PIANO

First he opened his eyes. That was a mistake. He shut them again, right away. The sun had no business bellowing into his head like that. He kept his eyes shut. He knew he was awake. Upstairs, a baby was screaming.

Other messages were coming in now. A large object in his skull. Probably a railway tie. All limbs present. Definitely not ready to move yet. Bladder full. Won`t move yet. Very full. Won`t move yet.

He tried to think about something else. Failed. He tried to roll over and sit up. Succeeded, surprisingly. The room rocked a little, and came back into focus. The mattress on the floor. The books in the corner. The table and the metal chairs. The piano.

A piano? He refused to think about it. He pushed himself to his feet and wove a course to the bathroom.

An ecstasy of peeing.

He looked into the mirror and picked the grit out of his eyes. Pretty scary. He closed the bathroom door without looking and stepped into the shower.

He wiped a spot on the mirror and combed his hair. He thought about shaving. Later. He reached for the doorknob. And paused, not quite ready to confront the question of what might or might not be out there. He lifted his hand away. He wiped the mirror again and reached for his razor.

He had shaved. He had also brushed his teeth, cut his fingernails, and flossed. He couldn't think of anything else to do. He couldn't stay in the bathroom any longer. He reached for the doorknob, and, turning it, stepped out of the bathroom.

There was a piano in his room. A piano. There was really a piano in his room. The piano sat there, silently, and it made him conscious of the fact that he was naked. He kept his back turned to the piano until he was dressed.

He went into the kitchen and made some toast. He stole a glance at the piano. A piano. He took the toast out to the table and sat with his back to the piano. It was no good. He knew it was there. He knew the piano was right there behind him. He moved to a different chair so he could keep an eye on the piano too. He ate his toast, and he kept his eye on the piano. Next door, someone turned on the television.

There was a piano in his apartment. He didn't own a piano, but there it was. A piano. He had no idea how it had gotten there. But then, he had no idea how he had gotten home last night. He hoped he hadn't stolen it. He didn't think he would do a thing like that, even drunk, but he had no real way of knowing, did he? He decided right there he wasn't going to tell anyone. About the piano.

He brushed the toast crumbs off his hands. He went and took a closer look at the piano. It was an old upright, and very distinguished looking, covered with engraving and inlay and fancy scrollwork. It was a little battered around the edges, in a way that suggested years of travel and experience. It had a bench seat, three worn pedals and a cover over the keys. It was a piano.

Curiosity overcame suspicion. He lifted the cover over the keys, and slid it back out of the way. There were keys there all right. Dozens of them. Bumpy black ones and a tiled highway of yellowed ivory ones. Lots and lots of keys.

He pressed one of the white ones. The piano rebuked him with a surprisingly loud "Bong!" The young man pulled his finger back quickly, and lowered the cover over the keys again, as the single note slowly died away. Next door, someone cursed loudly.

The young man put on his shoes and went out the door.

The piano was still there that evening when he returned. He had tried all day not to think about it, but he had actually entertained little hope that the piano would be gone. He sat at the table and looked at the piano. And it looked back at him.

What would he do with a piano? He doubted he could get it out of the apartment. And even if he did, where would he take it? Someone was sure to ask questions. And he couldn't just leave it somewhere. Not a piano. Outside he heard tires squeal in traffic, and a horn honk.

Maybe he could put an ad in the paper. Sell it to someone who would come and pick it up. But could you just sell a piano like that? Maybe you had to present certificates of ownership or something. Maybe they would find out it wasn't his piano. Or was it his piano? Was it stolen? Maybe the police were looking for it, just waiting for someone to put an ad in the paper trying to sell the stolen piano. Outside a siren approached. And then receded.

What could he do with a piano? He couldn't play it. But that was what you were supposed to do with pianos, wasn't it? He didn't know how. That was what you were supposed to do with pianos, and now he had one. But he couldn't play. Could he learn? All the keys had letters, or something like that, and C was in the middle somewhere.

