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The Bear in the Cable-Knit Sweater
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    *****
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    *****
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    The Bear in the Cable-Knit Sweater

    I stand in the center of the coliseum, the pink sun blazing on my flesh, and raise the fairies I clutch in both fists. Their tiny bodies squirm between my fat fingers as they struggle to break free, but they're not going anywhere.
    I turn in a circle with the fairies held overhead, and the army of bears that surround me on the dirt floor of the coliseum stop snarling. They stand on hind legs with red or pink tutus fluttering in the breeze, some balancing on beach balls, some perched on unicycles. They stare with wide eyes, claws twitching in the Faerie world heat.
    And I wait for their answer to my question. "Who deserves the crush? " My throat hurts as I howl it at the top of my lungs. " Me or them? Me or them? "
    I feel the bears' eyes upon me, bulging with wonder and hunger and fear. The moment is upon them, a moment they never imagined.
    This is for you, Stan, I think, and then I roar , demanding their answer.
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    I was roaring last night, too, in a very different place--my favorite bar in downtown Pittsburgh, called Boilermaker's. I was surrounded by bears then, too, of the human variety. My people, my family , not by blood but by love. The only family who'd ever truly cared about me.
    I let loose with a roar in the midst of them, right after I blew out the candles on my birthday nachos. They cheered me with roars of their own, all of them strapping as lumberjacks. Ten big boyfriends clapping and kissing and throwing back beers and whiskey shots with bold abandon. Saluting our flag with the bear's paw in the top left corner and the stripes of brown, tan, white, gray, and black. All of us card-carrying members of the local chapter of the International Bear Brotherhood.
    My people.
    "Welcome to your thirties, Angus!" My partner, Stan, slung an arm around my shoulders and shook me hard. "How's it feel to be over the hill ?"
    I punched him in the stomach. " You tell me, Sluggo!" That was my nickname for Stan. A real term of endearment for the man I loved and still love more than anyone or anything in any world.
    Stan looked like Ernest Hemingway with his bushy gray hair and beard, his barrel chest. " Screw you, Angus!" Laughing, he scrubbed the thick brown hair on my head in a brutal noogie.
    " You wish! " said one of the guys--Horst or Louie or Al--and everyone cracked up.
    "Another round!" said Stan. "For Angus' birthday!"
    "Last man standing gets to kick his ass! " Big-bellied Horst shook his half-empty beer mug at me, jet black mutton-chop sideburns curling away from his ice cream grin.
    Stan cracked his shot glass down on the table and stomped in front of Horst with shoulders squared under his red flannel shirt. "You'll have to go through me first!"
    Suddenly, a crash like a thunderclap exploded in the room. We all looked toward it, though we already knew the source.
    Sure enough, Pete the bartender/owner had brought the ol' baseball bat down on the bar again. " No fighting, jagoffs!"
    Who could blame him? Last time the bears had gone ballistic in there, Pete had ended up with a shattered front window.
    Not that we didn't love Pete or Boilermaker's. Not that we didn't pay to fix that busted window. It's just that that's the way we were. Rough and tumble. Loud and proud. A real band of brothers.
    With benefits .
    Pushing past Stan and Horst, I did what I used to do best--deflect with humor. "Who you calling jagoffs, pal?" Rolling up the sleeves of my heavy white sweater, I charged the bar, smacking my hands down hard on either side of the baseball bat...glaring up at Pete, way up at Pete, from my