CTAS 11: The Sultan of Strings
Cycling Through a Storm
Previously, in Cycling Through a Storm One: Cycling Through a Storm Two: A House, a Boy, a Girl, a Car, a Dock, a Boat, a Hug Three: Starting Sequence Four: Yacht Race Five: Save the Hat! Six: Squid's Bar Seven: Sailors and Fishermen Eight: Maxhole Nine: Schwinn Continental Ten: Psycle Snobs Café
Lloyd paused inside the door. He carried a weathered violin case on a leather strap. Everyone hushed. Lloyd smiled, offered a startled parade wave, walked to the bar. His eager blue eyes were deep-set, curious. His gray hair was thin, his beard was thick, streaked with auburn echoes of youth. His duckbill cap had a white button above the bent-up visor: Ningún ser humano es ilegal. He was the only man in the Café not wearing shorts. His blue jeans were loose and worn at the knees. He wore a thin button-down flannel over a once-white T-shirt.
He rested an elbow on the bar, leaned close to introduce himself to Vic and ask about the beer selection. The tip of one of his ears had a triangle notch missing.
Vic brought Lloyd’s attention to the beer taps and asked what kind he liked.
“Oh, I don’t know really.” Lloyd removed his spectacles, rubbed his eyes, looked at the taps. “What’s that one with the apple on the handle?” His bushy eyebrows lifted his smile.
“Cider,” Vic said.
“Oh. What’s your favorite? You must know more about beer than I do. I should just have what you like.”
While Vic was tapping an IPA, Bob leaned onto the bar next to Lloyd. “I don’t see the demo bike back there,” he said to Vic.
Lloyd plucked a handful of crumpled bills from his pocket.
“It’s not back yet,” Vic said to Bob.
“Where is it?”
On the bar top, Lloyd smoothed some of the bills. “Is this about right?” He asked.
“Hang on,” Vic said to both Lloyd and Bob. He looked over his shoulder to Rachel, who was watching Lloyd trying to pay for his beer and shaking her head. “No charge, Lloyd.”
“You sure?”
“Part of your contract.”
Lloyd took a healthy sip of the beer, wiped foam from his mustache with his sleeve. “I don’t remember Rachel mentioning, but thank you!”
“You’re welcome!” Vic said to Lloyd, and then, turning to Bob, “Sorry, where were we?”
“You were going to tell me where my sixteen-thousand-dollar demo bike is,” Bob said.
“Right. With a friend.”
Bob’s eyebrows went up a little.
“It’s safe.”
“With a friend,” Bob repeated.
“Vic, I like this beer!” Lloyd raised his glass. He nodded at Bob, lifted his glass to Vic again, and then to Rachel, who waved and smiled back. He smiled and bowed at Rachel, then made his way over to the rug.
Vic looked down the bar again and was disappointed—Gust seemed to have it all under control.
“With a friend,” Bob repeated, again. “We don’t do loaner bikes.”
“Bob, I know that. I was caught riding in that storm yesterday and I got a ride from a stranger who wanted to help me out.”
Bob nodded. “A stranger.”
“I was going to be late getting the race last night, so she brought me to the river and dropped me off just in time for the race.”
“Nice of her. So, you locked the bike up inside the marina or at one or your friends’ place or something during the race?”
“Something like that.”
“Who’s got the fucking bike, Vic?”
“Her name is Sequoia.”
“Okay, fine—your friend Sequoia has the bike. Just make sure you get it back tomorrow. The rep is coming to get it Friday, and I still need to ride it.”
“No worries,” Vic said.
Bob’s eyebrows finally dropped to their usual level. “K.” He twisted away from the bar, marched away through the crowd.
Vic exhaled, through his nose. Then he looked to see how Lloyd was doing.
A woman stood, offered her stool to Lloyd. He glanced across to the corner of the rug where he’d be standing, thanked her. He didn’t take the stool with him to the corner of the rug. Rather, he placed his violin case on the stool, opened it, lifted his fiddle and bow. He closed the case and thanked the woman again, gestured for her to sit down. She beamed. He went to the corner, case in one hand, fiddle and bow in the other, leaned the case against the wall. He faced the room and lifted his fiddle. Everyone hushed, again (except for a few patrons far from the rug who seemed unaware they had scheduled their meet-up at an impromptu concert venue). Lloyd plucked a few strings, caressed a peg, then lifted the bow and launched into something Celtic, Vic—no fiddle expert—thought. Lloyd stood mostly in place, hopping in time with the music he was making, tapping the beat with his boot, or his knees or body while he sped the song up. Two young women bounced in time with the song, then tried dancing on the rug in front of Lloyd, but there wasn’t much room for that and they quickly gave up, resumed bobbing their heads and shoulders like everyone else.
Behind the bar, Vic tapped beer while Gust poured wine.
Rachel jumped in as needed to tap or pour, or ring sales. Coffee was no longer in demand. “Thank god,” she said snapping a switch on the espresso machine. Its LED lights went dark. “We were just one half-caf mocha nonfat Americano misto away from disaster.”
Gust occasionally went out from behind the bar to collect glassware when they were running low on pint glasses.
“Use the big latte cups if you have to!” Rachel fitted a cork puller to the top of a Cabernet bottle.
They hustled like that behind the bar through a lot of Lloyd’s songs and nobody appeared to care what vessel their beer was served in. Vic peered into a ceramic mug he was tapping with Guinness, guessing at when it should be tapped up a little more, when Lloyd finished a song.
