To whomever asked for it, you asked for it. This is my August 1994 newsletter. "It ain't the fall I mind, so much; it's the sudden stop." Trajectory: The path described by an object moving in space; esp., the path of a projectile. This is not normally the sort of descriptive word we use in our day to day dealings with pianos. As a rule, we generally tend to think of pianos as basically monolithic units having roughly the weight and mass of the heelstone of any famous Paleolithic Druid Observatory you could name. This is essentially true, but (I'm sure you are beginning to fear) not the whole story. Despite their mountainous presence, pianos almost universally harbor a secret wish to fly. Nearly all of you have seen the aftermath of a piano's ill fated attempt to "Slip the surly bonds of earth" and grab some air. This sort of desperate bid for freedom usually occurs during the physical relocation of the instrument, as in the change of domicile or the unreasonable insistence of some member (the boss) of the house that the piano must be moved to a floor either higher or lower than the one it currently occupies. In the case of an altitude relocation within the house, the piano's chances for aerial freedom are somewhat limited. The best it can realistically hope for is a brief but intense rush down a flight or two of stairs hoping that it's progress isn't disappointingly impeded by any slow or inattentive individuals down below. The folks on top aren't a problem. When the piano initially breaks and runs, they immediately yell, let go, and jump back out of the way. No matter how sharply honed the reflexes of the "downhill" contingent of the moving team are, it's still pretty tough to beat a stampeding piano to the bottom of a flight of stairs. Catching a charging piano is something most people don't instinctively jump to do. Many a well meaning helper has discovered this as he suddenly finds himself all alone in the path of a rogue piano. The final alternative, at least in the narrow enclosed stairways leading to most basements, is to attempt to climb over the top of the rapidly descending instrument and get to a place of safety among the leaping and yelling "uphill" faction of the moving team. This would seem to be the more attractive alternative, affording the best opportunities for immediate survival and subsequent retribution, but I have yet to see this done successfully. The process of relocation from one residence to another offers a much richer range of possibilities for the aerobatically inclined piano. Imagine a large, heavy item on a narrow wheelbase four wheeled dolly, balanced at the top of a sideless ramp, six feet above a concrete surface by a crew of two who, less than thirty six hours ago, were flunking out of arts and crafts at Light Lode University. Now, ACTION! Sometimes, pianos don't need any nominally human help to take the plunge from a moving van. I've seen the results of these spontaneous bursts of gravitational optimism. Use of the word "burst" here is not altogether unintentional as the results of a piano leaping out of a moving van without the aid of ramps or any other altitude modification prosthesis can affect a surprising amount of real estate. also, to avoid any misunderstanding concerning the designation "moving van", let me clarify that the vans were of the moving variety and not, themselves, in motion at the time of the incidents. Pickup truck moves, however, are a different story. The first year I was in this business, I got a call from a reasonably harmless sounding individual inquiring whether I would like a free piano. My personal cynicism not yet having developed to it's present degree, I asked him about the circumstances surrounding this admirable philanthropic gesture. "Oh hell", he said, "The damn thing fell off the truck." Wow! This was still new to me and I just had to see this for myself. I got the directions to the intersection where the piano still was (it had apparently happened about ten minutes before he called) and headed out. What I found was the remains of a piano at peace with it's life's ambitions. The guy moving it had, with the help of another individual, muscled it into the back of the pickup. They collectively reasoned that pianos are heavy, like gravel, wouldn't move around, also like gravel, and therefore needn't be tied down. They then drifted from their basic gravel analogy by installing the moving accomplice in the back with the piano to hold it in case of load shift. BZZZZZ! Wrong, thank you for playing! They should have stuck with the gravel program and had the poor guy in the cab where he was safe. The piano, sensing that the walls were down, seized it's opportunity on the first curve and, shrugging off the panicky attempts of the cargo master/smashee to restrain it, took majestic flight over the port side and rolled casters over lid prop at forty miles per hour, shedding any parts unnecessary to the process, along fifty feet of ditch. It met a violent end but, for a brief but glorious moment, It flew! The guy in the back was vastly impressed on the inadvisability of fielding pop-fly pianos and didn't even have to heal up afterwards. He lucked out, bigtime! Education of any sort is enormously enhanced by massive infusions of adrenalin. The absence of broken bones and blood was just a lucky bonus. By the time I arrived, they had both already passed the babbling panic stage, made a relieved injury inventory, and passed into a state of goofy embarrassment. We stood around making amusing observations while they gradually wound down enough to help me toss the carcass et al into my truck. I hauled the remains away for odd hinges, brackets, lumber and screws (I SAID it was my first year). Altogether, it was mostly a happy ending. I won (screw drawer seed), the guy in the back won (he lived), and the piano won biggest of all (at least in the flamboyance category). The only loser was the owner of the now damaged pickup and piano kit. Fortunately, he was lucid enough to be grateful that no one was squashed, so the rest of the disaster was a cinch. Pianos aren't always so flagrant about their attempts at flight. They will also occasionally throw themselves off stages or platforms. This may be a final act of despair at never getting a chance at an accompanied pickup ride, but could just as easily be an enraged attempt to kill the drummer. It's been considered by more than just the piano, you know. In any case, piano psychology being somewhat of an inexact science, the final score for the dive can be computed by multiplying the length and breadth of the resulting debris field. The size and number of the recoverable pieces can also be factored in if necessary in the event of a tie. This covers most of the basic phenomena of whole piano ballistics, except for a rather more notably distinguished episode of Northern Exposure in which a piano was flung into the weeds with much ado and outstanding result. Maybe next month we can further explore the subject in the interior of an otherwise well behaved and stationary piano. There's a lot of stuff slinging around, and it's not just because it's an election year. Ron Nossaman
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