You find yourself in a daze, leaning on a piano. You look down and see asphalt. A piano could be just what you need. But how? You don't have any matches. What else can a dude do with a piano without looking like a wuss? Old Lady Bingham tried to teach you lessons that lasted from when you were in shortpants until you bit her thumb when you were getting your first mustache. That was a long time ago. You try to play something and the piano howls. Why did they put so many keys on it? But maybe you could get some money for this thing or find someone who would give you some beer for it. You put your shoulder into it and get the damn thing rolling. You push the piano for what seems like days. The road goes from asphalt to gravel to dirt and back again. All you can see from the corner of your eyes is an endless field of stubble. Maybe corn or cotton or tobacco, you really can't tell. You hear thousands of weevils and locusts chomping on the crops. You forget why, but you are naked. Perhaps the Fates just prefer you that way. For a while you wonder where you are heading or why the road doesn't go past a Hardees or something. You stop to rest for a moment and see that you are at a crossroads. You hear the sound of an old geezer hacking and you turn to see the Devil bent over. He finishes his cough. "Sorry. Emphysema. Stay away from them Lucky Strikes. Nevermind, what's your story?" The Devil looks a little rough, but it is him alright. His tail is longer than anybody else's, that is for sure. And those hooves don't look like halloween feet, they look like the kind you eat in pickle brine, the real deal.. "I brought this." You point to the piano. "I wanna be a blues man. I want soul." The Devil looks you over. He spits something over his shoulder, but says nothing. You continue: "I want to play that thing like nobody ever played it before. Sideways. Frontways and backwards. Upsidedown," The devil smiles. "Well, there it is kid, have at it." "No, no, no, no, no. You show me. I can't. You make me." "I dunno, kid. If I bought your soul all you'd do is wear some kinda porkpie hat and an old suit you got at a yard sale and then you'd make some faces while you play. That passes for the blues these days. The world doesn't need another blues faker. Go get some calluses and come back in eleven years." "I don't think there is such thing as piano calluses." "Don't argue with me. Go find some calluses, any kind of calluses." You don't know what to say. This was supposed to be a simple transaction. "Okay, then can you just make me a really good dancer instead?" He shoos you away like you are some kind of runt. Something about the way he dismisses you with a wave of the hand infuriates you. He can't do that to Sycamore! Suddenly you are sick of the Devil. Pointing a menacing finger at him, you stand up on your tip-toes and say "Better watch out or I'll put the Kibosh on you, old man." The Devil looks confused. "Whatddya mean, The Kibosh? How exactly?" "Just don't worry about how, pal. More importantly you should worry about when." The Devil looks nervous. He looks around for help and sees that there is none. He makes the sign of the cross and slowly shuffless backwards, trying to fool you that he isn't running away. Every couple of steps he makes the cross again. You watch him and make to pounce, but really you are just kidding. Who wants to bother with the Kibosh, anyway? That takes a long time. If anything you'd kinda like to tickle the old bastard. Eventually he shuffles backward into a little speck. Leaving the devil, you still have this piano. You don't want to relinquish it. It occurs to you that it could be worth a lot of money. A couple hundred bucks. Plus, what if that is real ivory! And so you become obsessed with keeping it, hiding it, loving it. A storm comes across the horizon. You worry about the rain ruining the shellac on your piano. The thunder cracks and you try to climb on top to protect the finish. The rain is nice, but when it turns to hail you decide that the finish was never that nice anyway. You need to get out of the rain and hail. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do but crawl inside the piano. You open it up and climb into the darkness. You sit there on the strings, trying to calm down as the hail plays Krupa on your prize piano. After a while you start to get into the rhythm of it and you feel your way around in the darkness. You grab onto the low end strings with a toe claw and start in with the hail, something low and jazzy. Then you reach over to plink a high nocturne with your pinky. You start sweating and the hail tries to keep time with you. Outside some birds are making a good noise. You and the hail have at it for quite a while until the lights come on. Old Lady Bingham opens up the piano and peeks in. "You? I never knew you had chops! You were holding out on me, you little stinker." "I always meant to do right by you, ma'am," you hear yourself say. She opens her purse and fetches a ribbon. She takes out a magic marker and scribbles on the ribbon and then she hands it to you inside the piano: Not So Bad After All. THE END