hunt tigers in Scotland."

"Lysander might."

"Probably."

I kissed his forepaw, apologizing for my blunt intrusion on his life. I had not intended to bring up his faithless husband, especially with so little tact. "I would hope for better for you."

"Then perhaps there will be better." His gaze held me, asking plainly for what he wished. He released the gaze and my forepaw and went off to work.

At my side, Zenzero leaned closer and kissed my cheek. "You already know who, don't you?"

"How, as well." I returned the kiss before taking up my mug again. "A happier story for another time."

"What about the nightmares?"

I considered my coffee for a long moment. "Those, too, remain."

The tiger turned back to his mug as well. "Drink, Grigio. Even the dregs have stories."

"Yes," I murmured to the screen in front of me, watching the cursor blinking patiently. "Even the dregs."