A is for Avbytare
Introduction to “Avbytare”
This is based on a true story. My father-in-law has a friend who used to run this scheme on her alcoholic husband, just so she would have grocery money.
She didn’t have a shape-shifter, though, just some local thugs, but there’s no story that wouldn’t be improved by adding a shape-shifter...I mean, think about it.
Actually, we have no idea what it’s really called. Mrs. Simonson calls it an “Avbytare,” which she pronounces “Ahv-BIT-uh-ray,” which she says is Swedish...and since it’s living in the craft room in her basement, it’s hers to name, and since she’s Swedish, I guess she’d know.
She found it rustling through her compost pile out back; apparently it has an affection for squash and those sorts of things, most of which Mrs. Simonson grows but Mr. Simonson doesn’t care for (thus the abundance of them in the compost).
It wasn’t scary or anything like that; it seemed to be more scared of Mrs. Simonson than she was of it. In fact, that first night, when Mrs. Simonson surprised it, she discovered that it did an amazing thing when it got scared. It changed shape.
Not into a square or a circle or a tree or anything like that. No, when Mrs. Simonson surprised it at the compost pile, on a full-moon night when there was plenty of light to see, it changed from a pile of muck into a pretty good copy of Mrs. Simonson. She said it was quite a surprise to be staring across the compost at herself.
Mrs. Simonson was always a resourceful woman, which was a good quality to have, being married to Mr. Simonson and all. See, Mr. Simonson was generally a decent fellow, but he had one particularly bad habit; every Friday when he got paid, he would cash his check and stop at the bar. Stopping at one bar, well, she could expect that, but he would usually blow pretty much the whole paycheck at several downtown bars before coming home. This made Mrs. Simonson’s household budgeting a difficult and unpredictable task.
So, Mrs. Simonson took the Avbytare into her house; specifically, she took it into the basement, into her craft room, and set it up with a cot and some bedding. Mr. Simonson wouldn’t be caught dead in her craft room.
In the long hours while Mr. Simonson was at work, Mrs. Simonson taught the Avbytare. Taught it how to change shape even when it wasn’t scared. Taught it how to change into different shapes, using pictures of people that Mrs. Simonson would cut out of magazines.
So the next Friday night, Mrs. Simonson sent the Avbytare down to the bars.
Imagine Mr. Simonson’s surprise to find Scarlett Johansson in the parking lot as he came out of the Sportsman’s Lounge, smiling and waving him over! Imagine his surprise next, to find a gun in his ribs, and a hand in his front pocket grabbing his roll of bills. And imagine his surprise to be tapped on the head just hard enough to knock him down and prevent him from staggering after the blurred vision of Scarlett, disappearing through the parked cars.
Mr. Simonson didn’t mention it to his wife when he got home; it was much too unbelievable and he had begun to wonder if his memory of the night was reliable, what with the drinking and all. He did notice the next day that the pantry seemed fuller than usual, and that there was a 12-pack of his favorite beer, rather than the usual 6-pack. But he didn’t think to mention that, either.
Mrs. Simonson sent the Avbytare down to the bars every Friday night, and every night the same thing happened. Well, not exactly the same. One Friday, Mr. Simonson saw Amy Adams. The next, it was Halle Berry. But it always ended the same way.
After about a month, Mr. Simonson decided that this crime wave, of which the police had received no other reports, made things too dangerous out there, and he did his drinking at home.
That satisfied Mrs. Simonson, for awhile. It was nice to have regular money to pay bills and buy food. But, she had to admit, it was an...adjustment to have Mr. Simonson home every night.
But she’s a resourceful woman. I’m told that recently Mrs. Simonson has begun cutting out pictures of Chris Pine.
