Belly Timber – By T.R. Healy
Flash Fiction / November 9, 2008

“You about ready to get this rascal out of here?” Irv, the manager of Wolford’s Piano and Organ Company, asked his lead mover. Clyde shook his head as he walked around the enormous Steinway, which was wrapped in three thick moss green blankets. Its legs were removed and also wrapped in blankets. “You know you’ve got a good forty-five minute drive to the cruise boat?” “I know,” he said, making sure the straps were secure. “The sooner you’re on your way the sooner you’ll arrive.” “Thanks for pointing out the obvious.” Irv grinned. “I’m just trying to be helpful.” Clyde rolled his eyes at the other members of his moving crew then made sure the lid was locked. “All set?” “I suppose.” “There’s no supposing when you’re moving something close to a ton in weight.” Clyde grinned now. “I know, Irv. I’ve been doing this for almost eleven years.” “So you have, and with only one accident I believe.” “I don’t remember.” “I do.” Then, on the count of three, the crew tipped the instrument onto a piano board and then onto a dolly and started out the back door with Clyde reminding them, as usual, “You move the piano,…