With this, I looked behind me, holding back tears of pure joy, at all those who made my success possible, looked out at those who’d thought I’d fail, looked inside and knew, that it was all because of that one beautiful, all-encompassing note, that I had attained the ultimate manifestation of musical theater success.
Chapter 31
Life after winning the ever-coveted Tony Award remained pretty much the same. I still spent the majority of my days at the Yamaha, caressing the keys with my magic touch.
Until that fateful day. That day when the string broke.
The F key broke. The key that won my Tony for Best Original Score in a musical, my pinnacle of perfection: The Note F. I hit the first F. Nothing, simply a hollow, dull, dissonant, nothing. I was panicked. Never before had I experienced something this tragic, this abhorrent. I did not know where to turn.
Obviously, I couldn’t call the local music store, because of the 2015 incident with the matchbox and the cork-grease. And, my late Sparky had rendered every single piano tuner within a 100 mile radius unwilling to even step foot on my driveway.
The only option was the witch. The witch I had met so many years ago. The witch whose only power was to fix pianos that no one else would fix.
Now that I reflect on this part of my life, it seems this witch was so aptly placed in my life, that it could really only happen in fiction when the author cannot think of any other way to keep the story moving
Three days later, I mustered up every ounce of courage I had and knocked on the door of 8695 Imanoldhag Drive, that place I had visited but once in my youth, so many years ago.
“Who’s there?” croaked a voice from deep within
“‘Tis I!” I replied.
Immediately after uttering such archaic language, I realized the absurdity of such archaic speech, and my failure to give any actually useful information.
The same voice from within spoke again, “Yes, but who are you?”
This time, I knew, at least I thought I knew what I was to say.
“Meow. No! I mean, I am I. Wait, I mean, I garshnaboodle”
What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I pronounce even the simplest of sentences, “I am Rachel Davis and I need your help to fix my piano?” Though the spoken word has never been my strongest point, such an elementary sentence should have no hindrance in its utterance. I decided to try one more time.
“MY F BROKE!”
With this erratic announcement, the door opened, as if by magic. As I peered around the slow-moving door, I was met with the most disheveled, most befouled, most repugnant doormat in the history of mankind. I looked around for the owner, the fabled witch who fixes pianos. It seemed the speech-impairing curse had lifted, though I had yet to try and speak since I had verbalized “MY F BROKE!”—a most embarrassing introduction.
From seemingly nowhere, yet encompassing the entire abode, a voice spoke, “Go down the hall and to the left.” I felt I should not disobey such omnipresent words, so I started my journey into the dark, underworld-esque hallway, not knowing where it may lead me.
“I shall follow,” I replied, at the same time confirming my prediction that the curse
