A Baby Grand Piano

 

“Hello? Hello? Excuse me? You are a friend of Sutton?”

A nondescript silver car has pulled up alongside me. I’m on the last block of my evening walk, heading home against the wind that never stops. Who is this hailing me?

            I look inside the car with a loud yapping dog in the back seat. I don’t see the dog, but I hear it. Its barking is shrill and incessant.

            The driver of the car is an old white lady in a blue flowered strapless Culotte getup. The spaghetti straps hang loosely over her bony shoulders; the seatbelt fastened across her chest. She’s nervous, visibly so, not shaking exactly but hesitant in her speech.

            Who is she?

            I do know Sutton. He’s a cat that lives up the street. For months there were signs in the window that he had ‘penned’: “Hi, I’m Sutton. I’m 3 years old.” And then the next week a sign would be beside the first one: “I’m a tuxedo harlequin cat.” Finally, after a couple of weeks a third sign appeared: “I am a rescue cat. My sister’s name is Rosie.”

            Sutton would sit serenely on his cat architecture, gazing out the window at passersby. “Hi Sutton!” I’d call out.

            He’d blink slowly, then stare past me at a leaf blowing down the sidewalk beside me.

            Was this woman now Sutton’s mom? I had met her once, but don’t remember anything about her except she was an old white lady. This could be her. Or obviously, it was her.

            “PJ told me that you play and teach piano?” she said now, leaning toward me from the driver’s seat, the dog’s yapping intensifying.

            “Yes, I do,” I answer, thinking maybe she wants to take piano lessons. That would be cool. I can always use more students.     

            “I have a baby grand piano,” she continues… “and I’m wondering if you would like it or if you know anyone who might like it. They’re just giving them away now, you know?”

            I nod, knowing this is true at the same time wondering why she’s asking me if I want her piano. I have a piano. Shouldn’t this be obvious? It’s like when people find stray cats or kittens and then know I have cats and ask me if I want the found cat. I already have a cat. Why would I want another one.

            I already have a baby grand piano. Why would I want another one?

            I don’t say any of this to her, though, just mention that one of my piano students did, in fact, find a piano for free at an estate sale. All he had to do was pay to move it.

            She ignores this story and continues.

            “If you want, you can stop by and check it out. See what kind of condition it’s in.  Play it if you want….”

            Her voice trails off. The dog continues to bark.

            I’m a piano broker now? It’s so strange to be stopped on my walk to be offered a free piano or to ask if I know anyone who wants one. Though, in a way, this makes sense, I suppose. I do teach piano and one of my students might need a piano. I did give my old piano to one of my students. It happens. But I honestly don’t have time to go around checking out used pianos and finding homes for them.

            Though…I am curious about the inside of her house and seeing Sutton again.

            “I’m moving. Well…my daughter is moving me….to a retirement community…”  She pauses, musing briefly. I wonder if she wants to move or if it’s a daughter instigated action.

            “Where are you moving to?” I ask.

            “San Diego.”

            “Oh, my mom and sister live in San Diego.”

            She ignores this and continues with the piano talk. “I’m home all the time. I see you walking past my house everyday. You could just stop in and check out the piano….”

            The dog’s barking becomes shriller if that’s possible. Why can’t I see it? I wonder. Maybe she has it in a small dog kennel behind the seat. It sounds really mad!

            “I have to go now,” she continues. “My daughter…she’s expecting me…. I have to go pick her up.”

            “Okay,” I say, smiling. “Maybe I’ll stop by sometime. When are you moving?”

            “Oh, not till the end of the year. I just want to get this piano taken care of.”

            “Won’t you miss it? Do you play?”

            “Oh…” she giggles softly. “I do, but not very well. I just play for myself. You know what I mean?”

            “Yes, I do,” I say, thinking how at this point in my life I only play the piano for myself unless Ian is around. He likes to hear me play Ponce’s Intermezzo #1 in E minor and Chopin’s Waltz in A minor.

            The yapping becomes frantic and even louder. “Oh, dear! I’m so sorry. I have to go…”
            She puts the car into gear and pulls away from me. I watch her taillights turn red at the stop sign and then the left-hand blinker goes on.

