I don’t know why they chose to drop me onto Charlie’s doorstep some years ago, but I never regretted it. Not even the day just before my seventh birthday when two peculiar men showed up in a fancy moving van with the words ‘Baal’s Movers’ on the side. It was freshly painted in an elegant red script that looked straight out of one of Uncle Charlie’s antique catalogs. I was sitting in the kitchen peering through the window when they pulled up. It was the hottest day of the year. You could see heat radiate up from the drive way like a snake suffocating its dinner as it surrounded the truck. I still remember the vanity plate reading 616.

The two men were of surprisingly diminutive stature; short, to put it coarsely. They donned what were probably once pure black business suits, but looked to have faded so much that they were now a mixture of various grays with complimenting ties tied slightly askew. They both reeked of smoke. One man was slightly taller, younger (how much younger is hard to say), and carried a briefcase. The older man was shorter, rounder, and held a clipboard and a cane that came to a sharp point at the ground. Despite their scraggly dress, both men wore shoes that had a shine that reflected back like fire. I’ve always had a knack for seeing the secrets that hide just behind folks’ eyelashes, but it didn’t take an expert to see these two men were up to something before they even opened their mouths. When Uncle Charlie answered the door, I was behind him.

“Good Morning to you, sir. I’m known as the mildly affectionate Mr. Scrootius and this is my protégée, business associate, and dearest nephew Mr. Absinth.” The second, taller, man hardly broke a smile at his introduction. “We’re here in regards to the winnings of a Mr. Baudelaire. Mr. Charles Baudelaire. Is he in?” Scrootius inquired.

Leaving the screen door safely latched, Uncle Charlie spoke back with a minor annoyance that only those close to him would have noticed, “I’m sorry, I think you may have the wrong address. There’s no one here by such name.”

“Is this not…,” Scrootius paused and looked over at our address on the house and then back at his clipboard before continuing, “…Nine-six-twenty-four Lenore street?”

I stood just behind Uncle Charlie, not being able to tell if the man was reminding himself of our address, or if he was checking to see if he was in the right place. Had I been able to see the other side of his brown hornet colored clipboard, I would have realized that it simply read: “Objective: Deliver Piano to Patient.”

“It is,” Charlie started back, “but….”

“And then who might you be?” said Scrootius, purposefully interrupting.

“I’m Charlie,” he responded sharply.

“Charles, Charlie, they’re close enough, really. The Piano’s yours.”

“It’s Charlie Seraphic not Charles Baudelaire. You’re more than a few miles away on my name. Last I brushed up on my knowledge of 19th century french poets, Charles Baudelaire died in France sometime in the eighteen hundreds”, he said more skeptically, catching the two men in a silence.

“Good day gentlemen.” Charlie shut the door.

The two men stood there for a few moments looking at first the door than back at each other before calling a second time.

“A different approach then, Mr. Scrootius?”
“Yes, I think so, Mr. Absinth.”

Absinth reached out and rung the bell again.

They explained that the Piano delivery was the result of some kind of lottery. They maintained that Charlie had apparently won some sort of contest and that this was the right address, but unconvincingly admitted to possibly having the wrong last name. My uncle Charlie wasn’t the type to play the lottery, let alone one to drop his name into random drawings. When Charlie tried to turn them away, the taller man began to speak for the first time. “The truth is Mr. Arrånt…”

“Seraphic!”, Charlie corrected while scrunching his brow.

“Ah Yes, Mr. Seraphic. We were supposed to make this delivery over two weeks ago. We’ve been unable to contact the rightful recipient and if we go back to our boss with the baby grand a sixth time proving non-delivery, we’ll have Hell to pay. Literally.”

For the moment Charlie didn’t speak. He simply looked over the two men carefully in a way only he could. I knew this look. It’s the same look he gave me when he caught me sneaking cookies in the middle of the night for the second time. The look made me feel so sick to my stomach in guilt I never did it again. The two men cheerfully glared back. The shorter man stuck a finger into the collar of his shirt and pulled slightly loosening the grip his tie had around his neck. I expected the men to be sweating in their garbs, though neither man showed even a drop of perspiration.

“This isn’t a scam,” added Scrootius. “If you’d like to make a few calls and see if we’re a legitimate company, we’d be pleased to wait.”Charlie turned and looked at me expectantly as if waiting for me to come up with an excuse that would rid us of the two men. While Charlie taught me well and I was far from the average child of six, I was still a child. “Do you even play, Uncle Charlie?” I asked, not knowing what he expected me to come up with.

“I wouldn’t know where to begin.” He winked at me before turning back to the two men. A business card exchanged hands, it read “Baal Piano Emporium 616-555-6616.”

“It’s free, all taxes paid and we’ll give you a receipt that will show proof of ownership. It was the quintessential model of its class one hundred years ago and made by the Hazelton Brothers. There’s absolutely no catch. While I admit it isn’t a Grand Piano and that it’s only a Baby Grand it’s still very much a beast of an instrument and certainly plays a fine bite. It’s true you would be accepting someone else’s prize, but they haven’t claimed it and my what an exquisite antique it is! Your young one there will benefit greatly.” said Absinth, finishing with a grin.

