Leaving Moosejaw	 And now, for my first excursion on the DS fiction
list, here's a little BL-inspired speculation on why Fraser couldn't make
it in Moosejaw. I'm pretty sure there are no spoilers in this, though
seeing Body Language first will probably add to your reading pleasure.
Enjoy!	LEAVING MOOSEJAW  by Heather Park-Albertson The two men sat in the
darkened end of the bar, watching the third man, young and intense, in his
conversation with the dancer. They could not hear, over the bump-and-grind
music blaring, what the young man was saying to the girl. His face was
deadpan, though, not split with the usual ear-to-ear grin most young men
would have pasted across their faces when speaking with such an animated,
and skimpily clothed--decorated, more like--young woman. Especially out
here, where she was likely the first woman they had seen in two or three
months. The girl got up and gestured toward the stage. Time for her
number. The young man made an earnest inquiry, then fetched a twenty out
of his hatband and offered it to her. Ah, the watchers thought--he's
hiring her for a table dance. The girl clearly thought the same, for she
began her routine right there in the fellow's face. A face which
immediately turned the color of his scarlet uniform as he looked away
modestly. He hastily uttered a correction--she was disappointed, but
pleased--as he gestured her back into the chair opposite him. "Ed, I'm
telling you, I don't know what he says to them, but I can't afford to lose
another one." "What do you want me to do about it? I mean, all he does is
ask them questions." "Immediately after which, they pack up and tell me to
get stuffed, they're going back home. I don't care what he says to them,
or what he does to them, I just want him out of here." "There's nothing I
can do. He's not on duty. And he's not breaking the law." "Well, give him
something to do, then--keep him outta my place, away from my girls." "I
don't have the manpower to move him onto another shift. And he's not due
for rotation for another six months." "Move it up. Get him out of here.
Find a reason." "Can't you just convince the girls to stay? Offer them
more pay, better tips, something?" "I'm already paying them what I can.
Look around you, Ed--this is Moosejaw, not Las Vegas. A girl ain't gonna
get rich dancing here. If she's lucky, she'll either move on to Calgary,
or she'll marry a customer. That's the best tip any of them can hope for."
The girl leaned forward. George knew that Fraser, if he bothered to look
like any healthy man would do, would see some of the most impressive
cleavage in his life. Fraser kept his gaze steady on the girl's face. It
was unnatural, how he could do that. Unmanly. She hung her head and
whispered something to Fraser. He shook his head and took her hands gently
in his. His reply was soft, kind--you didn't have to hear the words to
know they were gentle like his touch. She began to cry. He offered her his
handkerchief, apologizing for its starched stiffness. All Fraser ever did
was ask them questions. He never lectured them, he never pulled out a
bible, he never touched them--though he tipped very, very well, for a
fellow who didn't get the goods. Just those damn questions. And then
they'd come back to see him, George, before the next set, all apologetic
and sad, but happy, too. "I'm going home, George. Gonna give it another
go." Some of them went home to boyfriends or husbands, some back to
families, a few back to empty flats in some podunk backwater, still fewer
to broken-down farms. So far, not one had returned. His business couldn't
take it anymore. He was down to only six girls, and there Fraser was,
working on one of them. Succeeding, too, by the look of things. The girl
had that silly grin they all got after Fraser talked to them, and her face
was all lit up from inside, like a damn neon Happy Happy Joy Joy sign. She
spoke animatedly with Fraser, practically bouncing in her chair, hands
fluttering as she described something about the home she'd come from.
Fraser finally cracked a smile, encouraging her, even laughing once over
something she said. Finally, she nodded and stood up. Leaned over (George
was going to miss that view) once more and kissed Fraser chastely on the
cheek. He blushed, by God, blushed! And took out what George could only
guess was a hundred or so dollars from that bottomless hatband to give the
girl. Sure enough, she headed straight for George instead of the dressing
rooms. She started to speak, but George just sighed and waved away the
excuses. They were always so nice when the time came, wanting him to be
happy for them. And he was, he was. It was just that he found it difficult
to be happy for them while watching his business go down the tubes. George
heaved himself off the stool, went to the register, and drew out what he
owed Angelique (really, her name was Joan). After a moment's thought, he
pulled out another hundred. "Here, honey, you were a good worker. Get
outta here and get yourself a real life," George told her. She eyed the
money, knowing it was more than he owed her. He pushed it at her. "Take
it, it's yours." She took the money from him, slowly, almost like she
couldn't believe he was letting her go. "That's it? What about ... what
about my contract? You said--" "I said, get outta here and get yourself a
real life. How many time's a guy got to say get lost before you get it
through your head?" "I don't know what to say." Fraser came up behind her.
"I think a simple Thank You Kindly would do, Joan." "Thank you kindly,
George--Mr. Brandon. Thank you. Thank you so much!" Joan fairly skipped
away, back into the dressing rooms to pack up her stuff. Another one gone.
Another empty dressing room. Another set gone. Fraser met George's eyes
and nodded. He executed an about-face good enough for the parade ground,
placed his Stetson on his head with equal precision, and left the saloon.
George shook his head. "I swear, he's gonna drive my business into the
ground and I'm gonna end up thanking him for it. Thanking him kindly, no
less." George sighed and heaved himself back up onto the barstool next to
Sergeant Thompson. "The worst part is, I think I'm starting to like
watching them go." --DOOOMAH-OH (OR, THE END)-- Copyright 1996 by Heather
Park-Albertson on all original story content. Not intended to infringe on
copyrights held by Alliance Productions or any other copyright holders for
DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for anything other than personal
reading use without written consent of the author.