The phone rang, tinkled, strummed, plucked, wailed, and thundered. It had almost worked itself up into a full frenzy by the time a liver-spotted hand gently lifted it from its cradle.
“Kettlemaster Kuble, maker of fine instruments, ages zero to infinity welcome, ages ten and up recommended. How can I help you?” inquired the man himself, dusting away a speckle of dust from his bathrobe. He’d been meaning to pull it out of storage for months.
“This is Mr. Meeyer calling on behalf of Morton Throllop Tempor II, Jr. I would like to purchase a grand piano.”
“Oh my. A special occasion?”
“The birth of his sixtieth offshore subsidiary. He’s having a small party to celebrate for himself.”
“Hmm,” said Kuble. He fiddled with the telephone’s cord in contemplation. “May I suggest something slightly grander than a grand piano? We have several grander pianos, and if I put in a special request to a man in Bologna I could, perhaps, with a bit of luck –”
“Do it.”
“Done. There will be a Grandest Piano en route to your master’s address by this Thursday. You’ll need an empty soccer field to house it, an artillery barrage to play it, and seven thousand pounds of raw meat a day to feed it.”
“Wonderful. Mr. Tempor is appreciative.”
“Thank you!”
“Good-bye.”
Kuble made to put the phone down, then jumped half a foot as it started screaming before it was fully seated in its cradle.
School season, probably. Always was this sort of fuss when band class first launched. At this rate he’d never get to that bath he’d planned on Monday. He’d picked out his soap and everything. Ah well.
“Kettlemaster Kuble, local provider of furious, friendly, and flying instruments of all types, colours and crimes. How may I assist you today?”
“I need an instrument for my son to play.”
“Well, we have a broad selection. Piano?”
“No room in the house.”
“Violin?”
“Too waxy.”
“Oboe?”
“Too whiny.”
“Kazoo?”
“He’s allergic to them.”
“Xylophone?”
“I hate the letter x.”
“Trombone?”
“He’s already played that and I didn’t like it.”
“Well ma’am, this one will be completely different.”
“What? They’re the same damn instrument, aren’t they?”
“Ma’am, with all due respect, the human skeleton contains two hundred and six different bones. Most trombones – made by morons – don’t even contain ONE. I can promise you that your son has never played a trombone worthy of the name. Now, will you be wanting something in a pelvis or more of a vertebral type of…ma’am? Hello? Hello?”
Kuble put down the phone. “Dabbler shitheads,” he said absently.
Then he ran a bath. For his nerves. And a good thing too, because it was only a quarter-full before the phone was rattling fit to burst in its cradle once more.
“Kettlemaster Kuble, formerly Kuble, Krass, and Klombo and also Sons.”
“What happened to those nice young men anyways? You know they never call. But they call more often than you. You know my birthday was last week – Rosie called. How are you doing? You know I worry about you. Did you ever hear back from that nice man from the bank? The weather’s been awful lately but you know it takes more muscles to frown than to smile. Edith’s being a real bitch again, pardon my French. I can’t believe what they feed us here. It’s been nice talking to you goodbye and give Franklin my love.”
“Goodbye, mother.”
“How dare you,” she said. And she hung up.
***
Kuble’s tub was made from the husk of a great old timpani grandfather, shucked free like a snakeskin. It held water as well as it did heat, and it was a fine thing to recline in and contemplate the cosmos and bubbles and the past and bubbles and the future and bubbles and whether or not that funny lump on your arm was getting bigger or if that was just your imagination.
It also had no phone, which meant that he barely had time to turn the faucet off before he had to toddle outside and downstairs and upstairs and to the handset in the office. One of these days he had to get one of those cord-less devices people used nowadays.
“Kettlemaster Kuble, instruments and tools for instruments, acquitted on all char-”
“Hey listen shut up they’re almost onto me listen I need a tuba grande at Smith & Cox in five and I need it El Loco-style, got it? Do it on time and you get fifteen percent; fuck me over and I swear to Christ you’re going down with me, and I don’t just mean as an accomplice. Password is ‘ginjuicer’ and you’re looking for a short fat guy that looks a bit like Boris Johnson. Got it? Good. See you in hell FUCK SHIT DUCK”
There was a large and severe explosion and the line went dead. Kuble shook it a few times, shrugged, and dialed his warehouse.
“Paula? Little ‘Bang-Bang’ Chitty called us just now. The usual, please. And tell him to change his password now and then for security purposes: they’re meant to be one-time devices. Bill it to the usual account.”
“Sure, whatever.”
“Thank you, Paula.”
“Fuck off.”
“Goodbye.”
Kuble walked back into his bathroom and checked the temperature with his hand. Yes, still just about perfect. It was time.
The phone rang and he sighed from the bottom of his feet all the way up to his skull and out his eyesockets and by the time he was done he was at the phone again and it had been ringing uninterrupted for the past six minutes.
Nothing to be done. He picked it up.
“Kettlemaster Kuble. The only game in town.”
“This is Jagermister Northwestern Secondary School, and we need you to provide a complete set of woodwind, brass, and percussion instruments for our band.”
“What happened to the set I provided last year?”
“They ate the class in the middle of the Christmas concert.”
“Did you feed them meat?”
“Yes.”
“Poultry, goat, beef…?”
“Sheep.”
“Oh. Well, that could’ve given them a prion disease. They may have a taste for flesh.”
“They ate the audience too.”
“Probably should notify the authorities.”
“We locked them in the auditorium and have been trying to starve them out. The budget’s so tight these days.”
“Yes indeed.”
“That reminds me, you’re replacing these free of charge, right?”
Kettlemaster Kuble hung up, grumbled with the despair of a much younger man, and checked his bath’s temperature.
It was cold, of course. Typical, just typical.
He still drowned himself in it, because waste not want not. But really, was it too much to ask?