The Misadventures of Mark - Episode 3: Real Men Kawai

Giving birth to another human being is a purportedly painful experience.  So, in some ways, it was only fitting that my mom's birthday request was also a "labor of love."

The gift was a piano, one that came with a generous, complimentary installation service, courtesy of "the rest of the family."  Purchasing the piano was easy since dollar bills are relatively light, easily transported objects.  Moving the piano on the other hand.  Well, well.  That was another story.

Another story indeed!  We had to ascend a whole two of them (three if you count this story I'm currently writing, which has involved a lot of retroactive mental lifting just to recall the experience)!

So, how do you move a piano anyway?  I'm glad you asked. The remnants of my muscles are dying to tell you.  After approximately an hour of grunting and groaning, I now consider myself a master in this subject area and completely qualified to answer this daunting question. The way you move a piano is the same way you build a pyramid. You use alien technology and/or a lot of slave labor. Unfortunately for us, we had neither.  All we had were muscles.

The journey begins.  Even the Vanagon groaned a little.

My brother and I both workout regularly. We run. We lift weights. We attempt to eat more frequently from the "my body is a temple menu" than from the "woopie, life is short menu." Let me tell you, though. No matter how much you workout, nothing can prepare you for moving a piano except maybe prior experience with a hernia.

Pianos are not to be trifled with or taken lightly.  Actually, let me rephrase that.  Pianos cannot be taken lightly.

In a non-steroid-infused human, the only muscle group strong enough to move a piano is your legs. Your arms and hands are just handles to use while the rest of your body attempts to hold together.

Thankfully, my brother and I are both blessed with tree trunks for legs. All, the same, moving a piano up a stairway makes you wonder if you won't be taking your own Stairway to Heaven before the end of it.

If you look closely on the stairs, you'll notice we had to take the railings off.  

Somehow, despite the piano's best efforts, we managed to lay the piano to rest before it did the same to us. After much grunting, growing, praying, and a little kawai-ing, we nestled the piano into it's final place.

Phew! I straightened my back and took a breath. Like a cattle brand, the weight of the piano felt forever etched into my muscle fibers, a masochistic diary of each movement. I wouldn't be forgetting this day for a long time to come. But, we had done it!

The piano was all in one piece, and somehow, we were too. Part of me thought that by the time we had finished rolling it to its destination, the sun would have burnt out and perpetual night would have taken over. But it seemed we'd finished before the sun even went down. I guess miracles really do happen.

The brand name Kawai is a sneaky double entendre: part warning, part mirthful laugh. 

Since that day, I've never be able to look at a piano the same way. No longer do I see furnished wood and innocent ebony, ivory keys. Instead, I involuntarily calculate all the paths the lifters must've stumbled through to bring it to its current resting place. 

I'm not what I would consider a wise person, by any means, and most of the time the best advice I could give anyone would be to be wary of advice.  That said, they say wisdom is some strange mix of knowledge, intuition, and experience. Well, after this experience, I think I may have finally gleamed one, lone nugget of wisdom. So future piano owners and home builders.  Please.  Listen up! Don't wait until you have a house to decide if you want a piano. Get the piano first. Build the house around it. You'll thank me later.