Unplugged

I had never met Abernathy Holcomb. I had registered the usual assortment of ancillary references, rather statements, that he was either a genius or and idiot. Having been taught to differ judgement until having at least tasted the soup, I put the lid back on, and reserved the right to judgement for a later time.

As life often does, it provides the means necessary to take a stab at fulfilling the improvisational requirements we set for ourselves. I am introduced to Abernathy, who seems at the time, either concerned with the world coming to an end, or with poor eye sight, his. He looks past me, through me, and everywhere but at me. I go to shake his hand and he pretends I am a door that needs opening, or a pump that needs a handle. 

Trying to be gracious I ask what he is up to. I've been informed by our host that he dislikes talking about anyone but himself, but did enjoy speaking of what he considers relevant facts of the day, his I assume. I learn that the stop light down of Jefferson, no longer works. Its repetitious blinking he claims has given him a migraine headache, the first of his life.

Chambers hardware he claims will be broken into this evening and a large cache of brooms, mainly those worn to a stub and used primarily for broom ball, will be stolen. “The opposition,” he says, as though we would of course know what and to who, the title refers. He doesn’t elaborate on how he knows of this lawless act, but does imply with a wink, that it is someone in the room.

Abernathy is a small man, of illusive stature. He is physically bent, as if searching the ground for the assurance of safety, before considering his next move. His hair is as oriented as a haystack, held close to his head by the arms of his glasses, which are of a heavy plastic that has been reinforced for some reason with duct tape, gray. The contrast with the black frames is significant as it reduces the obvious protrusion of his ears, which stick out straight from his head as though hoping for an added advantage when it comes to incorporating each and every sound projected in his vicinity.

He speaks with a slow drawl that makes me feel less energetic than I have felt since the completion of the marathon on St. Patrick’s Day. And I hadn’t participated. The gaps between his words at times, causes me to forget what he is talking about, or why I am listening. But as I stated previously I was raised to be polite no matter the insensitivity of the provocateur. So I listen politely as I consider a means of escape.

It is then I realize, he has a sixth sense about him that is uncanny. He appears to know what I am thinking, and proceeds to pardon me before I request a pardon or even consider one. “You may leave if you wish,” he says, “but you’ll be sorry.” 

Sorry, a rather nebulous word that has so many definitive meanings it becomes an oxymoron when placed in the wrong light, which it what he has succeeded in doing. I begin to wonder if sorry means, pain, regret, or simply missing out on a revelation that will change the very fabric of my being. I just smile my reply and allow him guide me to the piano where he seats himself on the bench, and indicates I should sit on the key board. 

I am so enthralled with my companion, I fail to notice the room had emptied. It was now just the two of us, and the piano. He then asks if I’d mind. I have no idea what he is referring to, but am also afraid to ask. He then indicates with a swish of his hand his wish for me to remove myself from the key board. He then pushes this lever and the keys begin magically to dance randomly as the music jumps from the cabinet, one note at a time. He sits grinning as if he’s just invented the cotton gin. 

“Do you play?” he asks, pretending to chase the keys as they rise and fall in time to the music. 

“No I reply nervously,” although I do play some. It is mainly a way to maintain dexterity. My family is known for the early onset of rheumatoid arthritis. My uncle claimed a Voodoo doctor in Ismael Spain, had suggested he take up the piano to put off the onset of premature incapacitation. It also helps with the compulsion to always be truthful, he’d said.

“You are not telling the truth,” he states as if reading my palm. “I don’t know much, but I know the truth when I hear it, or don’t.”

Then he pushes the lever and the music stops. He then asks me if I will unplug the piano from the wall. I do as he suggests and then to my surprise he begins to play, beautifully. And then if by magic, he pulls his fingers from the keys, and yet the keys continue to move, the music continues to flow. 

“My spirit,” he says as nonchalantly as if he’s just declared World Peace. “I usually keep the piano plugged in to avoid the embarrassment of having to explain my spirit being so talented.”

Well I could tell right off he is the sensitive type so I say nothing, just smile, which for some reason brings a frown to his face.

“Do you think I don’t know what you are up to? You'll be greatly mistaken to continue that line of provocation. I can tell a lot about people from how they unplug a piano. That is how I also know it is you planning on breaking into the hardware store, and thus insuring a win in Saturday’s broom ball game. It is what I like to call, the two-pronged affect.”

He then gets up from the piano, batts his eyes at me, and marches from the room. I watch him stride across the room, his short strides seemingly endless as the piano continues to play as if it is in the room alone, and cares little about what I think. I plug the chord back into the wall and the music stops. I assume he’s upset by my bold action, but there is nothing worse than being played down to by a piano, at least in my opinion.

It was at that point that Abernathy comes back into the room. He marches up to me and begins a tirade about kindness, respect, inclusion, and then he begins to cry. I don’t know what to do, so I do as I was taught, I do nothing.

He says, “I thought so,” and stomps off across the room once again like a miniature version of Adolph Hitler. I hadn't noticed the mustache earlier.

I don’t know how to react, I’d never been upstaged by a piano before, nor berated by a dead fascist.

He then says, “I am your future.” It was then, that he unplugs me. Thank god! I was beginning to think technology had run amok once again, and the day would never end. Life is like that when you are plugged into the wrong source of energy. Something to do with AC DC, European, American. I was raised to disregard outside influence as it results in confusion or worse…

I can hear Abernathy somewhere in the distance yelling about, something to do with shorting out. I can only assume he’s self-conscious, but then it is getting difficult to hear. Battery life I can only assume.