            I continue home. It’s only a few hundred steps away. As I turn up the walkway to my house, I hear the notes of Chopin’s Waltz in A minor floating through the air. It’s my piano student across the street, practicing.

            Unlocking the front door, I step in. The baby grand piano greets me. I kick off my shoes, head over to the keyboard and start playing the Ponce, letting the melody carry me away to another world of romance and magic. In Mexico. By the sea. Palm trees singing in the breeze.

Lang Lang plays Ponce Intermezzo

            Another world that only music can take me to. With  a little help of a baby grand piano. Of course!

Sophie

 

“You can come in.”

Do I dare? I’ve been walking by their house for years, saying ‘Hi’, how’s the cat? Then the cat died. They got two more cats, Sophie and Pebbles. Siblings. But unlike the cat who died, Lucy, they were indoor cats. I’d never seen them, let alone met them.

            My neighbor, whose name I didn’t know, (Yes, I know all the cats’ names, but rarely their owners) stepped over the threshold, short, balding, bad teeth, Raiders’ T-Shirt. In fact, there had always been a Raiders Flag flying outside their house, whipping in the wind as he and his wife sat on the porch, puffing on cigarettes.

            She was here today too, but over in the driveway, supervising some worker guy taking apart the door of their old Toyota, the door lying on its side on the drive, wires and marron stuffing spilling out of it. Of course, I wondered what had happened to the car, but I didn’t ask. Instead I just asked, as usual, how the cats were doing.

            Hence the invitation to enter the house, “Sophie’s right in the window,” the wife said, tucking a long stringy strand of dishwater blond  hair behind her ear.

            “Is she?” the husband shook his head. “Oh, yeah. Here she is.”

            The door was open and as I stepped inside I was confronted by an environment that mesmerized me by its insanity. The curtains were all drawn; not an ounce of light entered the cluttered living room. It was dark, smelling of cigarettes and stale beer. A huge screen TV was on, neon flashing of Raiders’ logos in fluorescent limes and fuchsias. The floor was covered with stuff. Boxes, strewn clothes, the coffee table piled high with dirty beer glasses and ashtrays.

            The place was another world. One that I never would have guessed existed. How could I imagine such a place that was so far removed from my own place of space, light, and music.

            The cat, though, sat proudly on the high shelf just inside the door. Tall and regal and large, she sported a plush grey and white coat, white paws and whiskers. She blinked at me with green, yellow eyes. I held my hand out to her and she took the invitation, nuzzling me with her wet nose and rubbing my hand with her lips.

            “Oh, she’s a lover!” I exclaimed.

            “Yeah, she is,” the owner chuckled. “Her sister, on the other hand, is a shy one.”

            “And she’s so large!” I continued to pet her smooth coat and Sophie responded, rubbing up against my hand, purring softly.

Image Credit: Nynke van Holten, Shutterstock

            “She is!” the wife was at the doorway now leaving the car dismantle man unsupervised for a moment. Cats are always the priority. “I have to monitor her food intake. Keep her away from her sister. Or she’ll eat all the food. The sister is smaller. They’re sisters. But they are different.”

            And I think. Yes, sisters are different. I and my sisters have differences, in looks, behaviors and psychologies.  We are different sizes. Well, my middle sister and I are about the same size. But my little sister is more athletic, strong and solid. She has brown hair and olive skin, like my father, whereas my middle sister and I are blonde with fair skin, like our mother.

            I think we would share our food though. In fact, my middle sister just mentioned yesterday how she could live with me cuz we eat the same food in the same amount. Bagels for breakfast. Quesadillas for lunch. Pasta and broccoli for dinner. The occasional cookie. Though she doesn’t like to layer the M&Ms on the cookie like I do.  It’s too much for her.

            And my little sister? I think she eats more variety. Maybe she eats bagels for breakfast. Maybe not. I don’t know what she eats. I do know that she bakes a mean apple pie though.

