Tune Ups
For Pianos and Ourselves
Listen on repeat while you read: Piano Song
In this scene in my life, a woman takes out her rage on the piano my mother-in-law bought me from a thrift store. The thrift store proceeds go to the homeless, and the piano was a surprise gift after I mentioned wanting the kids to take piano lessons this fall and winter.
Linda, the brute, said it may not be possible to tune it. The keys are too sluggish, do I see that? The problem, she said, is they put too much weight on the piano with the design, and it causes it to… something. I couldn’t keep listening. She was so upset, pissed off, I dare say, at the piano. It’s the best I could do, I think, and feel shame fill me. She said it should have been looked at in the store to be sure it was worth tuning, and now she violently slams the keys as my boyfriend and I stare at one another across the dining table, silently eating our mush and raising our eyebrows every time there is a louder-than-usual slam of the keys. I point to her and mimic slicing my own throat, and he closes both eyes slowly and nods his head.
She wants us to be silent as she pounds, and so we adorn headphones and play music to drown out her aggression.
And if she only knew how much the piano meant to me. The gift from my mother-in-law, the way it reminds me of my own deceased mother, who used to play for me night and day. If only she knew what a piano key did to my spirit and the way I couldn’t listen to a song with piano in it for ten years after she died without sobbing. If only she knew the way the violence of her slamming of the keys made me feel, what it did to my tender ears used to mommy’s slender, gentle fingers.
And I feel the sadness well up, snuggled tightly under my diaphragm where I keep it down until she’s gone and it’s safe to cry.
A dear friend once posted something on the internet about how you never know how someone is doing, if someone is one slight away from total despair, and he urged kindness, sweetness toward others, always, just in case.
Her phone rings, and it’s the old piano ringtone, of course, we both laugh. I used that ringtone for my mom when she used to call, and I haven’t heard it in a long time.
She’s grumpy with the caller, too, dismissive, and annoyed at his/her intrusion.
And I listen now, headphones on, to a delicate piano song. It sounds like a fine grand piano, worthy of tuning. And now I’m sad for the piano. Sad for her rudeness toward it. For implying it may be time to give up on it, that’s it’s not good enough for a tune up, instead in need of deep repair. She said it would be an extra $270 to make the keys less sluggish. I said I’d pay whatever to make it playable. She seemed to ease up. She said it would need many tunings. I said that would be okay.
I thought of the way my husband and boyfriend moved it in with our favorite psychedelic moving company: movin’ and groovin’, and the work and expense of it all. Of the way we had already labeled each of the keys with the names and staff locations, the way the ones that were slightly sideways were done by my littlest, and of the way the fingerprints of both of my kids were already embedded in the keys.
And she’s moved to the low keys now, the eerie notes ring out of tune, and I agree that it needs a lot of work.
And my boyfriend stares up at me from his computer, a mischievous look in his eye, and I see he’s texted me from across the table:
I text him back:
And we laugh out loud and continue working.
Until he texts me again:
He knows I love those things. He knows my mood needs a boost. He knows this is torture.
And I want the piano lady to leave now. To take her grumpy elitist energy with her and to leave my piano perfectly tuned so I can play Chopsticks for the ten thousandth time and remember the way Mom taught me, the way she made anything look easy on the piano, and the way, even as early as November, the pain of missing her sinks heavily into my heart. This sort of sadness is usually reserved for late December and early January, but something about this beating on the piano is getting to me.
I’ve been thinking about tune-ups all week. I got my car looked at and repaired, and I went to the dentist, where they deep-cleaned and dealt with some nerve pain. I spoke today in class about specificity, about overcoming ambiguity, getting clarity, and knowing exactly what it is you want, exactly what it is that’s making you jealous, exactly what it is you want to feel, need, and desire. I talked about coming out of the mud, of cleaning the gunk off of our keys so that they slide into locks and open doors and treasure chests more easily. I spoke of finally pulling the rug back and taking a look at all the things we’ve swept beneath it, and finally addressing the things we trip over repeatedly.
I want a tuned piano for myself and my kids to sing and play with. I want to teach them Christmas songs and have us all gather around at Christmas and sing. I want to feel my fingers on the cool keys and play the songs Mom taught me over and over again and feel her with me, just a bit.
She pauses and asks if I want the top notes of the piano tuned. She says she’ll have to retune the middle keys if she does it. I say I’d like the entire piano tuned. I ask if she needs water.
The slamming and wacking continues. I think of running a bath to smooth my nervous system after she’s gone. She finds me in the bathroom, water running, and tells me it’s too loud. Got it. I say and stop the water.
She finishes and tells me to get rid of the stickers on the keys. I tell her I’m not looking for advice. I pay her and she leaves quietly.
“Good riddance, Linda!” I say exasperatedly as I lock the door behind her. “What a stuffy old bat!” Paul, my boyfriend, exhales finally.
And to all the Lindas of the world, may you be well and may you be kind and gentle with yourself, others, and with other people’s pianos.
And may our tune-ups be gentle too, and help us to play more smoothly and in tune.
Mom at the piano.
Much love and take care,
Amy