But wouldn't that make a lot of noise? He was in no hurry to repeat that morning`s experience. Maybe he could play softly. In the apartment upstairs, the baby started crying again.

The next night he came home with some books. The librarian had been very helpful. And very pretty. He should have asked for her phone number. He shouldn't always be so shy, darn it. But she probably would have laughed at him. Probably already had a boyfriend anyway.

But yeah, the books. "Teach Yourself Piano." "Easy Songs for the Piano." "Beginner Piano: The Godoit Method." Now he could do something about the piano. He sat down on the bench and put the books on the music stand. He lifted the cover and looked at the keys. All sorts of them. Next door someone was pouring a bath.

He opened the first book. It had lots of pictures. Hands on keyboards and stuff like that. That was all he had to do. Just do what the hands did in the pictures. He didn't have to figure out the notes or anything. He looked at the picture and put his hands over the keys. No, those keys. Next door the faucets squealed as someone turned them off. It was suddenly very quiet.

The piano was quiet.

The young man sat at the table flipping through the books. Perhaps he`d better read them first, understand what he was doing. He shouldn't just rush into it.

He sat down at the piano, and put the book on the music shelf. He pulled the bench in a little closer. He turned the book to the proper page. He had spent hours last night, reading through the book, getting a sense of what he had to do. It was, the book told him, simply a matter of doing the exercises. So it was time to actually try them out.

He pushed the keyboard cover back and wiggled his fingers. That felt good. He wiggled them just a little bit more. Okay, it`s time to do it. He looked at the book again. Just the right hand for now. Fingers here. He took a breath and pressed a key.

The piano bonged loudly at him. It sounded angry. Okay, don`t panic. Just try to play softer. He started the exercise again. This time the bonging was quieter, but it wasn't pleasant. He kept pressing the keys with the fingers of his right hand. He didn't think it should sound like that. Each time he pressed a key it was either too weak or too strong, bonging loudly or pinging pathetically. He must be doing it all wrong. Completely wrong.

He got confused and had to start the exercise again. And again. He was getting worse, not better. He took a deep breath and started over. The sound was even worse this time. He could hear the piano`s growing annoyance with him. It had probably never been played so poorly before. Never in all its years.

His fingers were getting sore and he wasn't even getting the first exercise right. It should be simple! His embarrassment turned to frustration, and he tried the exercise again, pressing each key with forced determination. Damn, he screwed up again. Start over. One two three no this one dammit! He hammered the key repeatedly, angrily.

Someone started pounding on the wall next door. The calendar shook. He backed away from the piano in embarrassment and shame. The discordant note lingered, scolding him. He needed some fresh air. Before the neighbours came over to complain.

The young man came home from work and stepped out of his shoes. He struggled out of his jacket and dropped it over the back of a chair. He collapsed on the mattress. He sighed. He rolled over. The piano was there. He should try to play it tonight. Last night he was just nervous because it was his first time. He should take another swing at it. Tonight it probably wouldn't be as difficult. And if he left it too long, he knew he might never get around to it. And you couldn't just have a piano and not play it.

The piano`s silence rebuked him for his laziness. So he should get up, and try to do the exercise again. But maybe he would have supper first. Yeah, he would get up and make himself supper, then sit down at the piano until he got that exercise right. Just five more minutes.

The young man`s eyes closed. His leg twitched a few times. It got dark.

He was washing the dishes. There was a piano in his room. He tried to ignore that fact, but it was impossible. For one thing, it was hard to miss, sitting there proudly against the wall. He could try to avoid looking at it, but that was kind of admitting it was there, wasn't it? He rinsed the plate and put it in the rack. Of course, he could just have the piano and never play it. But that was wrong, that was a waste, it, well, it just wasn't right. And anyway, he didn't think the piano would stand for it. He stared into the bottom of a cup, then washed it again.

It was like buying books and never reading them. It was like having a dog and never taking it for a walk. It was like having a kid and not taking care of it. The baby upstairs started crying. He fished out a handful of silverware.

