The Grand Piano

The Inanimates

So, this is what it has come to. Being suspended one hundred feet in the air by a ridiculously coloured crane above a small green car that has seen better days.

​

How did it come to this?

I may not look as good as I once did or sound it, but I can still sit pretty in the corner and never be played. That’s how several of my fellow kind have been used. I remember one was sent to a primary school, only to sit in the corner of their music room and never be played. Awful. But it can't be helped, it's not like we can protest.

I can hear them, you know. Hear those three men standing on the ground, laughing. They're laughing at me, I know it. Or at least, they're laughing at what’s about to happen. I mean, yes, it will probably sound exactly how it will sound, and that will please them, but that’s not what I'm for. I'm meant to be used for beautiful ballads that sing you to sleep, or for large concerts that blow people away as they sit in silence and awe. That’s what I am meant to do.

The first time I was played, it was in the Royal Albert Hall, June 2nd, 1987. It was such a beautiful day. I don’t remember the man who played me, but I remember the feeling. The way his fingers drifted over my keys with such grace was astounding. He wasn’t too firm, but he wasn’t too soft. He was amazing. The sound that fell from my strings and into the vast auditorium was the most beautiful thing I had ever heard. His music lifted the crowds to their feet and brought a smile to their faces. If I could have, I would have hugged him. But, alas, that was the only time he played me. I overheard some of the workers there talking about the fact I was a replacement while his other piano was being fixed. Something about the keys breaking or something, it was a long time ago and I can't quite remember.

But, I remember that day as one of my best.

The following decades of my life were a little downhill from such an amazing start. If I could speak, I would have told each and every instrument and person I met of that night. Not that anyone would have cared.

The next establishment I was placed in was a music store-type place. People would come in, look around and eventually leave without buying anything. They did their usual scanning search, where they say, “Ooh, I could get that,” or, “Oh, that’s affordable.” It got old quickly. In the few months I was there, barely a dozen things were sold, three of which were posters on the wall as the owner started to lose money. Once the store closed, I was once again drifting about. At last, I was purchased by an elderly man who had decided, at the age of ninety-five, to start learning how to play. When I was first taken on that stage in the Royal Albert Hall, I didn’t know what I was expecting. So, at that moment before the ‘curtain was lifted’, so to speak, I decided that I would not judge any of the people who decided to play me. But God. This man was awful. His fingers were like needles as they jabbed into my keys. My strings were pained, if they could feel anything at all, and the sound that came from me was similar to that of the one that I will make once dropped from this crane. Although, it didn’t last long. Barely a month later, he died in his sleep and was discovered by his daughter when she came to pick him up for his first piano lesson. Is that irony? I'm not sure.

I was left in that house for quite a long time. At least a year or two based on the level of dirt and dust that collected on me. I was found by the same daughter that found her father. She looked older, more wrinkled and clearly still distraught by what had happened. He may not have been a good pianist, but he seemed like a decent man. It was a shame about him. The daughter proceeded to walk around the house for the next hour, stroking and smiling at the ornaments and walls. This was clearly her childhood home. The following weeks were filled with men and women coming into the house and removing furniture and decorations. Everyone avoided me. I wasn’t sure if it was because I was too heavy or if they were waiting, leaving me until last. But then I found out why.

Apparently, I had been bought off the family by some television company. I was to be used as a prop in a new sitcom that was being written. It was called Livin’ Life, or something similar to that, and I was to be a practical backdrop for several scenes. I was more than excited for this. After the poor performance my existence had been for the last couple of decades, I was ready to star once again. I, of course, wasn’t expecting anyone to recognise me, I am just a piano after all, not some famous actor or musician. Not two weeks later, I was sitting on the set of this new show, bright lights glaring down at me, actors walking past, a few sitting on the stool they had given me. It didn’t match with my old, worn black wood, but I loved it. My old stool had been lost several decades ago, I think even before my Royal Albert Hall performance, but I didn’t mind.

Sadly, however, it didn’t last very long. The show was axed after the first season and I was thrown into storage. And there I sat, collecting dust once again. I was supposed to be this beautiful, varnished work of art that people would stare at in wonder. Kids were meant to see me and pull on their mother’s sleeves and shout, “I want one, I want one!” I was supposed to be played by great pianists across the globe. Feel their fingers run across me and fill rooms with sound and music. I was destined for greatness. Destined for better things. We all deserve better things.

Below me, their feet firmly on solid ground, I can see the three men taking a further step back. They’ve done their banter and commentary to the cameras. Now its time to drop me. They move back, their excitement barely holding them still. The man in the middle holds a controller, presumably the one that will be used to drop me.

Only now, the concept of death dawns on me. What will it be like? Will I even die at all? I've never seen a piano die before. Only heard of the cases where some get tossed about in the back of a van, or even when we’re being built, a few haven’t made it to the shop floor. When I fall, I know I’ll feel a rush of wind beneath me. I know I might twist and spin as the air toys with me as I fall. But when I hit the car, will the world go black? Or will I remain conscious as the men run up to inspect the damage? Will I remain conscious as they pick up my broken pieces, as they toss my broken body into a bag and drag it away? If I'm burned, will I feel it? I don’t think this has dawned on any piano before, not until their last moments. But maybe I'm the only one. I cannot speak, I cannot move of my own accord. I am an inanimate object, ready for use. But I suppose all good things must come to an end.

​

“Three!”

​

I can hear them count. If I had muscles, they would be tensed. My eyes would be closed and my mouth shut. The sound of the hook clicking echoed through my mind.

​

“Two!”

​

I can hear the creaking of the hook above me as it sways, the metal gently rubbing against itself. It’s almost taunting. With one last chance, I look out at the scene before me. There’s not much to see, just a grey, cloudy sky and a gravel floor with derelict and decaying houses around. I had hoped for sun.

“One!”

Click.