“Get out of my way, I’m on a mission!” I barked at the startled doorman, pushing past him to exit the Four Seasons Hotel in Boston.

I was moving so fast that Dianne got caught in the revolving door and went around four times before I reached in and snagged her.  What a time to be fooling around!  She trailed dizzily behind me as I hot-footed it to the street.  It’s a good thing I’m leading this mission, we’d get hopelessly muddled if she were the person taking charge.

“Jodi, what are you doing?” she complained as she staggered to catch up.  “Slow down!”

It’s not that I’m taller than she is, she’s smaller than me!  But she never lets me forget it, and she has to take two steps to my one.  Ha!

“I told you, HIM gave me instructions……”

I paused to savor the memory of Sir HIM McCartney speaking to me over the cell phone that Geoff Baker had accidentally left in the Four Seasons’ lobby.  Unfortunately, Dianne was still in her complaining mood, and she utterly ruined my reflective, savoring mood.

“HIM is out of HIM’S mind, we can’t……”

“Oh, it’ll be simple,” I replied breezily, my eyes darting here and there along the busy street.  Where was that store I’d seen when I was scoping out the hotel yesterday?  “You’ve still got some room on your credit card, don’t you?” I asked, turning to the left.  “I’m sure it’s this way.”

Dianne shook her head stubbornly.  “No, the store’s this way,” she said, jerking her chin to the right.  “It’s only a few blocks from the hotel. But we can’t possibly…..!  And I don’t have much room on my credit card!  Not after the airfare and the hotel bill and the concert tickets……”

Blah blah blah blah blah! 

Dianne’s annoying when she goes on like this.  I tuned her out and looked down the street to the right.  Ah!  There, down at the corner across the street, just where I thought it was!  I left Dianne behind as I crossed the street, confident that she’d follow me.

Well, maybe I wasn’t that confident.  I stopped at the door to the shop and looked back.  She was still on the opposite side of the street.

“What are you waiting for?” I called over to her.

Her mouth moved, but nothing seemed to come out.

“What?” I yelled over the sounds of the bustling city.  I strained my ears to hear her faint reply.

“You (something something) serious, (something something), Jodi!”

“Speak up!  And yes, I am serious!” I shouted back.  Maybe she was worried about the credit limit on her card?  Mine was maxed to the nth degree after buying the pen in the gift shop at the hotel, no way we’d fit anything on mine.  I pursed my lips and thought for a moment.  “Hey, we’ll just tell them it’s for HIM!” I shouted to the figure on the opposite corner.  “It won’t be a problem!  So come on, slow-poke, we’re keeping HIM waiting!”

It’s probably a good thing that a long string of buses passed by just then, I didn’t want to lip-read what Dianne had to say.  She was in a really foul mood this morning.  Crabby-pants! 

I don’t know why we’re such good friends, I really don’t.  But she relies on me so much, she’d be utterly lost if not for me.  Why, just yesterday she came up with the brilliant idea of taking a train up to Salem, where all the witches lived.  We never got there, of course.  When Dianne asked the stationmaster which train we should take, and he replied “Pea Buddy,” well, I couldn’t believe how rude he was!  So I told Dianne that no way did I want to support a train system that told passengers what to do with themselves.

Of course, Dianne the diplomat insisted that he was not at all rude, we just didn’t understand his accent.  But I knew that I was right, so I just ignored her protests and dragged her back to the hotel.  She’s been in a mood ever since.

Ah, the silver and purple buses had all passed by and Dianne was glaring at me from the other side of the street.  I tapped my foot impatiently.

“Come on!” I shouted.

I knew she’d come to her senses sooner or later, and I was glad this would be one of the ‘sooner’ times.  I watched as she looked right, then left, then right again before finally trudging across the street to join me.  She looked as if she’d been eating lemons, she had such a sour expression.

“HIM’S counting on us,” I reminded her gently.

“Why did you ever pick up that cell phone?” she moaned.

I gently took her by the elbow and led her into M. Steinert and Sons, one of the country’s oldest dealers in Steinway pianos.  First time in my life I actually had to get buzzed into a store of any kind.

