A Toast for Strypes
Steve Savitzky
for some time, finally comes in and waddles up to the bar. It is
rather old and shabby; its stained and matted fur has been rubbed off
in spots, and some of its stuffing has shifted into unsightly lumps.
Slung over its back it carries a toy guitar almost as old and shabby
as itself.
Over the next few seconds the teddybear transforms into a medium-sized
man, without appearing to lose any of its shabby, ursine tubbyness.
He is forty-two years old, 5'6", and overweight, with a salt-and-
pepper beard. He is wearing a black turtleneck, dark green pants,
worn-out shoes, and a belt with a pewter buckle in the shape of a
dragon. A large leather pouch dangles from the belt on his left side.
His Russian grandmother used to say that he looked like Rasputin; his
eyes, behind his glasses, may hold a distant hint of madness. On the
other hand it may be too much coffee.
The toy guitar, meanwhile, has transformed into a small, mahogany
Martin O-15 that appears to have seen some hard usage at some time in
the past. Its owner's name, Steve Savitzky, is written in black felt
pen in stylized letters on the leather strap.
"Wild Turkey, neat," the man says, eliciting a raised eyebrow
from Mike, who had been expecting Genever gin or unblended Scotch.
The man fumbles in his belt pouch for a single, drinks most of the
whiskey, and raises his glass:
"Well, here's to Aaron (Strypes) Becker--a damn good musician and a
damn good friend." <*CRASH*> "He died a week ago last Friday; figured
this was a good place to toast his memory. I know some of you folks
knew him."
A quiet voice from inside the guitar adds "And if he'd taken as good
care of his health as he did of his fiddle, you wouldn't be making
that toast." A shadowy hint of electronics seen through the soundhole
indicates that the guitar, at least, is not entirely in the real world.
"Shut up, Snuggles."
"Hey, I'm a fictionalized construct based on a character in a story
that you've been too lazy to get published; I can say anything I
want."
Steve leans the guitar up against Fast Eddy's piano, and goes over to
give Jilara a hug, reverting to teddybear form in the process.
--
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Steve Savitzky
becoming Steve in time to retrieve the guitar that has been making
quiet conversation with Fast Eddy and his piano. "You know, Snuggles,
that remark of yours about Strypes's health might have been in
slightly bad taste."
"Hrumf" (which on a guitar sounds rather like a muffled A9 chord)
"Anyway, you're the one I'm really worried about. If you don't start
losing some weight YOU'RE the next one due for a heart attack."
"Mike, a Bolls genever for me and silk & steel for the lady." Mike
pours a glass of greenish fluid from a brown ceramic bottle, and
reaches under the counter for a package of guitar strings, which Steve
begins to apply as he speaks to nobody in particular.
"You know, it's all these lonely people here that really make this
place feel like home. I mean, I've been there. I didn't meet my Lady
Colleen til I was in graduate school, and life was pretty grim in
spots.
"But anyway, this is the closest thing to a *place* that I've run into
anywhere on the net. I like it. Friendly. And the best way to find
friends is to be in a friendly mood in a friendly place."
"Shut up and drink," the guitar says. "It's after midnight and you're
getting incoherent. That G string is still flat."
Steve finishes tuning, and puts the old strings in his now-empty
glass. "To friends!" <*CRASH*>
Fast Eddy glances over and says "Hey, you gonna sing?"
"Maybe next time. Gettin' late."
"Besides," Snuggles adds, "He can't carry a tune in a paper bag."
The new strings give her voice a somewhat sexy shimmer.
Steve slings the guitar over his back and heads out the door.
"G'night, folks."