Post #4 - The Descent Into Madness

She did.

The very next day...  My mobile phone went off at work.  Now, if you know me, you KNOW that calling me is not the best option.  Text me first.  Email me second.  Send smoke signals third.  Call me last.

The rule of thumb with any kind of call is - if I don't recognize the number, you talk to voicemail.  There is no alternative.  After which, if you're lucky, I may listen to at some point in the future.

The second rule of thumb with a number I actually DO recognize is - if it's likely to be bad news, you will still probably talk to voicemail, with the caveat I will probably actually listen to it sooner than later.

Many people will find this bizarre...  Sorry about that.  My personal belief is that mobile phones have completely ruined personal privacy.  In the OLD OLD OLD days, you had to send a letter, and wait a periord of time - usually days/weeks - before you got an answer.  In the OLD OLD days, you had to catch someone at home to talk to them on the phone (which was then considered a cool thing to do).  In the OLD days, you could leave a voicemail on their home phone.  In the NEW days, people are mortally offended if they call you and you don't answer.  I hate phones and I hate the premise that if you call, I must answer. 

Sorry, slight digression there.

When the phone rang and the number showed (as numbers do these days) a 281 area code, I mentally ran through the list of people trying to contact me - bill collectors (probably not), job employment opportunities (probably not), local people trying to sell me something (good possibility), piano lady telling me she would/would not sell the piano (high probability).

I let it go to voicemail.

After all, either way this was not good news.  "Yes, I'd love to sell you this piano for $200" means that I'm out $200 for the piano, plus at least $100 for the truck, plus back-breaking labor, plus, whatever it takes to get it working.  "No, I've decided to to turn this piano you're so interested in into scrap" means just that.  No project, and another piece of history broken up for parts.

I waited a day.  Then I called her back.

I'll spare you the complete conversation.  The gist was basically, "I'll sell it to you for $250 cash; if you paid check or credit, I'd have to charge tax and you'd still pay $250."  Probably shouldn't have written that, but that's how it's done.

It was a deal.

I arranged for a truck and my wife arranged for a helper, in the form of her son.  We were on for the next weekend.  And I was not looking forward to it - I knew this piano was "lighter" than the average piano, but it was still a piano and it was still bulky and it still had a broken leg,  It was still a pain in the ass.

Saturday came and I picked up the truck.  That went smoothly...  The bad news came when I got home with truck (deposit paid and credit card registered).  Our helper was sick and was not going to be able to help.

No choice at this point.  I had the cash (a stop at the ATM on the way to get the truck, I never carry cash anymore) and U-Haul had my credit card.  We had to go.

And go we did. I drive a VERY small car and driving a U-Haul is not my idea of fun - especially into downtown Houston.  But we did it.  And got there in one piece.  Since I had had the presence of mind to get a truck with a ramp and took my various dollies and carts, I figured that with a minimum amount of pain and effort, we could do this between Victoria and myself.  And hopefully some people at the shop...  After all, getting it INTO the truck had to be harder than getting it OUT.

Right?

Sort of...  we got there, paid the nice lady (who chastised me for not telling exactly when we coming so she could make sure she had people here to help us - my bad), man-handled the beast out of the store, across the gravel driveway, and - unbelievably - up the ramp.  Laid the thing on it's back ("Don't rip the back cloth, that's antique!!!"  Thank you, wife), closed the door, put up the ramp, and we were off.  Back through Houston to the suburbs.

And we made it home uneventfully.  Which, for a Saturday in Houston on I-45, is a major accomplishment.

And, miracle of miracles, the thing I had been praying for the entire way back came true - my next door neighbor was mowing his front lawn.  Now, Victoria and I know that every time a U-Haul pulls up to our driveway, most of out neighbors heave a sigh of relief, cross their fingers, and hope we're finally moving away.  We're not bad neighbors, you know, just...  different.

So of course, Mr. Ray had to come over to see what we were about.  And, when I explained that - so sorry - we were not moving, but we had a piano to move INTO the house, why Mr. Ray did exactly what I was hoping for.

Asked if we needed help.

Now, Mr. Ray is both the best neighbor and the nicest person I have ever met.  If you need help, Mr. Ray will help.  If you don't need help, Mr. Ray will TRY to help.  I try not to take advantage of this, and I would not have rung his doorbell to ask, but you see - he asked first!  And, although I thought getting that piano out of the truck had to be easier than getting it in, without Mr. Ray then it would be just Victoria and me.  So of course, I said yes - of course!

It took about 30 minutes, a fair amount of sweat, quite a bit of jostling through the front door, rugs and dollies to spare the wood floor from the metal wheels (once again, thank you Mr. Ray, because in my mind, wheels are wheels and roll just great across any surface), the piano was in the house.

With no further damage to the piano case.
And no durther damage to either leg (both of which have problems).
And no rippage of the back cloth.

So, if you've stayed with me through all of this, this is where the rubber meets the road and the real fun starts.

We own it.
It's home,
I made a commitment to do SOMETHING with it.

And it's waiting...