“You think they’re worried that someone will steal a grand piano?” I asked Dianne.

She frowned.  “Let’s get this over with.”

“Don’t pout, this will be fun!” I said.  Sometimes you just have to put up with her moods.  I pointed to one of the pianos.

“That one’s gorgeous!”  I squealed.  “Do you think HIM would like it?  It’s the biggest one in here.”

Dianne groaned.  “It’s also the pinkest one in here.”

“It’s unique,” I argued.

Dianne turned over the price tag.  “And a bargain at fifty-five thousand dollars.”

I looked at the gold lettering on the side of the instrument.  “Look, it’s signed by the artist.”

Dianne bent her head and checked it out.  “Smedley Hornbuster.  You want to deliver a pink, twelve-foot concert grand with the words ‘Smedley Hornubster’ emblazed in foot high lettering?  Did you ever even hear of Smedley Hornbuster?”

“Maybe Paul has.  He’s an artist.”

“What would be your second choice?”  Dianne asked.

“Hmm.”  I looked around the room until another instrument caught my eye.  “How about that one?”

Dianne squinted.  “That thing?”

I nodded.  “What’s wrong with it?”  I asked defensively.  “It’s a neutral brown color, the kind of thing that you would like.  And it has all those elaborate carvings.”

Dianne shrugged.  “Well, for starters it’s a roll top desk, not a piano.”

“Oh.  In that case, you pick one, smarty pants.”  She’s such a pill.

Dianne snorted, then headed towards the smallest piano in the store.

“That’s just a baby,” I protested.

“Hence the name ‘baby grand,’“ Dianne sniffed.

“And it’s all black and shiny.  In other words, boring.  What’s wrong with that green one over there?”

“Oh, that neon one with the red streaks?  Nothing’s wrong with it, if your name is Marilyn Manson and you plan to set it on fire and jump out of it.”

You know, sometimes I don’t know whether Dianne is kidding or if she’s serious.  But I could see that she was going to veto every single one of my choices.  Come to think of it, the five-foot baby grand was all that we could afford.  Well, it was all we could afford if I sold my car.  And my cat.

I’m kidding, I’m kidding, I wouldn’t sell my cat.  Anyway, the cat wouldn’t bring me enough money to pay for even a single piece of sheet music.

Still, I couldn’t help myself.  I had to try one more time to steer her away from that run of the mill piano.  “Dianne, how come you picked the only piano in the store that doesn’t say Steinway?  It says Yamaha.  Aren’t they the same people that make motorcycles?”

Dianne squeezed her eyes shut.  “Didn’t you read the sign on the way in here?  M. Steinert and Sons also sells gently used pianos from other makers.  They recondition the instruments and guarantee that they are top quality.”

“What?”  My jaw dropped to the floor.  “You want to buy a beat up old piano for HIM?”

Sometimes I swear I see smoke pouring out of Dianne’s ears.  “HIM isn’t even going to notice.  Besides, if HIM wants a brand new twelve foot Steinway concert grand, then HIM can put it on HIS own credit card.”

I gasped.  “You know Dianne, if you weren’t so selfish, you would agree to put a second mortgage on your house and then we could afford to buy HIM a brand new...”

That’s when I noticed Dianne’s left hand curling into a fist.  I once saw that fist punch a hole through the wall of a four star hotel in Seekonk, Rhode Island.  I only regret that I don’t have enough time to go into that story right now.  My point is, no way in the universe do I want to antagonize that fist.  I went off in search of a salesman.

The Steinway salesman was kind enough to let me make a couple of long distance phone calls, and the deed was done.

Then there was the delivery issue.

“We will deliver it to your doorstep next week,” the salesman assured us.

“We need it right now,” Dianne said.  “Does it help if I tell you that we’re part of Sir Paul McCartney’s crew, and we’ve purchased the piano for him?”

“It would help if you could get him to perform in our store.”

Dianne smiled.  “What’s option two?”

“Sir Paul McCartney waits one week for delivery.”

“Well, how about...”

