Allister was not necessarily the most talented musician. This he never claimed to be. He knew enough though. Enough to play many a song on the violin and follow many a person. For that is what Allister did. He followed people with a violin. Why? Well, why does one where a tie? It was just something that he wanted to do. He learned the violin. He learned the bow. And then, he followed.

He would follow no one in particular and no one for too long. Just long enough to, for example, get them to the library by way of Stravinsky. He would, then, fade away behind a shelf of periodicals. Allister could be drawn to someone by the slightest tilt in their hat that drew the bow to play Tchaikovsky. Or two young lovers, walking hand in hand under the moon whose sweetness silently called for Allister to emerge from behind a tree or spring from a pot and pour Viotti from his instrument. And a person did not have to be mobile. Oh no. Allister would find people sitting. People sleeping. Anything could spark Allister to play for them-and stay with them (for a moment).

And he would improvise. Oh, how he would improvise. He would find a knife fight that fit neither Brahms nor Bruch nor composers who did not fit in this example of alliteration. And what was he to do? He would have to punctuate each stab, each movement with his own movements. There was no time to pray that no one died, for Allister was now part of it. The knives swung and jabbed with the melody. And perhaps it was for the best that Allister improvised during knife fights. For, if someone were to know the song, they would know where the decisive blow would come.

Allister would, of course, play for the more mundane, less daring moments in a day as well. There was fruit to be selected with the help of Mendelssohn and morning papers to be read with Schoenberg-though it is important to remember that Mendelssohn and Schoenberg were not, in themselves, mundane.

And, though many remained pleased, there too, were those who sprinted down dark alleys and dove into uncovered sewers whilst pursued by Allister playing Shostakovich. This became more common when Allister had reached a certain older age. Arthritis kept him less mobile. And, though, his sprint had lost its speed, Allister still felt the need to underscore. And so he did-in his wheelchair. An afghan over his lap and pushed by his nurse, Allister still followed.

And there were many who were still pleased. Though there were, still, those that ran in fear. And to see Allister deliberately following (and, at times, chasing) you in his wheelchair picking and plucking Shostakovich while pushed by his nurse was more than eerie. It was sinister. And, Allister knew this. Do not mistake for a moment that his mind had gone. Oh no Allister reveled in these moments, as he did all, as if an entire orchestra was supporting him.
​