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Sunday, May 14, 2006

A few years ago, I worked at my dad's piano company as a piano mover. On one job in a nice part of town, I met the rest of the moving crew (actually just two guys including the piano tuner) at the job site, rather than driving with them in the truck. Together we took apart a baby grand, turned it up on its side, and rolled it out into the truck on a dolly.

The owner of the piano, a well-off middle-aged woman, was to lead me to her new house, where we would drop off the piano. The movers would be going much slower, and already had the address. I got in my car, and the movers got in the truck.

Just a few moments after I began following the woman, I couldn't help but notice how difficult she was making it to be followed. At the first light, she took off like she was in a race. She swerved in and out of traffic, and took corners at high-speed.

"What the fuck," I wondered, "is wrong with this woman?"

Not having a cell phone or any other way of communicating with the moving crew, I knew that the only way I would reach the moving site would be to doggedly follow the reckless woman in front of me.

She ran a light. I ran it too. She cut across four lanes of traffic and diverted from her normal route. I did too, nearly causing a wreck. When we finally showed up at her town home complex, she entered the gate number, and then stopped just on the other side of the gate so I couldn't enter. As the gates closed, she drove off. When I inched up to the gate, just before it closed, the gate reopened. I drove slowly into the complex, found where she had just parked, and pulled up close by. I wasn't going to say anything about her driving, but I expected that she would. She cautiously got out of the car, her arms raised, cell phone in hand. She looked terrified.

"Get away from me!" she screamed. "I'm going to call the police! I'm calling the police!"

"Ma'am, I'm the piano mover," I said calmly. "I followed in a different car."

She considered this. "Let's just wait till they get here and we'll see." She got back in her car. I shook my head and sat on the hood of mine.

The movers showed up a few minutes later, and she got out of her car.

"Is he with you?" she asked.

"Yes."

"That's fine. It's not very professional to just follow someone without telling them that they're being followed. He might've been a killer for all I know."

We apologized, then brought her piano into her well-decorated town home.

"You're not going to roll the wheels of that thing on my wood floor, are you?" she wanted to know.

2 Comments:

Blogger Cibbuano said...

Ah, life in America - where cell phones are positioned to call the police at any time...

7:26 PM  
Blogger Madge DoRightly said...

Ah, life in America - Land of the free, home of the brave.

3:30 PM  

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