There goes Dianne the diplomat again.  She’ll keep up those negotiations all day long, and we’ll completely miss the concert and we’ll never get to meet HIM.  Sometimes I just have to step in and take over.

“Okay, mister, we’ll just deliver it ourselves.”

“JODI!”

“What’s your problem, Dianne?  It’s only a three block walk, and the thing has wheels.”

“Oh, and how do you propose to get the thing over curbs?”

“Didn’t you notice, all the corners have ramps for wheelchairs?”

I hate it when Dianne turns that nasty shade of red. 

***

I looked up at the sky and hoped it wouldn’t rain.  The sunny skies were disappearing and clouds were building up over the city.  Dianne was still grumbling, but I decided to ignore her.  I looked up and down the street.

“There’s a break in traffic, let’s go!” I announced.

Dianne looked horrified.  “Wait for the walk signal!”

“Nobody in Boston waits for the walk signal,” I argued. 

“Nobody in Boston gallops across the street with a five-foot piano.”

“Push!”  I urged.

“JODI, N-O-O-O-O!”

Too late, I’d given the piano a big heave and it was on the move.  We didn’t have far to go, thank heavens!  I ignored all the honking horns and screeching brakes, that’s just life in the big city, isn’t it?  We got the piano across the street and up onto the sidewalk. 

I should say that I got the piano across the street and up on the sidewalk.  I’m afraid that Dianne wasn’t much help.  It’s because she’s so short, you know.  She claims that it’s her shortness that causes her to suddenly moan and hold her head in her hands.  I’m beginning to think that she made up that excuse, but then again, it might be true.

I paid no attention to the cursing from the cars in the street at my back and gave a few mighty pushes, steering HIM’S piano towards the hotel entrance.

The doorman came racing out the revolving door and stared at us as we approached.  I took one of the Four Seasons Boston paper towels from my bulging purse and mopped my face, it was pretty warm despite the increasing cloudiness and I was sweating from all the pushing.

“Madam, errrr, can I help you?” he asked hesitantly.

I smiled at him, still mopping my forehead.  “Sir McCartney asked us to get this for him,” I replied confidently.

“Errrrr, well, I don’t see any way we can …… it won’t go through the revolving door, Madam,” he stammered.

He was cute, but a little young for me.  I winked at him anyway.  Dianne was staring at me as if I’d lost my mind, but I ignored her.

“It’s on wheels.”

The man suddenly smiled.  “This is one of those hidden camera shows, right?”

People sure behave strangely in Boston.  “Where’s the freight entrance?” I asked.

The smile disappeared.  “Madam, I’m sorry, but I can’t….. without any authorization…. It’s not possible…..”

I winked at him again as I whipped out Geoff Baker’s cell phone and punched #*#*321###3333***.  It’s a little known secret re-dial option, don’t tell anyone.  I held the phone up to my ear and smiled sweetly.

“What d’ya want?” an English accented voice growled.

That didn’t sound like HIM, and I frowned.

“Excuse me, do you always answer a phone like that?” I asked loftily.

“Give me that!”

The phone disappeared from my ear as if by magic and I was surprised by Dianne’s nerve.  Trust that she’d come alive now!  Well, let her talk to the growling oaf on the other end of the call.  Maybe their moods would collide and she’d come out of this a little bit happier.  She was being such a sourpuss!

“Hello?  We have a piano for delivery to Sir Paul,” she said breathlessly.

I liked (not!) how she was jubilantly sharing the credit when it had really been my work and effort and nerve and sweat that had gotten the piano here.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Baker, yes, this is Dianne, yes, and Jodi, too.  Yes, the Four Reasons, that’s our … newspaper, that’s right, I’m so surprised you remember!”

Geoff remembered me!  I blushed.  He’d patted me on the knee, such a nice man.  He hadn’t patted Dianne on the knee, and I grinned smugly at her.  She ignored me.

“Yes, well, of course, no, I’m sure….. well, yes, I agree, but….. ummm, ok, I’m sure we can….. well, if you say so….. I mean, I suppose so….. oh, obviously, of course, that makes sense.”  Dianne laughed feebly as the color bled from her face, her fingers clutching the cell phone.  I felt her forehead before she jerked away in annoyance, and her skin felt clammy.

