by Adam Resnick
The “!!!FREE PIANO!!! (NEEDS A LITTLE TLC)” listing ran on Craigslist for thirty days. In the spirit of self-flagellation, I relisted it for another thirty days. A friend of a friend briefly expressed interest, but his wife’s allergy to shellfish queered the deal. It was like trying to give away donuts in a graveyard (to borrow another phrase from my deeply disturbed shop teacher). Once the Kid realized we were really, really trying to ditch the thing, she had a change of heart: “How could you get rid of my piano?” she moaned. “I love that piano! I want to keep it forever!” Then she turned on the old sprinkler system and I looked for a gun to put in my mouth.
The piano had become a boarder in the apartment—one who was decomposing and fucking us on the rent. I found myself coming home later and later—anything to avoid being around it. Lorrie and I were fighting more than usual. On some nights, before my meds kicked in, I was convinced that if I lifted the piano lid, I’d find the lady on eight curled up inside it, weeping, “You promised to give it a happy home.”
The idea had been gestating, in one form or another, for some time. Finally, I saw an opening. The Kid was invited to visit a friend in the country for a few days over winter break. When she returned, the tale would go like this: Mommy read about a little girl in the newspaper who lived in a homeless shelter. Every night, the little girl kneeled by her rusty cot and prayed to Santa for a piano. But Santa was in a bind: How could he possibly fit a piano on his sled? That’s when Mommy got a great idea: What if we gave the little girl our piano! “A Christmas Miracle” we’d call it.
I pitched the plan to Lorrie, who’d been looking a bit fatigued of late but remained surprisingly sharp. Her only note was to cut “Mommy” and replace it with “Daddy.” I felt it was a juvenile request, but agreed in the spirit of compromise. I embraced her, elated that we were generally on the same page. “That’s why we’re still in love,” I said. “We’re always generally on the same page.”
There’s nothing more delicious than luxuriating in the minutiae of a diabolical plot. How thrilling once the chess pieces start traipsing about the board. My first move, obviously, was the most critical: getting rid of the thing. I mused about chopping it up with a hatchet and taking it down to the river in little pieces. Lorrie, as she’s known to do, came up with something a good deal saner. After making a few calls, she learned that the sanitation department, on select days, provided free curbside removal of “large bulky items” such as sofas, appliances, and, one assumes, the odd steel drum containing a state witness. Remarkably, pianos were part of the deal. I was a happy taxpayer.
We waved goodbye to the Kid as the Volvo Cross Country pulled away from the curb and headed north up West End Avenue. She looked so joyful, sitting in the way-back with her little pals, hugging her orange plastic sled. It was one of those wonderful moments when the important things in life suddenly come into sharp focus. Half an hour later, the porters had the piano hog-tied to a dolly and were wheeling it to the freight elevator. A trail of dislodged turtle food ran through our apartment and down the tenth-floor hallway—as if it were dropping breadcrumbs, hoping to find its way home one day. Nice try, prick. Rot in the dump.
The sanitation department collected bulk items in the early-morning hours, which meant it would be gone by the time I woke up. After dinner that night, I went outside for a walk. I wanted the satisfaction of seeing it out there, waiting for its ride. With a little luck, maybe a dog would piss on it.
The porters had set the piano on the curb around the corner. It stood alone under a streetlamp, looking resigned and undignified. The bench lay upside down on top of it; its ornamental legs jutted skyward like a dead click beetle. As people walked by, several stopped to acknowledge the instrument, as if recognizing an old friend who’d fallen on hard times. A family toting leftover bags from Carmine’s approached it and the husband solemnly remarked, “Well, that’s the saddest thing I’ve ever seen.” His little boy patted the key lid and murmured, “Awww.” Fearful of a chance look in my direction, I receded into my building’s courtyard to observe from the shadows, like an arsonist, returning to witness the blaze he’d set.
Lorrie and I spent the evening peeking down through a crack in the bedroom curtain, watching the parade pass by. People of every color and all walks of life stopped to pay their respects to the piano. There were varying expressions of outrage, compassion, and the somber uncertainty of life. I sensed Lorrie was in a funk, so I offered a different perspective: “People are full of shit. For all this melodrama, not one of ’em seems to want the fucking thing.”
