One of the tunes that "I" enjoyed
An essay about personal enlightenment
I had finally made up my mind, after six years of prognosticating, to finally get rid of an old, worn-out, piano taking up space in my basement. While I am at it, I never knew that prognostication was a calling, much less a gift. But what do I know? I am not a scholarly theologian.
Okay. Time for you to face your destiny, you dusty, "cobweb trap" of a piano. I never knew who owned you, but you have bothered me since I moved here almost 12 years ago. I am running out of educated-guesses, so with my last guess, I am guessing that you belonged to the former tenant who treated you like a cheap, quick one-night stand one steamy Saturday night and left at dawn without a note.
Am I right? What? Oh, now do not tell me that you just spoke. Such foolishness only happens in television shows and sometimes a decent film made for the theater. Look, you dusty pile of forgotten lumber! I am not a man of high thoughts or even an I.Q. to brag about, but I do know that pianos and other inanimate objects cannot speak as we humans speak. So nice try. I know that my imagination can act up when I have to buckle down and perform manual labor.
Ouch! Now look. You sorry "splinter trap." My hand is bleeding from that rotting lumber used to make your worn out body. If you were human, I'd see you in court. Do you know how much a visit to an emergency room will run me? Well, do you? Of course not. All you've had to do over the time you have "squatted" my basement, and for free, I might add. I collect dust and act as a shelter for mother rats and their endless litters of babies.
I would bet that even when you were used, you did not sound all that good. People used you for a place to sit their drinks and ashtrays. I can see the cigarette burns still in your keyboard. Yeah, you were "star material" alright. So why did your former owner leave you behind?
Are you crying? Seriously? Well, I'll be a, just look! A small stream of water running down from your insides which may I add, do not look well.
Okay. I'll play along. I'll just sit down here in the dusty floor and hope that some family of mutant rats does not decide it's me they are having for dinner. What's that?! I do not believe that your keys made the sound of a child laughing. I know what it is. It is the affects of Mexican I had with my frat buddies at our reunion.
What? Hey, what is this? "Frank?" Get out from behind that mess of ivory and lumber. You might contract tetnus if you let a splinter prick your hand or leg.
Again? Hey, I like that song, "Frank?" Nice try playing a meloncoly jazz tune over your cellphone. You might have pushed me around in college, but those days are history!
Ahhh, that tune again. I am just going to play "hard ball" "Frank" and wait you out. The more I wait, the more you will get cramps from jamming yourself into a compact package to hide behind this heap.
I love that song . . .whomever is playing it.
I wish I had my girlfriend here, but she's with her folks in Cincinnati. Rats! "Sugar Blues," you know that tune? Sounds great on your "88's," but I have heard it on a clarinet for years. "St. Louis Blues," what's happening here? I might tap dance before long.
Hold it! That's just what you've been waiting on. Right, "Frank?" Then you could film me dancing and post it on YouTube for you and my friends to make fun of me. Not this time.
Okay, "Old Piano." Let's see just how many heart throb songs you really know.
What ya' waiting for? Hit it!
(Two hours later to the minute, I was in a wonderful nostaglic haze of jazz music that I had loved when I was in college. "Don't Talk About Me When I'm Gone," "Sweet Georgia Brown," "Anniversary Waltz," it was like my very own hit parade, but without a working piano. "Frank" never popped out. I give the dude credit for lasting so long in a cramped position).
Then I snapped back to cold reality.
I was interrupted by a knock on the basement door at the top of the stairs. I hate stairs. Please excuse me while I get the door. Okay, okay! Keep your pants on! I'm coming.
What is . . .