“What’s going on?” I hissed.

She shook her head at me, and turned her back.  Imagine, she turned her back on me!  Me!  Her best friend in the world!  This must be bad news!  I tried to steel myself for whatever was coming.

“Yes, of course, yes, see you there,” she managed, then took the phone from her ear and pressed the ‘off’ button.

“What is it?” I asked, full of dread and feeling somewhat faint.

My dread grew tenfold when Dianne turned to me with tears in her eyes.

“Oh, Jodi, what have you gotten us into?  We have to take this piano to the concert hall!” she wailed.  “Sir Paul doesn’t want it here!  How are we going to get this over there?!?”

I hate it when she cries.  I hate it when she wails, too, I think it brings out the mother instinct in me.  I just want to wallop her and tell her to sit in the corner.  Maybe it’s more a sister-instinct than a mother-instinct?

Oh dear, what to do, what to do?

“Don’t worry, we’ll get this all figured out!” I blurted, then turned to the doorman and winked again.  “Could I just have a word with your manager?” I cooed.  I had an idea.

***

Who’d have ever thought that a hotel as fancy as the Four Seasons in Boston wouldn’t have a delivery truck?  Well, at least they were nice enough to find a maintenance man for us.  He turned the piano on its side, removed the three legs, and handed them to Dianne.  Then he tied the rest of the piano to a dolly. 

“Good luck, girls,” he laughed.

I tried to ignore Dianne as we waited for the subway, but it was difficult.

“Quit worrying,” I finally snapped at her.  “I’ve got the directions and it won’t be a problem!  The hotel manager said there’s an elevator at our stop, and we’ll only have to walk a little ways to get to the concert hall!”

“How big do you think that elevator is?”  she hissed.  “And nothing is ‘a little ways’ when you’re hauling a piano.”

“I’m the one doing the major hauling,” I reminded her.  “So quit complaining.”

I was getting pretty tired of her mood.  Thankfully, our ride was here, I could hear it approaching.

“Get ready,” I yelled.

Whoosh, the doors opened.  Bodies swarmed around us as people simultaneously spilled down out of the open doors or jumped up into them.

“Now!!!!” I commanded, and we pushed, ignoring the screams and groans from inside the crowded subway car.  I dusted off my hands.  “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

I looked around for my friend as the subway car doors closed with another whoosh.

“Dianne?  Dianne?!?”

As the subway car started moving, I pushed my way to the closed doors. 

“What are you doing on the platform?  Get in here!” I screeched.

Too late!  We were off, and Dianne was left behind.  I leaned against the piano in dismay.  I had the directions AND the subway tokens I’d been able to talk out of the hotel manager.

“She can’t survive without me in the city,” I muttered to myself.  “What should I do?  What will Sir Paul do with a legless piano?”

I looked up and noticed that everyone else in the subway car had moved away from me and the precious piano.  They were all studiously looking away, almost eager to avoid eye contact with me.  Hadn’t they ever seen a piano on a subway car before?  Maybe they were in awe that I had shouted the name “Sir Paul.”

Well, there was nothing to do but get off at the next stop and make my way back to the first stop to get Dianne.  I thought about leaving the piano on the subway car and catching up with it later, but realized that someone might try to steal it, and then we’d be in real trouble.  I could just picture it now.

“Jodi, luv, where’s me piano?”

“Paul, darling, I’m so sorry, but it was stolen while I was searching for my dear friend Dianne.”

“Stolen?  Why, that’s terrible, luv!  Come over here an’ let me comfort you, you must have had an awful fright, there’s my girl!”

Hey, I liked this picture!!!!

I got off at the next stop and left the piano behind.  Don’t worry, I’m not stupid!  I didn’t have a pen (Geoff Baker took mine, remember?), but I memorized the car number.  It was “C” and the car was green.  No problem, it’d be easy to find.  And if not, then Paul would certainly be very understanding.