“Thank you everyone,” Lloyd announced. “This has sure been a lot of fun. I’m going to take a short break, maybe get another one of these fine beers from Gust or Vic, and we’ll see whether if we tip ‘em enough they’ll let us play a few more tunes before they have to kick us out and close up for the night.” There was applause and some laughter near the stage. He found his pint where he’d set it on the floor by his fiddle case, put back what must by then have been some very warm beer.
Lloyd’s second set went well for Gust and Vic. At some point someone persuaded Lloyd to open his fiddle case, busker style.
“Thank you all, very much! I’m accumulating something of an embarrassment of riches here,” Lloyd said between two songs. “I’ll bring this home to my wife. She’s in charge of picking the charities.” People clapped and then he added, “I do usually sneak a little beer money out before I get home.” After some laughter, Lloyd continued. “If you have favorite charities, write their names on a dollar bill or a napkin and put it in there.”
It wasn’t dark outside when Lloyd finished playing. He took time to sign autographs and indulge fans wanting selfies with him.
Rachel told Vic he didn’t need to stay for cleaning up. “You should start riding while there’s still some daylight.”
“It’s okay,” Vic said. “I borrowed Stewie’s bike to get here and it needs a little work, so I was going to hang around to take care of that.”
Rachel nodded, waved him off toward the bike shop.
Vic hefted Stewie’s old Schwinn into the Park stand. He replaced the punctured tube, oiled the chain, re-lubed the hubs, replaced the tired brake and shifter cables with some from old stock (without replacing the vintage cable housings, though they were dry and cracked, crying for retirement). He tuned the bike without making it look different. He didn’t replace the original thin plastic handlebar tape with something more comfortable. He didn’t make changes Stewie might feel obligated to pay for.
While he was working on his friend’s bike, two middle-aged women still holding wine glasses wandered back to browse. “Just looking,” one of them said after Vic asked if he could help. “I didn’t know there was a bike shop back here.”
“There is!” Vic said, smiling and waving one hand around.
“Do you do all kinds of bike repairs?” The other woman asked.
“We mainly cater to the high end of the market.”
“What about that?” She asked, pointing at the Schwinn with her eyebrows. “I’ve seen those at Goodwill.”
“A friend’s bike,” Vic said.
Two men came back and joined the women, looked around the shop. One of the women gave Vic a pinky wave. The four returned to the Café, where Gust was lifting barstools upside down atop tables.
Vic re-hid Stewie’s bike, shut off the lights.
“Do you still have time to hang out a little?” Vic said to Gust.
Gust nodded. “I’m definitely ready for something we can’t get here.”
“I need to talk a minute first with Rachel—I haven’t told her yet.”
“Really?”
“I just found out yesterday, you know.”
“Yeah, I just thought, well—I thought if you told me, you must have already told Rachel.”
Vic shook his head. “You were the first one.”
Gust raised his eyebrows.
“Of course you were.”
They hugged.
“I’ll be down at the Pirate Bar.”
Vic nodded. “I won’t be long.”
“Good night, Rachel!” Gust yelled.
“Good night, Gust! Thank you!”
“You’re welcome!”
“Be careful! I love you!”
“You be careful! I love you!”
Vic turned the deadbolt lock after Gust stepped out, then took two barstools down and waited for Rachel to emerge from the kitchen.
Vic coasted down the hill to Smalley’s Carribean Barbeque and Pirate Bar. He carried his bicycle into the nineteenth-century warehouse that had been converted into a tourist-friendly collection of boutiques where Smalley’s was the only place that mattered. He put his leg over the saddle again and coasted to the back where the Pirate Bar was, nearer the water, the river, the St. Croix. The hostess was college age, maybe high school. She stared at him like, should she call someone about the guy who brought his bike inside? Vic smiled, paddled at the floor with one foot to scoot the bike on through, then leaned it against the brick wall behind a high-top table.
Gust, observing from a stool, his back against the bar, nodded, sipped his Dark & Stormy.
“Should I lock it up?” Vic asked, looking right through Gust at Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar.
Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar’s cleavage was such that Gust expected even his father should look right past him.
“Well, this is a pirate bar,” Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar replied. “Take your chances.”
Vic nodded, sat down next to Gust. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
“Yes?”
“What’s going on with Lisa?”
“Not sure.”
“What’ll ya have, sailor?” Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar asked.
“What’s on tap tonight?”
“Here’s a list.” Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar flung a sheet of sepia-toned paper with the list, in Pirate, and in an appropriately slanted calligraphic font.
“Maybe bring him a Kill Devil while he studies that?” Gust suggested.
Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar nodded. She plucked a glass shaker from a rack and measured things into it—rum, spices, lime juice, another kind of rum.
Vic studied the beer list.
“Here ya go, sailor,” Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar said, dropping the shooter drink in front of Vic.
Vic nodded.
“Figure out about a beer, or need more time?” She stood straight and arched her back needlessly.
“How’s that rum-casked old ale?” Vic asked, pointing past her at the taps.
She shrugged. “I don’t drink dark beers, but it’s been sellin’.”
“I’ll try it.” Vic lifted the Kill Devil, clicked the glass with Gust’s, knocked the shooter back. He put the empty lowball glass on the bar without slamming it down the way most people did.
“Stylin’,” Gust observed.
“No call for a show.” Vic wiped his forearm across his mouth.
Gust nodded.
“One old rum-pickled ale,” Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar announced, flipping a coaster onto the bar and landing a dark amber pint in front of Vic. “Menus?”
“Yep, yep,” Gust nodded.
Vic lifted the beer and sipped. He watched Brandy, the Wench Behind the Bar walking away.
Next: CTAS 12 - Fetching
I think I’ve heard that fiddler before.