He dried the dishes and put them all in their proper places. Tonight he would try the exercises again. He would give it another shot. He shook the drying rack in the sink, and put it away.

He sat down at the piano and lifted the keyboard cover. He straightened up a little and realized all the muscles in his back were tense. He tried to relax. He looked at the book. It was still open to the same page. The first exercise.

He put his right hand on the keys. He started the exercise, pressing the keys slowly and gently. The piano bonged, not nearly as softly and evenly as he wanted it to. But it wasn't as bad as he figured it could be, so he struggled on. He hit the wrong key, again. He unclenched his fists and tried again.

The baby upstairs was hollering. He wasn't sure if it had just started, or if it had been crying for a while. He got used to tuning that sort of thing out. He tried to tune it out now, but it threw him off. He kept trying the exercise, kept screwing up. If he could just make it through to the end once, with no mistakes. The baby was screaming now. He tried to play softer, but that made it even more difficult. There were too many things to try to concentrate on at once.

Next door, the TV got louder. He tried to play even softer, but then he could barely hear the piano right. He tried to block out the baby and the TV. He tried to press the keys just a little bit harder so he could hear the notes better. He ended up pressing them too hard. He tried to find some middle ground, but his attempts at subtlety were pathetically heavy-handed. The exercise was lost. His hands were cramping now.

The banging on the wall started again. There was a muffled shout. He got up and backed away from the piano. He sat down on the mattress with his back against the wall. He sat there looking at the piano. Someone knocked on his door, but he didn't answer.

The door swung open. He kicked his shoes off. One landed on the table; the other bounced off the piano. He looked at the piano and snorted. He took the bottle out of his jacket and set it on the table next to the shoe. He took off the jacket and threw it across the room onto the mattress. He picked up the bottle and eyed it critically. Half full. He unscrewed the cap and flicked it into the kitchen. It clattered into the sink and the young man broke into a vicious grin. He took a gulp.

The TV next door was on, the sound of it spitting and stuttering from channel to channel. The young man snorted. He looked in that direction. There was the piano. He snorted again. He kicked the fallen shoe aside, and leaned forward to peer at the book on the music stand. Incomprehensible. Probably the whole problem right from the very start. Stupid book. It fluttered across the room like a panicked goose, attempted a skid landing on the table, bounced off a chair and onto the floor. Outside a car honked its approval.

The young man sat down heavily on the piano bench and put the bottle on the music shelf. The clear liquid sloshed back and forth pleasingly. He threw back the cover. The piano bonged a quiet complaint. He looked down at the keyboard. The keys stretched across like teeth in a crazy, uneven grin. A humourless grin, calling back all his failures there. He snorted at the thought. The keys grinned back. "Fuck it," the young man declared.

He put a finger on the rightmost key. It binged loudly. Satisfactorily. He slid his hand awkwardly across the keys to the left side of the keyboard. The notes rolled unevenly but energetically down the scale. On the way back up he figured out the proper angle of his hand, and it went more smoothly. And he liked the way the piano bellowed towards the lower end of the scale. He banged a bunch of the left hand keys enthusiastically. The baby upstairs started to shriek.

What about the black keys? He banged on some of those with both hands at opposite ends of the keyboard. Then in the middle. Someone turned up the TV, and somehow it just fit in with his tuneless music. His hands charged riotously up and down the keyboard, hammering here and there. Outside the cars honked encouragement. He stood up and knocked the bench over so he could move more freely. His left hand jumped up and down on some keys while his right did a jig on some others. Who could say this wasn't music? He hammered and rolled and tinkled and jangled, and when the banging started he kept time with it. The baby sang lustily to the tune, the cars and the TV and the pounding door and the shouted curses all joined to make a wonderful orchestra, each instrument giving its all, and at the centre of it was the young man and his piano, inspiring them and leading them to heights of musical adventure. And the young man played, all thought of technique and rules and proper this and that gone, completely gone and for now, his world played with him.