It was easy to find Dianne at the previous subway stop.  She was all by herself on the platform, and she was screaming at the top of her lungs.

“What do you mean you left the piano on the subway train?  How could you just leave a twelve-thousand dollar piano on the subway train?”

“Get real, Dianne.  Without the legs it’s worth a lot less than that.”

Dianne’s face had assumed this magnificent purple color.  I’d have taken her picture if it weren’t for the two tons of paper towels weighing down my purse and hiding my camera.  Everything important always falls to the bottom of my purse.  My keys do that, too.

“I memorized the train number and its final destination,” I continued.  “We just need to go retrieve it.  Nobody’s going to walk off with it.”

It was fascinating to watch the veins in Dianne’s neck do this rather inspired dance move.

“Let’s go,” she said.

I love the way she can talk without moving her lips.  She just parts them ever so slightly and the words come right out between her clenched teeth.

So, off we headed in search of our piano.

You would be amazed at the looks you get when you report a missing piano to the subway officials.  As if nobody had ever lost an instrument on a subway before.  We finally made it to Cleveland Circle, the last subway stop for the C train, and....

“Dianne, why do you have that awful brown bag over your head?  Where did you get it, anyway?”

“Found it in the gutter,” she said.  I assumed her teeth were still clenched, but I couldn’t be certain.  “It keeps me from hyperventilating.”

“Oh.  Well, let me just go ask this subway official what I should do.”

Dianne whipped the bag off her head.  “Don’t you dare.  Don’t you dare ask anybody anything.  Just stand here quietly while I do the asking.  Don’t move, do you hear me?  Don’t move, don’t talk to anybody, don’t get on any subways.”

“But what if...”

“Just DON’T!!!!!”

And with that, she disappeared around a corner.  It felt like she was gone forever, but only because I wasn’t moving.  I tried not breathing, because I thought she would approve of that too, but then I thought she might get a little peeved if I fainted because that would involve moving.

“Well?”  I asked when she finally returned.

“Well, it seems that somehow the piano switched from the C train to the D train.”

“Oh, then we’re all set,” I said brightly.  “Because the D train goes...”

“The D train going outbound,” Dianne gritted her teeth.  “That means it’s continuing onwards in the WRONG direction.  Away from the arena.  Away from us.  Away from civilization as we know it.  A twelve-thousand dollar investment on the lam.  AWOL.  Gone but not forgotten.  Loose as a goose.  Yea though I walk in the shadow of the valley of lost and found...”

Dianne continued her rant while I dragged her and the piano legs onto a D train.  With our noses pressed to the window, we checked out each subway platform that we passed.  Well, I don’t know how much Dianne could actually see.  Her rantings had fogged up the window in front of her face.

Finally, there it was!  Our piano awaited us at the Riverside stop.  Still tied up to the dolly and looking to be in perfect condition.

“The last stop!”  Dianne wailed.  “The very last stop.  Do you know how expensive it is to get into the city from the last stop?  And they’re going to charge us extra for the elephantine thing that we’re bringing along.”

“Don’t worry about it, I’ve got a few dollars left,” I muttered.

Okay.  So everybody in Boston except me knows that you can only use change or tokens on a subway train. 

“Dianne, what are you doing?”  I asked.

She had found yet another paper bag and borrowed a marker from someone.  Then she stood the bag up next to the sideways piano.  The sign read, “Help send this poor girl to music school.”  And with that, Dianne turned herself sideways and performed the worst version of “Something,” I have ever heard in my life.

“Dianne, have you gone mad?” I shrieked.

Probably.  But darned if people didn’t start throwing change at her.  Especially when the train was late and she kept playing and singing the same song over and over again.

“I’ll pay you more if you stop singing!” somebody shrieked as more quarters rained down on us.

“Psyched!”  I cried as I scooped up all the change.  Enough money for the three of us, and even some leftovers.

