The Piano Movers – Part 1: Three Flights

The piano would not fit round the second landing, and the owner was enjoying herself far too much.

"Left," called Imogen, from the top of the stairs. "No, your left."

"That is my left," said Dana, sweating, gripping a strap on the grand piano's tail.

The apartment was on the third floor of a Chicago walk-up in the August heat. Dana, thirty, a piano mover, in a grey T-shirt and work gloves, had carried a thousand pianos. This one was a nine-foot Steinway, and it had been wedged for forty minutes. Across from her, on the other strap, Marcus, thirty-four, the crew lead, broad and calm, with a bandana and a quiet grin, was muttering at the banister.

"Tilt it," he said.

"It is tilted."

"Tilt it more."

"I'm tilting."

Imogen, the owner, sixty, silver-haired, in a silk shirt and slippers, leaned on the rail with a glass of iced tea. She had been a concert pianist. Now she was retired, downsizing, and clearly pleased at the spectacle. "You have a quarter-inch," she said.

"We have a sixteenth," said Marcus.

They got it round. It took four more minutes, a rope, and an unfortunate noise from the banister. When the great black piano finally rolled into the sunny living room, they all stood panting. Imogen put down her tea and lifted the lid. She touched a single key.

A deep, clear A rang out, filling the room.

Dana stopped. Marcus stopped. The whole crew went quiet.

"It's in tune," whispered Dana.

"It's always in tune," said Imogen, with a faint smile. "It has opinions."

She sat. She had not played in two years. She played a slow, plain piece by Schubert, and the August heat seemed to hush. Dana, wiping her face on her sleeve, felt her throat tighten.

"Can I ask you something?" said Marcus, softly, afterwards, on the landing.

"Yes."

"Would you let me buy you a coffee? When we're not carrying something heavy?"

"Green?" said Dana, grinning, a traffic light.

"Green," said Marcus. "Very green. I know a place with a bench."

Continue the story: Part 2 – First Piece.