           

            Sophie backs away a little now. Maybe she’s had enough pets? I’ve had enough cigarette air and spooky Raiders room.

            I back out, turn to head down the stairs. “Thanks for the visit with Sophie,” I tell them. “She’s a beautiful, large and friendly girl.”

            The couple beams. “That she is!” the man agrees, twirling an unlit cigarette between his rough brown fingers.

            Car dismantler calls over to them, says something unintelligible in Spanish. Sophie’s dad answers.

            In Spanish.

            Great! I can practice my Spanish with them next time I walk by.

            But I don’t think I’m going to go inside that house again. It was out of a tarantula’s nightmare. Dark, sticky, smelly, scary.

            Heading down 31^st street, I quicken my pace to cross the street before a black Ford Exploder plows me over.

            On the other side of Roosevelt I breathe the fresh air in deeply, before turning the corner to tromp down Downer Street, a crow cawing overhead as it dives for a piece of garbage left in the middle of the street. 

Cat Humping

 

“That’s impressive that they’re next to each other eating.” I’ve stopped midstride to comment on a pair of cats, one black and white, one grey plush, head-to-head, chowing down on bowls of kibble. A woman, white middle-aged cat lady, stands in front of them on the front lawn, phone in hand, taking photos.

            “Yes, well, it’s taken some time. But the black and white one is very aggressive.”

            I nod, thinking about my own pair of tabbies back at home. Little old lady Ivy, a new comer to the house, AKA The Mansion, has turned out to be the aggressive, dominant cat. Always meowing loudly at poor little Clara, who turns tail and runs to hide: on top of the refrigerator, behind the washing machine, knocking over the photos on the piano. I feel bad about this dynamic, but what can I do? It’s the way of cats; one is always going to be top cat.

            “I know what you mean,” I say to Cat Lady now. “But my two cats wouldn’t eat next to each other like that.”

            She smiles at me, clicking a photo.

            “That looks like Smoky,” I say pointing to the grey plush cat.

            “Oh…” she sighs, shakes her head, “Smoky is no longer with us.”

            Immediately I think he’s been run over. These cats in the neighborhood just meander across the street without looking both ways. And people in the neighborhood drive like Poop Heads as my piano student calls them. Screeching up and down the streets, doing donuts in the intersections, passing each other at stop signs when a pedestrian wants to cross. It’s the Wild West!

            “Oh, I’m sorry to hear this,” I say, trying to keep the sadness out of my tone. Smoky was a very friendly grey plusher, doing rollovers on the sidewalk and demanding pets from passersby.

            “Yes, well, the people who took him wanted him. I hear that he’s doing well.”

            Breathing a sigh of relief, I nod, watching as the two cats in front of me devour the last morsels of their meals.

            “We don’t know who the black and white one belongs to. That’s why I’m taking photos to post.”

            “He looks like the black and white one across the street,” I note.

            “No, Oreo has more white on him.”

            “Ah….” Cat Lady knows her neighborhood felines. Why is it that every neighborhood has a Cat Lady that takes it upon herself to watch over the cats? It’s never a man. And it’s never a young woman. I suppose they have real human babies to look after.

            “I want to make sure that she’s fixed,” she nods toward the grey plusher, who has lifted her head, eyeing Mr. Aggressor.

            Then she bolts. Dashing across the street. And he’s after her. Fortunately, no cars are careening down 32^nd street at the moment.

            I watch as Grey Plusher reaches the sidewalk, but then Mr. Aggressor has caught her. Mounts her from behind. Starts a mighty humping.

            “Well, I hope she’s fixed too,” I say. “Cause there’s some frantic cat sex going on right now.”

            Cat Lady laughs, “Isn’t it a bit early?”

            We both chuckle, “Yeah, why didn’t he wait till the afternoon?”

            I turn and start down the street, the bright crisp January morning enveloping me.

            “You have a good rest of your day,” Cat Lady calls after me.

            “You, too,” I answer, pausing for a moment to watch the cat action. He’s still on top of her, humping away.

            As I turn the corner, I think, well, if Grey Plusher isn’t fixed, they’ll produce some very cute kittens.