You’re not going to believe this.  Dianne got bitten by the performing bug.  She’s usually quite shy about playing in public, which is why I think that she experienced some type of breakdown.  But there she was inside the subway car, standing sideways, playing away, and leading all the delighted passengers in a medley of Beatle tunes.  It helped that most of the crowd wore Macca T-shirts.  No doubt these fans were heading towards the arena hours in advance of the show in hopes of spotting Paul when he arrived to do his sound check.

Well, we made it downtown okay, all the way to the North Station stop.  Dianne was right about the elevator.  Figures.  It was only big enough to hold her and the piano legs.  Figures too that she would leave me alone to get the piano downstairs all by myself. 

And by the way, who in their right mind would build a subway station two stories up?  It’s called a “subway,” folks.  I know for a fact that “sub” means under.  I mean, nobody ever set sail in a “Yellow Overmarine,” did they? 

I got very lucky and found a bunch of people to help me carry the thing downstairs.  I told them that I was bringing it to the concert for Paul to sign, and this one lady started shouting that if they all touch the piano first, and then HIM touches it, then HIM is actually touching them, and isn’t that cosmic?

It is cosmic, come to think about it.  But I’m not going to tell Dianne.  She’ll think that I’m cosmic.

“Where should we take this thing?”  I grunted to Dianne.  I had to use another Four Seasons paper towel on my face, the humidity was killing me.

“How about around the side where it says “Park here if you’re part of Paul McCartney’s crew?”

I laughed.  “Dianne, silly, we’re not parking.”

Even in the dark I could hear Dianne rolling her eyes.  “Just follow me.”

What choice did I have?  We headed over towards the sign, and then a familiar form came bursting out of an arena door.

“You’re late!”  Geoff Baker reprimanded us.  “Now hand the piano to these men.  You did remember, the legs, didn’t you?  Fine, fine.”

The two roadies headed away with OUR piano, and Geoff turned to follow them.

Dianne held out her hand.  “It’s raining.”

“Of course it’s raining,” I said.  “This is the Driving Rain tour isn’t it?  See how even the weather cooperates with HIM?”

Betcha you could hear Dianne’s groan all the way to the Riverside subway stop.  I patted her on the shoulder.  “Don’t worry about the weather,” I assured her.  “The show is indoors.”

“And you did bring the tickets, didn’t you Jodi?”

I felt myself redden.  “Of course I didn’t.  I didn’t have them.  You had them.  You insisted on having them because you always insist that you’re the responsible one.”

I could feel the heat radiating off my soon-to-be-ex-best friend. 

“Yes, but you told me you were sick of not being the responsible one so you were going to be the responsible one this time.  So where are the tickets?” Dianne growled.

“You have them!” I shouted.

“Ladies, please,” Geoff Baker rushed at us.  “Hurry up, they won’t seat you after the pre-show starts, and it’s going to start in minutes!” 

“Seat us?”  Dianne asked.

“You are part of the crew.  Lord only knows how that happened, but is has.  Now get inside the building.”

“Hey Dianne, did you notice?” I whispered as Sir McCartney’s Press Agent turned away.  “Geoff can grit his teeth just like you do.”

Dianne grabbed my arm.  “Shut up and get into the building!”  she hissed between clenched teeth.

Just like Geoff!

Cool.

Stay tuned for Jodi and Dianne’s next batch of misadventures in the Baker’s Dozen series.

Lisha Goldberg is a freelance writer and editor. She also writes a newsletter for a Boston piano studio. Lisha has won several prizes for her writing, including the Boston Herald Star Trek Competition (write a eulogy for Captain Kirk!), CompuServe's Beatle Essay Contest, and Writers Digest Magazine Award for best Inspirational Short Story.

Cheryl Mortensen has been a Beatle fanatic since the 1960s, but somehow went on to other things in the late 1960s, only rediscovering her passion for "all things Beatle" in the late 1990s (and on into the new century).  She is a computer programmer and an avid photographer. (Concert photos of bands and performers is her favorite area -- ask her about her Ringo pictures!!)  Cheryl lives with her husband of many years (Mike), her German Shepherd (Sorsha), and a bunch of fish in the tank and the pond that they've never bothered to name.

Tell Lisha Goldberg and Cheryl Mortensen what you thought of their story!