The Piano Man
The time is the distant past.
This would be the dissolute period prior to the lovely Mrs. Borengasser.
I have decided that I need a hobby. It’s not that I’ve had no hobbies. I’ve actually tried several.
Idleness was a fine hobby for a while … till I realized there was really nothing to do. I guess I just expected a little more from something referred to as “the Devil’s workshop.”
Overeating was a nice one, except, after about six months, I had to begin a new hobby – dieting.
And, today, I still pursue the worthy hobby of napping.
But I was looking for a more socially redeeming hobby, something with a little more status.
So, I buy a piano.
Unfortunately, I have little money. I’m forced to purchase a used upright piano.
You don’t see upright pianos anymore. Let me tell you why – they’re ugly and weigh exactly the same as Mount McKinley.
That doesn’t discourage me. I buy an ancient black piano – did I mention that they’re ugly – for seventy-five dollars and begin taking lessons. I’m all set. I have everything I need to get started – except, of course, talent and ability.
Unfortunately, within months, I begin my nomadic period – moving to other houses and other towns. I have to suspend my lessons and practicing. Just a brief hiatus, I tell myself. So, I drag the piano to every new residence, leaving a trail of scuff marks on the floors and moving men with bad backs.
In one city, I have to store the piano at the office because the movers can’t get it up the three stories to my apartment.
One Monday, I arrive at work to find the piano gone. I’m shocked. Who would steal an ugly piano? The only clue I have is that it must be someone with horrible taste.
No one at the office knows anything. But a shop owner next door tells me he had seen a moving van at the office over the weekend.
He doesn’t stop there. He calls all the local moving companies till he finds the one that had made the pickup. Then, he has a policeman he knows contact the moving company and demand the name of the person who made the arrangements.
The culprit is a fellow employee.
He had taken the piano for his daughter, who had then “antiqued” it. Sadly, “antiquing” meant spray painting the entire piano white, with gold paint around the edges. She managed to transform what had been merely ugly into something truly hideous.
Once the piano-napper is found out, he enters my office and actually says, “Will you forgive me? I know that God has.”
This puts an incredible amount of pressure on me. I don’t want to be the only holdout on forgiveness. Yet, it would be the height of arrogance to put myself on the same level as God.
So, I tell him, “No.”
After decades, and at the persistent request of the lovely Mrs. Borengasser, I finally sell the old upright.
And, shortly after that, I buy a lightweight electronic keyboard.
“Why?” asks the lovely Mrs. Borengasser, puzzled. “You never played the piano you had.”
“If I’m not going to play the piano,” I explain with rock-solid logic, “I want to not play a good one. Besides, I did take lessons at one time. It’s not as if I can’t play.”
“Really? You can play?”
“Absolutely,” I assert.
“What?” she asks. “Any popular songs? Something classical?”
“No, but I can play a beautiful old Oriental piece,” I assure her.
“What’s that?”
“Chopsticks.”
“I don’t think Chopsticks counts,” she says. “What else do you have in your repertoire for tickling the ivories?”
“What I do probably shouldn’t be considered tickling the ivories,” I admit.
“What, then?”
“More like goosing the ivories.”