Wrath of the Piano Tuner

I recently had my piano tuned. In fact the guy walked out less than five minutes ago. It was a very different experience for me. I've determined to detail it here so I don't forget how terrible I feel now that it's all over.

The Piano Tuner was not what I expected. I knew he would be male, but I was expecting the typical plumber-male. This meant between 35-45, grungy clothing, silently awkward about entering foreign homes, yet willing to make a red neck joke here and there to ease the tension. Maybe I just was expecting a mechanic. What I got was something completely different.

The doorbell rang and I opened it to a very elderly man (pushing 75 I would surmise) wearing a suit, complete with black tie, followed by what I could only guess was a small carry-on like suitcase. I had to ask who he was, because my only guess was that this poor old man had lost his way home from the temple (thus the suit perhaps?) or the local Jehovah's Witness' were getting really desperate for missionaries. I was wrong, this was THE piano tuner. (gasp here please)

I showed him the piano, (it's pretty much right when you walk in, so I knew he wouldn't be overwhelmed with the distance) and he asked me how old it was.

"Really old, my grandma told me it was over a hundred years old, and that was twenty years ago."

He attempted to open it from the top ( I'd always wondered what that hinge was there for, I just assumed some sort of secret ritual pianos fulfilled at night) wherein I had to assist him by heaving and pushing and hitting until our ancient piano revealed its inner belly. It was obvious that it had not been opened for some time. He played a few notes, intensely horrified.

"I'll try to tune this, if it's even possible." (no words can describe the disbelief in his tone) "when was the last time this was tuned?"

No idea. "Um, sometime in the last fifty years...hopefully." I'm pretty sure he grunted at this point.

He spent the next hour or so, methodologically (yes, that is spelled right) playing the keys attempting to bring them to some semblance of intended sound.

As he prepared to leave he told me that for most pianos they needed to be tuned at least once a year.

"If you can, play it as much as possible, and for this one particularly" he said as he patted it affectionately, "get it tuned every six months."

I felt like a patient who had stopped taking my meds. I assured him I would be sure to have it tuned regularly. As he was walking out he shook his head at the piano dubiously. If there was a PETA for pianos, I'm sure he would have been on his cell phone the moment he was in his car.