I Am Everett

Hello Stephen. I’m so glad you’re here at last. I’ve been passing the time while waiting for you by admiring the pool and pillared lanai. I really love the view beyond the pool as well; the verdant lawn bordered by that thick, lush forest. Can you see how the morning sun is casting those mottled patches of bright yellow light on the dark shadowed green of the trees? It’s also causing those playful little reflections of the pool’s riffling surface up on the lanai’s ceiling. Can you see that? It’s very peaceful here this time of day.  Moments like these make me feel quite content just to be alive.

The man, Stephen, thinking he’d been alone, looked all around the room trying to determine the source of the voice. “Where are you?”

I’m new here, just moved in. The house has been very quiet this morning, save for the occasional sound of cooled air rushing through the vents. I suppose most people don’t notice things like that. I’m grateful for the conditioned air. I don’t take things like that for granted, I assure you.  At my age, the Florida summers can be more than just uncomfortable. The humidity can be downright detrimental to my health, as I’m sure you must know.

Stephen shrugged. “Yeah, it’s already hot and humid outside, but it’s nice and cool in here.” He began to lay out the tools of his trade.

When I look back on my life, it still seems odd to me that I ended up here in Florida. You see, I was born in Boston, but I’m sure you already knew that as well. My first home, however, was in New York City, a very different environment than here in the sub-tropics of Florida. But that was a very long time ago. By the way, I can tell that you’re from New York City. It’s your accent.

“Who the hell am I talkin’ to?” Beginning to feel a little spooked, Stephen looked around once again, this time more earnestly. The voice sounded like it was right there next to him but there was nobody else in the room. He checked the adjacent rooms finding no one.

My name is Everett, but I guess that’s obvious. I was born in February 1901, which makes me one-hundred-twenty-two years old. You probably think I’m saying that as if it’s something to boast about. I know there are others of my kind who are much older — but not many. Don’t get me wrong, I do feel my age, and that’s why I’m glad you’re here to check up on me. I’ve been lucky I suppose. Despite some rather harrowing experiences in my life, I’d say that I’ve come through the years in pretty good shape. I’m interested in hearing your assessment.

Stephen Moriani, a piano technician of considerable repute and a long-time member of the Piano Technicians Guild of New York, had several decades of experience. Jerry Yates had retained him to tune the piano he’d purchased a month earlier, the piano Stephen now regarded with deepening suspicion. Jerry had texted Stephen earlier to let him know that something had come up requiring his attention.

Will leave the door open. Go ahead and begin the work. I’ll return before you finish.

“Mr. Yates, is that you? Are you here?”

Stephen scratched his bald head, toying with the possibility that he might be going crazy. After a few minutes of quiet, however, he decided he should just focus on the work at hand. Maybe this was some kind of joke, and he stifled a little laugh. Sitting on the piano bench, he ran his fingers up and down the keys to get some sense of what he would be dealing with.

The piano obviously needed to be tuned, typical for a piano that had just been moved, especially an older piano like this one. The action on some of the keys felt loose and he noticed some obvious problems with the voicing of several keys. Using the long prop stick, he opened the top board of the old grand and immediately discovered significant corrosion of the bass strings.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” he thought.

The name of the piano, emblazoned in large letters on the sound board, caught his attention: Everett Boston, model number 31930. He got up off the bench and backed away a few steps, staring at the piano, a growing sense of unease swept over him.

“Are you what’s talking to me?” he asked, immediately feeling ridiculous. He got no response and chuckled nervously. “Crazy,” he said to himself.

He reluctantly returned to the keyboard and proceeded to strike the A4 key repeatedly, listening to its audio properties with his practiced ear as well as referring to a digital tuning device. He began to adjust the tension of the A4 strings.

I can tell you’re very experienced. You’ve probably already noticed several problems, haven’t you?

“Pianos can’t talk,” Stephen said with conviction. He didn’t bother to look up or stop what he was doing.

I’m certain that’s true, but I’m not just a piano. I am Everett. My father endowed me with the gift of sentience.

“I don’t believe you.” Stephen said, still feigning disinterest.

Oh, it’s true. I have special cognitive capabilities. You can hear me, can’t you? You’re speaking to me, aren’t you? Everyone has the same reaction, you know, so I’m not offended.

Stephen thought about this for a few moments. He didn’t feel insane, so perhaps this was really happening. “What sort of man was your father that he could make it so you could talk?”

My first fully cognizant memory was of my father, Wilhelm Goertz, a man of extraordinary talent and remarkable ability. I suppose you might think that’s the exaggerated memory of an impressionable child imbued with a lingering infatuation for a lost parent, but he was truly remarkable.

“Huh?”

My father. He discovered me in Boston, in the warehouse storage area of a piano manufacturing company. I was a brand-new piano, and I’d been put there to be transferred to someplace called The John Church Company in New York City. My father told me he’d been looking far and wide for the perfect piano. and he’d traveled from New York to this company for the specific purpose of testing their newest pianos before they were shipped out. I suddenly became aware of him as he sat there playing me.

He told me later that as soon as he began to play me, he knew I was the one, the piano he’d been searching for — the perfect piano. I suppose that must sound a little conceited, but I’m just repeating my father’s words. Of course, I realize that I’m much older now and far from perfect. But I think that, together, we might be able to get me back into reasonable shape. What’s your name?

“Well, you’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t believe it, any of it.” Stephen began looking under the piano for a speaker or something. He figured this had to be an elaborate joke.

What’s not to believe? I know you can hear me because you’re talking to me. I see that you’re looking for a speaker. Right? What you’re hearing is in your head, not through your ears. At least, I think that’s how it works.