2093 A Piano and a Grassy Knoll
Not THE grassy knoll of JFK assassination fame. Just a random grassy knoll in the neighborhood. Three people are trying to move an upright piano from the back of a house, down the little hill and into a parking area.
The piano is resisting. It has on its side of this tug-of-war the help of a torrential downpour that passed through about an hour ago. The ground is wet. The three men are struggling. Although sunshine followed the rain, another storm could be lurking. If it arrives, the piano will sink.
This thing weighs something between 400 and 500 pounds. It sits on tiny wheels, wheels that would not handle a supermarket pushcart filled with a week’s groceries.
Can you imagine the scene at the emergency room sometime in the next few hours? “I was moving a piano and it fell on me.” Nurse Goodbody looks askance. “Are you sure?” “Yeah, says the assault victim. There as a guy watching and he writes blog posts and he saw it all.”
Doubt clouds her face. She may decide to call the cops who will question the blog poster who will say “Yeah, these morons were trying to get a piano down a grassy knoll. I didn’t see the actual incident, but I saw the opening act or the undercard. The piano was winning and I was writing about it at the time it must have happened.”
No charges for the “movers.” Good thing, too, because Mrs. Mover is known to be a flinger of canned food and has lost at least one cast iron frying pan that failed to hit her target and shattered into a million pieces, 25% of which remain scattered about the kitchen.
The first step was getting the thing onto the ground. Success. After that, it was nip and tuck for the first 15 or 20 feet. But at latest report, the score was tied. The piano is not moving. Not with the wooden skids they were using. Not with the ineffective brute strength they were using at latest view.
Best case scenario: they eventually get the thing into the parking space. Worst case scenario: the piano plants itself where it sits, wheels below ground level and stays there until the ghost of Liberace comes along, plunks a candelabra on the top and starts playing “The Beer Barrell Polka.” With any luck, that won’t happen at three o’clock in the morning.
--The ex and I had an ugly but beautiful full-size Baldwin upright with what I’d tell people had bullet holes in the side because it “belonged in a speakeasy raided by the cops,” which probably was untrue. She gave it to a friend. The professional movers played it standing sideways in the road. The sound was like a chorus of angels that never came forth while the gargantuan thing was in our living room.
I’m Wes Richards. My opinions are my own but you’re welcome to them. ®
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© WJR 2019