She didn’t respond. She just gazed down at the street.
Finally, she said, “This was a mistake.”
Lorrie was worried that the lady on eight would see it and her heart would be broken. The piano had meant so much to her. It had survived all those decades in her family before briefly coming into our possession, and we junked it.
I understood what she was saying, but all I could really muster was, “Who cares?”
That touched a nerve for some reason and out it poured. She felt I had imposed my will on her, wore her down to get my way. We should’ve been patient. The piano could’ve been professionally cleaned. We could’ve found it a good home. I asked if she meant a farm where it would have lots of room to run around. Her nostrils flared, and she unloaded all the candy—calling me an asshole, a fucking asshole, a fucking jerk, and a pussy. I had a funny response on the tip of my tongue but withheld it in the interest of not getting clocked.
We went to bed in silence. It had been an intense day and I was exhausted. I fell into a deep sleep, occasionally roused by an “accidental” elbow to my temple. (Strangely, these nighttime fender benders had grown more frequent over the years, despite upgrading to a king-size mattress.) I thought about the lady on eight. I had simply been minding my own business when she inserted herself into my life. It was nothing new. The more I try to hide, the more they find me.
The sound of the Kid playing the piano was one of the most enchanting things I’d ever heard. Lorrie and I stood behind her, arms around each other, watching those little fingers whirl across the keyboard. Through uncontrollable sobs my wife thanked me for having the wisdom and patience to let the Kid revisit her dream when she was ready. She asked me if I could find it within my heart to forgive her. Then she put her hand down my pants.
I stirred awake, but the sound of the piano was still in my head, accompanied by rowdy laughter and shrill voices. It was two a.m. I rose and looked out the window. A band of shit-faced college kids, home for winter break, was gathered around the piano, taking turns at the keyboard. A few of the girls managed to turn out something like a melody, while the guys just banged on the keys like assholes, laughing, as guys often do, at things that aren’t funny. I tried to go back to sleep, but for hours it seemed like every student from Oberlin, Wesleyan, and Tufts took their turn at the piano while loudly exchanging such collegiate wordplay as. “Wooo!” or “My turn!” or “Dude, you suck!”
Sometime around four a.m., the street finally fell quiet. But I lay awake, eyes wide open, anticipating the approaching rumble of the garbage truck. I became aware of the sound of my own breathing when I noticed a hint of light outlining the window shade. Had I nodded off and slept through it? Again, I left the bed and peered outside. It was a steady snow. A cab was slowly edging down the street, fishtailing to a stop at the traffic light. The piano stood there undisturbed, white and sparkling under the streetlamp.
The blizzard continued into the next day. Alternate-side parking and garbage collection had been suspended. There would be no bulk pickup. Enrobed in a thick blanket of snow, the piano had taken on the appearance of a lavish cake or a piece of sculpture. People took pictures with their cell phones.
We were low on GoLean Crunch and completely out of milk. I was hungry and climbing the walls—but I couldn’t go out, fearing a chance encounter with the lady on eight. Lorrie, also gripped by cabin fever, had curled herself up in a small uncomfortable
chair usually favored by the dog. She smiled at me psychotically as she gnawed on a stale Teddy Graham. “Aren’t you starving?” I asked, hoping it would compel her to go out and bring back provisions. “No,” she replied, in a tranquil voice. “I’ve got everything I need for the rest of my life.” She put another bear in her mouth and swallowed it whole. Lorrie knew I was afraid of what was out there, and she was enjoying it. But I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction. “Well, I’m going out to get some food,” I said, grabbing my coat and stomping toward the door. “Some real food.” Then I stopped. Trying to be the bigger man, I gave her another chance: “You sure you don’t want to come along, hon? It’s pretty out.”
“Use your brain.”
She was clearly in a mood.
I stood in the elevator, tense and unable to breathe until the indicator safely passed the eighth floor. This was no way to live, I thought. The doorman and the porters were in the middle of a hushed conversation as I stepped into the lobby. They immediately clammed up.
“Looks like we got us a little snow out there, gentlemen,” I said in my best jovial, full-of-shit voice. Gabriel, the doorman, normally deliriously chatty on the topic of weather, just cocked his head toward the big glass doors and muttered flatly, “As you see.” The porters turned away, trying not to make eye contact. I caught a glimpse of the security monitor that sat on the front desk. A grainy black-and-white image of the snow-covered piano flickered in the upper right quadrant. It was striking and perfectly framed, as if Orson Welles had composed it for a dream sequence. Gabriel noticed me staring at it.
