Upright

The keys are bone white; at least that's what the ad in the paper said. After about six months of use every night they've yellowed on the tops from the cigarette tar stained fingertips that stabbed at them. The water rings were beaten in to the top cover that it almost looked like the grain of the wood was spotted by sweating glasses of bourbon while still rooted. When it was played, it sounded like a haggard, old blues singer, dressed in a stained blue suit and muddy black dress shoes. It belted out any tune better than the finest grand, but sat silent in the back of the bar.

"I just have to have it get on outta here. It hurts to even think that it's still there and she ain't there in front of it." He said, the large handed man behind the bar with red rimmed eyes and a browned, sweaty collar. "Just roll it on out of here, and be quick about it, before I change my mind." The casters had worn a groove into the wooden floor below it, where it's weight had pushed down for so long, and it almost didn't budge. After some gentle rocking back and forth, it climbed up the minuscule incline with a rusted creak. It left a spotless rectangle with four divots where it had sat for the last twenty aught years. The pristine nature of that spot didn't last long as another of the cheap iron and wood tables was dragged over. The old upright seemed almost weightless as it was hefted onto the truck, like it had stopped fighting against its rapid exit and accepted its new fate. It was shipped off to be refurbished, with new guts and keys, and the finish was to be untouched.When it arrived at it's new home, there was an envelope tucked under the wooden key cover. It held a small tin embossed plate and a letter from where it had been refurbished.

Enclosed within is a personalized plate that was removed the inside of the body. It is from the original owner. We thought you may want to keep it or return it to the owner if you have bought it from them directly.

The plate had rounded edges, and the embossing was perfectly aligned, just what you would expect from something made with great skill and passion. It had a few lines of words and simply said:

The keys and chords you play so beautifully will always resonate in my heart, just as you do, my love. -Yours forever, John.

He held the plate delicately and flipped it over a few times in my hand as he wondered what to do. He decided to place it in a small wooden box so that it wouldn't be bent or broken, and placed it on the counter in the kitchen to be sent out with the mail the next day. The piano was placed in the living room, against a windowless wall. The keys were now a soft white and deep black and the finished still sported the deep rings that it had grown in the many years at the bar. He sat down on a newly cushioned wooden bench that was custom made to match, with water rings stained on it. He placed his hands gently on the keys and played a few chords, but it didn't sound right. He thought that maybe it wasn't in tune as it was supposed to be and tested a few keys. They struck perfect pitch and tone one by one as he played a scale. He then thought it was just a long time since he played and pulled out a simple chord book and studied it for a while. He placed his hands on the keys, once more, to hopefully tickle them into giving him the sound he desired. When the keys were pressed and the chord was struck, again they rung out sour and dissonant. Growing more and more irate, he pounded the keys over and over, hoping that the notes would ring true. He stopped, trembling at the weight of his fury, and slammed down the key cover and stormed off to release his anger.

There it sat, the upright piano, collecting dust and holding up an old guitar that leaned against it. No more was it played, for quite some time, only leered at by it's new owner, because of it's new found uselessness. The weeks piled on and on, accrued in dust and disuse. It only raised his ire as it stood silent. He decided to cover it with a sheet so that it wouldn't bother him as much. So there it now stood, much like a squared specter, gently floating just next to the wall. So soon it seems that the upright was just delivered and moved into it's resting place, but it had been more than a decade now, and the sheet that covered had become faded and sun worn. The corners and edges now grew definitive outlines, and the dust underneath had disappeared. It had grown down into the wooden floor again, just as it had in the bar, but these grooved roots were born of the weight of it's uselessness. the casters had rusted over and cracked deep. Again, it was rocked to and fro, wrestled from it's roots and rolled out onto another truck. It was strapped down tightly and rumbled as the trucked roared down the road to deliver it to another new home. The piano was rolled carefully along another wooden floor, and set up next to another wall, this one a dark crimson, that clashed with the bleach white trim that skirted it. It was wiped inside and out, removed any dust or cobwebs that it may have harbored for those long years it was not kept. Again it was to be tuned, but it did not sound as though it needed it. It's new owner sat in front of it, with her hands gently placed on top the keys, and pressed down. the notes burst forth bitterly as it had before. She sat there with her hands folded on her lap as she held a frown. She closed the key cover and left.

A few days after it had been delivered, she had returned home to find a small wooden box placed next to her doormat. She picked it up and gently unlatch the lock, and in the box was a small, discolored tin plate. It had lost its sheen and was left nearly brittle. She could make out some letters here and there on it, but it was mostly illegible. The only things on it that were intact were the grommet rimmed holes punched on it on both sides. She closed the box and brought it inside and placed it on her desk. Later that evening, she sat on her couch and stared at the piano. It seemed such a shame that it would not play the honeyed tones that she could coerce most pianos to play. It puzzled her as to why it sounded in tune but wouldn't play as she thought it would. She opened it up once more to investigate the source of it's sour notes. Inch by inch she inspected the piano, and she could find nothing that could cause it to sound so terrible. As she finished her inspection and let out a sigh and ran her hand across the the bottom of the cover as she gently closed it, she felt something. She swung the cover back open to see a set of small holes and a lighter colored square around it. It seemed so familiar in shape but she couldn't put a finger on it. She closed it and sat back down in defeat. Her glass had sweated out while she toiled away in the piano, and left a ring on her glass coffee table. She stared intently at it while she sipped at her drink. The ice shifted back to the bottom as she finished it off and headed into the kitchen to get another. On her return, she slipped on a small rug and her arm lashed out to grab onto something sturdy and she caught the side of her desk, dropping her drink. It shattered and spilled its contents on the wooden floor, leaving a dark red, cranberry and vodka scented puddle. She glanced over at her sturdy savior, her desk, and smiled. She was glad that it wasn't a weightless and lifeless fiberboard, build-it-yourself kind of desk. She regained her composure and went on to clean her puddle of shards and spirits. In her thoughts, she thanked herself for spending the large sum for her desk, and went straightaway into thoughts of what to do with her tuneless piano. She turned in for the evening to give it some time to ruminate in her subconscious, hoping that something would spark then.

The next morning was spent knee elbow deep in business correspondence and large cups of hot coffee at her desk. She pecked away at her last email, and leaned back to stretch her taut typing muscles. She closed her eyes and put her arms above her head for a few moments, pushed away from the desk with her feet, and yawned. She prepared herself to stand up when something on her desk caught her eye. She rolled forward back to the desk, and picked up the small wooden box that she had placed there the day before. She opened it up to reveal the rusting tin plate, and immediately recognized the shape. It looked as though it would perfectly fit in the piano where she had found those two small holes. She rushed into the kitchen the junk drawer and fished out two small screws, which fit neatly into the holes in the plate. She was careful not to slip on the small throw rug in her haste to get to the piano. She lifted the cover and lined up the rusty tin plate to cover the area with the two holes. It fit perfectly over the discolored area and hid it. She fastened it carefully so that it wouldn't crack the rusted plate. She gave it a quick wipe with her dish towel and the last few words became a little more legible. She closed the cover and placed her hands on the keys once again and timidly played a chord, and it quietly sang out without a single sour note. She smiled and began to play an etude, which grew more and more beautiful as she continued.