Uncle Charlie seemed to relax. The men’s three piece suits seemed to grow darker. Uncle Charlie made a few phone calls, everything seemed to check out. I don’t know how they ended up convincing him. Next I knew the two men were granted full access to our home. They took tape measures to our door frames and door knobs. They measured our floors and walls; Our light fixtures and light switches. They even measured my tooth brush, how long my tube of toothpaste was, and counted the nail clippings in the trash can. They measured the space under the beds, the diameter of our toilet. Even the pieces of lint in our pockets weren’t safe as they removed each speck carefully with a pair of tweezers before scribbling nonsensical hieroglyphics onto their clipboard in some kind of agile acknowledgement.

Charlie lead them down into the basement and opened the secret panel that lead into the library. After some thought and re-arrangement, the two mysterious gentlemen concluded that the Baby Grand Piano’s new home would be in the center of everything amidst the clutter. Somehow, the two men made enough space to navigate the Piano to the center of everything. It was a straight shot down the steps after stepping in the side door to the house. The Piano bench was carried down first. The two men returned to their truck and somehow managed with unaided strength to carry the Baby Grand up the driveway, through the gate, and to the side door of the house.

“Mr. Absinth, it would appear that we’ll have to remove the legs to fit it through,” said Mr. Scrootius.

I watched from my bedroom window as one of the men removed a screwdriver from a brief case that, when opened, resembled a collection of archaic tools a doctor may have used for torture. He inserted the head of the screwdriver into the slots of the screw head at the base of the Piano leg and began twisting. The shaft immediately snapped at its neck. “Damn. That was one of my finest tools!” exclaimed Mr. Absinth.

“While I admire your handy work getting us in the door, your clever approach isn’t going to work in this case, Mr. Absinth. The boss said this would be a tricky job, but we’re professionals. Try the bone saw, my dear Mr. Absinth, and we’ll cut through the screws. We can always replace them with new screws once we have it down the steps,” suggested Scrootius matter-of factly.
“Professionals indeed, Mr. Scrootius.”

The bone saw had small teeth and a short handle. Usually used for sawing through flesh and bone to perform an amputation, Absinth went to work on the same Piano leg. He began to grind it against the screws. At first it appeared as if it was going half way through, but suddenly there didn’t appear to be even a scratch anywhere on the Piano. The saw had been completely bent and snapped in pieces.

“I find it rather surprising that we shall have to retort to this odd and stubbornly vexatious apparatus with a device that’s more subversive. What do you say, Mr. Absinth?”

Absinth returned to the truck and removed and started up a chain saw. “Must I say anything else?”The buzz of the saw was jarring as it chewed through each leg of the Piano with a sour note. To me, at the age of six, it looked like they were murdering the poor creature as it bled splinters of black ebony all over the pavement. I had to cover my ears.

Scrootius suddenly exclaimed, “Quickly, Mr Absinth! Before the reassembly!”The two men each took hold of a side of the Piano, carefully fitted it through the door way and disappeared into the house down into our basement. With each step the two men took down the stairs, their hands began to melt more and more into the body of the Piano. The books and boxes seemed to melt apart providing a clear path to the center of the basement maze. Tilting the Piano parallel to the basement floor, the veins in the back of their hands bubbled and popped, transforming their skin tone into a dark ebony. Their arms snapped off at the shoulders next and their hands slowly began resembling that of ornate antique Piano legs.

I suddenly found myself in the center of everything. I watched as their shoulders took the shape of the pointed Piano feet; their fingers wrapped around the body of the Piano, steadying it as it sat on what was once the palms of the men’s hands. I wasn’t scared, but I remember trying to wake myself up as I chased the armless men up the stairs. The books and boxes slowly reassembled to their rightful positions behind me as I reached the top step. I stood there pinching myself as I watched the remains of the Piano fly from the ground and attach themselves as arms to the two men. Next thing I knew, I found myself waking up on my bedroom floor. It wasn’t the first time I had blacked out. I never mentioned these moments to Uncle Charlie – I was afraid of worrying him.

I stumbled into the living room where the two men were having Charlie complete some paper work. The shorter, older man looked over to me and smiled with teeth that looked like they could tear through human flesh.

“There you are. It’s official; you and your son are now the proud owners of your first Vintage Hazelton Brother Baby Grand Piano.”, gloated Mr. Scrootius. “If you do ever need it moved again, give us a call. we’ll be happy to provide such service no charge.” Assured Mr. Scrootius.

“Enjoy.”  added Mr. Absinth with a smug expression.

Uncle Charlie saw the men out and bolted the door. I watched out the window as the taller man backed the van down our driveway. It moved slowly until in the street. Once there, it seemed to speed off faster than my eyes could follow. In a split moment, it seemed to vanish into nothing.

Inside the henchmen’s van, Scrootius touched his left index finger to his forehead, closed his eyes, and began to speak. A female voice spoke back from the moments ago empty bed of the truck though it was too dark now to be sure.

“Do you think the patient suspects?” , Scrootius asked.

“Of course he does.” replied the voice, “…And that is exactly how we want him to think. Hurry back gentlemen, I’ll send you both back soon,” said the voice.

Scrootius removed his finger and opened his eyes. The two men grinned.