Photo Art By Chris Meadows
Ole Ruth and the Runaway Piano
By John Atkinson
Memoir
At nineteen I was given an upright piano. It was a huge thing weighing nearly a half-ton. I had a pickup truck, Ole Ruth, which had lots of muscle. She was a 41 Dodge with a big block V8 hemi, four-barrel carburetor and duel exhaust. But I needed help to load the piano, so I asked Smart Frank and Dumb Bob. They only agreed to help because they wanted to ride in the fast red truck.
On the way I stomped the gas pedal a few times to give my friends what they wanted, speed. Ole Ruth provided that and it made our young minds happy. I pulled up to a curbing in the neighborhood where the piano was and windows rattled from the truck’s high compression engine. Eyes were on three young men getting the job done. No sweat, we were dripping with cool.
I asked the former owner would he help us load the piano. He agreed, and a few of his neighbors helped too. Legs buckled and backs strained but somehow we managed to load the instrument onto the back of my truck.
The load was tall and top heavy. I thought I would lose it in the first turn. Smart Frank was astounded I could think that far ahead. Dumb Bob agreed with Frank, not knowing Frank was jerking my chain. I didn’t care. My pals thought I was being a square when I asked for a rope. They teased but the man gave me a cotton sash cord the size of a lead pencil. “Thanks for your generosity,” Smart Frank said, wisecracking. The cord was weak. It snapped in half, but after doubling and redoubling the long line, I felt sure four strands would do the trick. So off we went. Even though we moved at a good clip my friends made fun saying I drove like an old fogy. Let ‘em have their fun. If I more than feathered the gas pedal Ole Ruth would lay the load on the road.
I decided to go back to our neighborhood by a different route, one with not so many turns. That was a mistake because the road I picked crossed the main intersection where the Virginia State Fair was in full swing. The light caught us at the fair grounds’ main gate. I had to make a wide swing crossing four lanes for the road home. A State Trooper figured I needed assistance and stopped all traffic. He waved for me the go-a-head. I eased forward but the racing engine cut off. Nothing like that had ever happened before. The stalled truck made the trooper agitated and me nervous. I kept Ole Ruth tuned and she fired back up with a deafening roar, but the Trooper didn’t like the sound of her pipes. He waved harder for me to get going. I eased out on the clutch, drove partway into the wide turn and my truck cut off again blocking everything. Arms swung wildly from the blue and gray uniform as he yelled for me to move my truck or a wrecker would.
No doubt the officer was sorry he’d stopped traffic for three hoodlums with cigarette packs rolled up in their shirtsleeves wheeling a loud red truck that wouldn’t run slow. He yelled and I lost my cool, flooding Ole Ruth. The State Man headed our way and my pals looked at me. But a fresh thought entered Smart Frank’s mind. He said hold the gas pedal to the floor. I did and Ole Ruth fired back up, exploding into anger. The big block hemi idled radically and rocked the tiny cab as if to say, “Turn me loose, Johnnyboy. I’m ready to roll!” Not yet. The Trooper held onto my door and stared at three guys who would never learn a lot about philosophy and thinking things ahead. The officer spoke his mind. “If you don’t get this deathtrap moving, I’m going to lock your ass up.”
He meant business. I glanced at Smart Frank, he at Dumb Bob and they yelled what came to their minds, “Hit it!”
I don’t know how much horsepower was under the hood of Ole Ruth but it was a lot. The truck moved forward fast and the piano banged against the tailgate. Halfway through the wide turn, the sash cord snapped. “Blessed Mary, Mother of Jesus!” Dumb Bob yelled. The truck’s bed bounced up a foot when the huge piano sailed over the side and crashed into the street breaking apart. A sorry tune played from the broken piano strings. My friends yelled a meaningful recommendation from a limited vocabulary of cool, “Hit it!”
I stomped the gas pedal and by the third shift of the four-speed transmission we were moving at a high rate of speed, which made our young minds happy. The big carburetor moaned as to suck the hood down into the motor. With a sound like that, who needed a piano anyway? No one I knew could play.
In the rearview mirror I watched parts of the big piano slide in a new direction from Ole Ruth. Smart Frank, cool as could be, called that “a sequence of inertia” and Dumb Bob, not knowing what inertia meant, agreed. But I called it Ole Ruth and the runaway piano, a big mess on the highway. There was no time to explain physics to the law and that we didn’t have a desirable rope. We were just cool guys from a poor neighborhood. But the Trooper saw I had a fast truck and now the piano was his problem, blocking traffic he’d stopped. Served him right for threatening to lock me up. My pals agreed.
Dumb Bob said they had a tow truck on standby, that the police would soon clear the streets, and things would be back to normal. By then, we would be long gone.
Smart Frank wisecracked, “Damn, Dumb Bob, you’re getting smart.” I didn’t agree, just kept both hands on the wheel and my eyes on the road. A few minutes later we had deeper concerns. Where could we scrape up enough money for a six-pack and gasoline to ride? Ole Ruth was thirsty from the high speeds, the gas gage nearing empty.
We laughed about the lost load. That was good medicine. I wanted to contact the law and say I was sorry. But thanks to Dumb Bob I didn’t. Trying to be cool in front of Smart Frank, Dumb Bob spoke with an air of confidence, “Johnnyboy, it was just an accident. That cop inertia-ed that shit on himself.”
That rang Smart Frank’s bell. “I don’t know what’s more dangerous, Johnnyboy, Ole Ruth or Dumb Bob.”
Bob fired back, “But nobody got hurt.”
I had to agree with Dumb Bob. We could laugh and laughter was as good as gasoline at 18 cents a gallon. Problem was, we could only afford one thing at a time, gasoline or beer. “Hold the beer,” Smart Frank said. “Let Ole Ruth roll. Hit it!” Minus one piano, Ole Ruth provided speed and that made our young minds happy.
John Atkinson is the author of TIMEKEEPER, a magnificent book about a young boy who fights to overcome illiteracy. Timeekeeper, ISBN 978-0-9776076-5-5, is available in hardcover or paperback .To order your copy call 1-800-228-9316. International orders call: 00-1-831-238-7799 or visit: www.fisherkingpress.com
