It was a clear night in Chicago's Hyde Park neighborhood. A few pieces of stray paper and plastic cups cluttered along the street, but other than that, it was quiet. Then, tones of jazz music began to drift through the air, from a little neighborhood place called Katzroy's.
Sazh had done well fro himself for the past few years.
After retiring from the Air Force, he'd settled down and bought a nice house for himself and his family. He didn't just want to coast through his retirement though, and decided to buy a small piece of property in the neighborhood, and after much thought he'd decided to turn it into a jazz café, bearing his name. After all, jazz was always one of Sazh's hidden passions. It had since become beloved by the artists, college students, and families that inhabited the area. The café's most popular sell was little bread buns, made possible by Sazh's loved wife Sarahi. It had been said that once one tasted their first bite of one of these bread buns, your soul belonged to the Katzroys.
On this particular night, a Southern gentleman found his way into Katzroy's, and this happened to be one of the nights that Sazh himself worked the counter. "What can I get you?" he asked his guest.
The man thought. "Surprise me," he finally said.
Sazh decided to make the house special- an iced tea, cherry-flavored, and with just a hint of vodka. He called it Cold Blood.
"You're not from 'round here, are you?" asked Sazh.
The man shook his head. "From Atlanta. On my way to the Mall of America. Just stoppin' through, though I might stop by sometime if I enjoy myself enough."
Sazh gave him a friendly nod. "Welcome to Chicago…"
"Rygdea."
"Rygdea," he repeated, handing over the finished drink.
"Whoo, that's an interesting taste." Rygdea winced a bit before drinking more. "So, you're the owner of this place, right?" He gestured to the oil painting of Sazh and his wife on the wall. (Okay, that was probably not necessary, but
Sazh believed one always had to look authentic to be authentic.) "How is it? It pay well?"
"Well enough," replied Sazh. "It's enough to put my son into private school, and that doesn't come cheap 'round here."
"Seems like a good enough spot." Rygdea looked around.
"I meet a lot of interesting people here, yeah. The high school kids come in weekday afternoons sometimes. Then the college kids come in and study. I get a lot of artsy types here too- this neighborhood is known for being artistic, so they come and go, as artists do. It's only every now and then that I get a normal, quiet family to sit down in one of the booths." Sazh smiled. "And then there's the musicians. A lot of them come through here. Some of them even perform."
Rygdea enjoyed himself that night, and decided to come back again when he had the time.
The first time he returned, he'd moved from Atlanta to New Orleans to become a gator hunter, and this time around he met Sarahi and Sazh's son, Dajh. He also tried the bread buns, and with that he was sold. He'd have to come back a lot more.
Meanwhile, Sazh had found a young group of jazz musicians that lived in his complex, and had started to play with them. They practiced well into the night, which his wife did not approve of, but she didn't raise a huge fuss about it. Sazh had always loved both the saxophone and the drums, long before the Air Force, long before he'd met her.
"Daddy, daddy!" Dajh said happily as he entered his home. "Guess what?"
"What?" Sazh encouraged him.
"Teacher is having us learn about music and instruments in class!" Dajh replied. "We all had to pick one, and we'll learn how to play!"
"Guess which one he picked," added Sarahi, holding an instrument case.
"Let me show him!" Dajh unlatched the case, revealing a child's saxophone. "Now I get to play just like you, daddy!"
Sazh laughed gleefully. "You sure do," he said. "You know, son, if you're gonna be a jazz musician, you know what you need, right?"
"No, what?"
"A nickname!" Sazh laughed again. "All the greats have had nicknames. Everyone in my band has a nickname. There's 'Nylon Strings' Dean, 'Sweet Low Notes' Sam, and Clarinet Cass. Oh, and your old man is Jazz Man Sazh."
He thought. "Well, I've seen you groovin' at the café sometimes, so why don't we call you Dancin' Dajh?"
"Yay!" Dajh clapped his hands. "Daddy, does Mama get a nickname too?"
Sazh looked like he was going to think of one, but Sarahi objected, "No."
Upon Rygdea's next visit, Dajh had learned a simple melody on his sax, and Sazh convinced the boys in the band to let him come up on stage and play with them. Jazz was always more fun when it was spontaneous. Rygdea sat at one of the small coffee tables, watching. While he watched the performance he decided, if he wasn't too old already, that he'd find himself a wife in New Orleans, and have a son that he could bring along to his work, just like his good buddy Sazh.
[A/N]: Whoo, finally typed this up!
Sazh was the easiest character to assign to a neighborhood, so he's up first. Hyde Park is an interesting neighborhood; although it has a moderate crime rate, it's also one of the most popular neighborhoods in Chicago. There really are small jazz cafes in the area, by the way, and although it isn't mentioned directly, the complex that Sazh and his family live in is called Cornell Square; I had a relative who lived there, and it's amazing.
For those who might be wondering why Sazh's wife is… not dead in this, I don't believe a single dad could open a café all on his own, especially if he's retired. He needs his wife there to be his rock, theoretically.
The names of Sazh's bandmates come from Supernatural, if you didn't guess that already. (Bonus points if you did!)
By the way, I'm not old enough to drink yet, so if someone wants to try to make the drink in the story, I only ask that you leave me a review telling me how it turned out. (P.S.: The written version also calls for watermelon juice, but I took that out because it turns out that watermelon juice and tea are dreadful together.)