“Is pretty, right?” he said.
I pretended I didn’t hear him.
“Yeah, a lot of people say they would’ve taken it. Miss Orbach—4A—she told me she would’ve taken it.”
“Well, I don’t know Miss Orbach,” I grunted.
“She said maybe you should’ve put up a flyer by the mailboxes.”
“Tell her she’s welcome to towel it off.”
My instincts had been correct: by now, everyone on the West Side knew I was the monster who threw out the piano. The mob was already lighting their torches. By nightfall I’d be chased through the Ramble in Central Park before they’d have me trapped in Belvedere Castle. The last thing I’d see from the blazing tower would be Lorrie, cheering along with the crowd, as she shared a Teddy Graham with the lady on eight. I returned to the elevator. Venturing outside at this time seemed ill-advised.
It was another day and a half before the streets were cleared and sanitation services resumed. By then, the piano was waterlogged and noticeably sagging. No one tried to play it anymore. No one took pictures.
In the predawn twilight of a cool January morning, I awoke to a tremendous noise rising up from Eighty-first Street. It sounded like a tigress taking down an impala—a convulsive din of crunching and groaning, splintering wood, and the startled yip of snapping wires. Lorrie’s head rose briefly. She glared at me and then rolled to her other side.
The Kid returned the next day and I was truthful; I told her everything. Her face slowly contorted, and then the levee blew. I held her tight and apologized over and over, I told her how much I loved her, I offered to buy her another turtle and tossed in a water frog. She took the deal, but deep down, I knew we weren’t square. It was a betrayal. A scar. It was the my-father-got-rid-of-my-piano story; something she’d share one day with her college roommates, her husband, her children, and her psychiatrist. It would earn a few crucial frames in her final reel of memories and travel with her into the next life. When it comes to the bad stuff, there’s nothing too small that’s not worth dwelling on forever. I say, anyway.
• • •
I was making my way down the narrow staircase at Fairway Market, holding a box of herbal tea that’s supposed to make you smart. She was on her way up. I didn’t recognize her. Her hair was done—blown straight or something—and she wore a belted, blue-purplish coat that you could almost call stylish. She looked younger. I managed a clumsy smile as I tried to squeeze by. She took hold of my arm, and that’s when I actually saw her.
“I’m so sorry the piano didn’t work out,” the lady on eight said. “I’m just happy your daughter got to enjoy it for a while.”
I started to lose my balance and almost fell down the stairs, but she had a firm hold on my wrist.
“Well, you know kids,” I replied, as if reciting a line in a play, “they want one thing one minute and something else the next.”
“Oh, I understand,” she said with a laugh. “It’s not your fault.”
“We really tried to find it a home,” I went on, “but it just took up so much room and my mother’s coming for a visit and she’s not feeling well, so . . .”
She smiled and nodded and seemed to be counting the number of times my eyes blinked. Then she wished my mother well and said she had to run; she was picking up a few things before catching a flight out west to shoot a Lanacane commercial. “That was a lucky one,” she said. “It just fell out of the air.” Then she floated away.
About the Author
Adam Resnick is an Emmy Award–winning writer who began his career at Late Night with David Letterman. He went on to cocreate the Fox sitcom, Get a Life, and has written several screenplays, including cult favorites Cabin Boy and Death to Smoochy. Resnick has written for Saturday Night Live, was a co-executive producer and writer for HBO’s The Larry Sanders Show, and created the HBO series The High Life, which was produced by David Letterman’s company, Worldwide Pants. He lives in New York City.
* Chunky Chips Ahoy! (Chips—plural.)
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Contents
Epigraph
An Easter Story
Booker’s a Nice Guy
Playground of the Shrew
Scientology Down Under
The Panther
Substandard Risk
The Agitator Slat
The Porter’s Screenplay
Boy 6
Blue Yodel No. 13
The Strand Bag
The Lion in Winter
A Fork in the Midway
Boy Refuses to Hold Frozen Turkey
The Sensodyne Lady
About the Author