"Shhhh"

I hope musical instruments can’t read.  Or that someone who can will not nastily spill the beans.  I will write quietly so I am not overheard.  Keep it down. This is a clandestine operation.)

Do you remember the Seinfeld episode “The Barber”, where Jerry secretly switches to a new barber, because his longtime barber’s no good?

That’s where I am right now.

Not about barbers.

But about pianos.

I have owned the same piano for over 35 years.  It is an English “Knight” piano.  Used by the Beatles.  Not that exact piano.  Though it felt like it played “Yesterday” all by itself.

“We ‘Knights’ stick togethuh!”

I have been around pianos all my life.  Though I can barely read notes, and my fingers refuse to relax, that does not seem to deter me.  It deters me from playing successfully.  But I don’t seem to care.

Graciously, neither, over years of marginal improvement, does my piano.

And yet, I am cruelly casting it aside.

Not because it’s outmoded, or because it’s a “Senior.”

But because it is irreparably “unwell.”

The last piano tuner diagnosed a “cracked board”, causing most of my frequently played notes to buzz, ring, and run deafeningly together, making the songs I play sound more unnamable than usual.

“Is that song unrecognizable because of you, or the piano?”

“Both.”

In the somber tones of a doctor delivering “bad news”, I was informed that my “Knight” piano had unequivocally reached “the end of the line.”

That was two years ago.

Was there a miraculous recovery?

No.

I just could not pull the trigger. 

A thoughtless metaphor for what had to be done.

Then, last weekend, telling the piano… telling it nothing, leaving it agonizingly in doubt.  Pianos aren’t stupid.  They know they don’t sound like they used to.  But they pretend not to hear it.  As, for two ear-denying years, did I.

Now it’s just time. 

Sneaking furtively into the piano store, we saw a beautiful “upright.”  Tall.  Mahogany brown.  Polished to a “take-me-home-I’m-your-new-piano” fare-thee-well. 

When I sat down to play it, you could actually tell what I was playing.  The individual notes were so clear, it was like

“So that’s what pianos are supposed to sound like.”

Cheap shot.

But accurate.

With a sense of elation – where a sense of betrayal belonged –

I bought a new piano.

A “pre-owned” new piano.

But without a “cracked board.”

Later that day, I went downstairs with a tape measure, to make sure the arriving “replacement” would fit the designated alcove.  I could sense my venerable piano’s suspicion.

“What’s going on?”

“Nothing.  Just measuring stuff.”

You hate to lie to your piano, especially one so generously forgiving about my playing.  But what was I going to say,

“Thanks for the music.  You’re out”?

I know.  

I’m scum.

And I feel like scum, continuing to practice, awaiting the “New Fellow’s” arrival,

Plunking the keys with murderous fingers.

But that’s how it goes.

Old.

Broken down.

Considerably past its prime.

Today, it’s the piano.

Tomorrow, it’s…

Not me.  Though that’s also appropriate.

Tomorrow, it’s my 27 year-old Lexus. 

Which I no longer drive.  And is imminently slated for donation.

There is good news, however.

I got a new Hawaiian shirt.

And did not throw any of my old Hawaiian shirts away.

It’s not the same. 

But I like to end on an “up.”