How I Never Met Matthew Good... chapter 3...the Finale

And this is where things went terribly wrong. You see, in my haste, I had forgotten about the ‘two man turning system’ necessary for an upright, 100 year old bitch of a piano being guided through a throng of people.

Inevitably, one of the clogged, non-turning wheels, caught an edge on the bunched up foyer carpet, and, given my speed, the angle of said catching, and the top-heavy weight of the beast, she was going down, and there was nothing I, nor the surprised teenaged girl in her prom-best dress could do to stop it.

Not that I didn’t try in vain. You have to, really, in those situations, or else you end up looking like an ass. So, without thinking (not heroically ‘without thinking of life’ not thinking, but more like stupid ‘not thinking’, I wedged my knee behind the piano, and grabbed the top rectangle, not with my hand, but more with my wrists and forearms.

That held for maybe half a second, but falling pianos seem to be quite headstrong, and this one was no exception. It was going down, come hell or high water. So, it seared its edges into my wrists and forearms, glanced off my stomach, landed directly on my knees, and then, for extra spite, rolled down my shins, before landing like a sack of hammers, on my feet. Yes, both feet.

Too embarrassed to be hurt, yet too stuck to lift the now broken beast off of my feet, with it's now accordion-like key board, I could only scratch at the sides in vain, waiting for help. Finally, Bev, the 55 year old waitress, sprang into action, and miraculously lifted the leviathan a few centimeters so I could inch my feet out. In shock, I was quickly taken away from the curious on-lookers, and into the back room, where we bandaged my bleeding forearms and shins, and then removed my shoes to uncover two swollen, purple, yet intact, feet.

My boss, being the boss that he was, quickly reassigned another worker to the MGB concert, and directly told me I was going to the hospital.

“No, I’ll be fine,” I said. “I just need to walk to off, and take an aspirin.”

He then explained the legalities of the situation, and I knew then that I could not win this argument.

Fine, a quick check up at the hospital, maybe a couple of X-rays, and I’d be back in time to serve late snack at the concert.

We got to the hospital, and, well, being as hospitals are, we waited. And waited. Who knew so many people needed a hospital on a Wednesday night? I saw my chances of meeting Matt growing dimmer and dimmer. First hope was dashed to yearning, and then into frustration, resentment, and finally acceptance, thereby covering nearly all the phases of dealing with death, though this was not a death, but a missed opportunity. Finally, the X-rays were taken. I had two bruised feet, but no broken bones, the doctor explained.

“yeah, great, I thought, as I thanked him and we headed for the door. It was late, but I didn’t want to look at the clock out of fear. We got back to the restaurant, and amidst everyone asking me if I was ok, I found my boss, and he directed me to “go finish up at the Enmax Center.”

So, I limped to the van, and sped away, with the fleeting hope of saying something, anything, to Matt. I flashed the credentials again, and was in. I got out, surveyed the situation...hmm, not many people. Then I listened...hmm, not much noise for a concert. I set out to the catering station I had set up earlier, and found my co-worker there, reading a magazine, chewing gum, and smoking. I passed Greg Nori on the way, and he gave me some sort of ‘yeah, I’m kinda famous’ look, but I wasn’t biting. Not this time, Nori.

“Is it over,” I managed to ask.

“The concert? Yeah, it ended half an hour ago. BRUTAL. I hate these bands. They all sound the same. The guys were pretty nice, though. We got to chat with all of them. I don’t really remember their names, or who which band they were from, but they seemed alright.”

I stared at her with penetrating knives. “Are you for real? Frick, I can’t effen believe this shit.” If I HAD to miss the concert, and be replaced, at least replace me with someone whose musical tastes go beyond the Venga Boys and Bryan Adams.

Disgruntled, I took down the tables, collected the empty pans, dirty plates, glasses, and half-eaten sandwiches. I loaded the van, took one last survey of the silent, bandless dungeon, grimaced as I hauled myself up to the van seat, and drove away in utter silence, alone in my grief, while my coworker chewed hubba bubba, and asked me if I wanted a sip of her diet coke.

the end