One of Zach's co-workers owns a piano. A piano he and his wife don't have room for. A piano that now needs a temporary home. I believe they say they'll put the piano on "permanent loan."
A piano? On permanent loan?!
Sign me up, baby!
Zach has let them know we may be interested. Of course, now here's the part where I'm wishing we had bought a home, rather than simply moved into an apartment. Obviously, noise will be an issue. I've contacted our landlord with what will probably be the first of many weird requests over our stay in this new place. The gist: "Sir, can we get a piano? Please please please?!" While some may chastize me for bein soft, I'm fully prepared to hear a resounding "NO" from the authorities. I have to respect my neighbors, and God forbid they should wish for Peace and Quiet. Not that I plan to beat the Holy Hell out of those keys. I've been forever gentle with the musical instruments I've been entrusted with over the years; but all my promises of quiet, background melodies may not persuade those-in-charge that a piano really, truly wouldn't disturb the peace of this complex any more than the midnight parties of our condo neighbors across the alleyway already do.
I, after all, will never play at night.
At this point, I should extinguish any rumors or misconceptions conerning my abilities as a musician. Yes, I've had many years of lessons. As many of my fellow Americans were raised going to Little League, Boy Scouts, YMCA, and the dreaded (by me, at least) summer camp, I was taken to music lessons. Family tradition, after all. My progenitors included an opera singer, several church organists (one with perfect pitch, which she failed to pass on), singers, actors, and dancers. While the rest of you were learing to play "catch" with dad, I was committing
Every
Good
Boy
Does
Fine
to memory. And, I loved it. From kindergarten through my last day in college, I was a musician. Well, a hack musician, at least. At this point, I should emphasize that the musical talent flowing through my family's gene pool, at the very least, skipped me. I got plenty of gay, but not many musical alleles. Hence, piano lessons from K through 12 produced little more than a sad rendering of Debussy's Reverie. Double bass lessons, added in the 6th grade, went a little better. I became an Orchestra Nerd, and even did the All-State Thing back in high school. When college became lots-on-my-plate, I dropped the piano lessons and concentrated on double bass. Don't get me wrong, I still spent as many hours in front of a piano as I did a bass. But, the piano officially moved into the shadows... something I never played in front of others. It became my own - entirely. Expressions and impressions of my moods, my thoughts, my feelings. Bass became what-I-wanted-others-to-see. Sitting in front of a piano, though, what-I-really-was came out to play. Within the limits of my skills, of course, in both cases. Yet, regrettably, as I came from a family of
1. musicians
2. and teachers,
we never really made much money. Hence, basses were rented, not bought. Following college graduation, I was cut off. Actually, since I've come to depend on music as a means of soothing the Savage Beast Within (you know, the thing that gets me cranky when my belt and shoes don't match), it was a pretty traumatic parting. Especially since, upon the sudden separation of my parents and my abrupt move to Seattle, I was also leaving the piano behind. I guess, for many of you out there, it would be akin to quitting both Little League and Junior Soccer at the same moment. On my CV, I have a small section (it fills up the rest of the final page) labeled "Personal Interests and Hobbies." Nestled in between "International politics" and "European History (esp. Tudor England," are two seemingly insignificant entries:
Double Bass (not currently playing)
Piano (not currently playing)
For the record, I don't really enjoy looking at the final page of my Curriculum Vitae.
Though I excelled more at the double bass, the piano has always been there. Persistently, sometimes in the background... sometimes in the spotlight. I may not have been particularly good at it, but
Every
Good
Boy
Does
Fine.
"Fine" is good enough for me. And this good boy, for his sanity, his boyfriend's sanity, and the sanity of all those he encounters, would really like this piano-on-permanent-loan. The pragmatist within is advising caution - after all, the landlord could refuse on the grounds of noise pollution (which is often the style I use to play Chopin). Yet, the optimist, particularly after a few beers, begins to scan the apartment, picking out that Magic Spot where the 88 keys can rest, waiting until I come home to let them know what sort of day I had.
Posted by James at July 27, 2005 05:21 PM