The Piano Movers

      When Michael woke up, he didn’t know he would not reach his bed that night. It would be his own fault. Like on any other day, he woke up, had breakfast, got dressed and went out. He wasn’t going anywhere in particular; it was just a habit. This was all fine, but if he had taken the time to look at the calendar, hanging on a screw next to his door, he would never have stepped outside. He would have locked himself inside his two-room apartment, and he would have anxiously clung to his bed all day. Because today was Friday the Thirteenth.
      If Michael had seen the calendar and if he had taken the risk of going outside – which he would never have done – he would pay attention to where he walked. And he would pay special attention if he walked under anything. But Michael didn’t know, so he walked like he normally did, not paying attention to anything in particular. Near the corner of the street, right next to number 13, a painter had stalled his ladder. Just as Michael swayed to avoid walking in the way, the painter lifted the ladder and placed it two steps backwards, so that Michael – accidentally, but still – walked under it. And his bad luck was paid to him right at the end of the street. Piano movers hauling on ropes were standing behind some trees where Michael didn’t see them, because he didn’t think today was any kind of special day to look for hidden dangers.
      “Watch it!” one of the piano movers yelled as Michael passed him.
      But it was too late. The old ropes tore under the heavy weight of the piano, or one of the piano movers let go of his end of the rope. It doesn’t really matter how it happened, but Michael would never reach his bed, to which he should have clung that morning.

      I warned them, you know. I said, "You ain't doin' no one no favor moving that thing this Friday." But the Andersons wouldn't listen, like no one listens to me. I am no superstitious man, but Friday the Thirteenth, that ain't something to be messing with. My momma used to tell me all kinds of stories about all kinds of accidents, all happening on a doomed Friday.
      They wouldn't listen. And a day later I’m stuck here, charged with involuntary murder, or what is it they told me. What did that lawman tell me again? Gross negli something. All sorts of big words I ain’t ever heard before. It had something to do with the ropes me and my buddies used to haul that piano of the roof. Stupid Andersons. No one should be moving a piano on Friday the Thirteenth.
      Oh, I remember! Gross negligence manslaughter. More big words I don't get. They said, “Your ropes were old!” But those ropes ain't old. Those ropes were brand new. You don't see 'm newer than that, bought them special for Mr Andersons' piano.
      And that man. Squashed like a bug, between a rock and hard place. I'm wondering if I could have changed what happened, but I don't know what happened. One moment that cursed piano was just dangling there on the ends of our ropes, and the next moment it's all red around my feet. I remember I said, “Stop!”, or whatever. But I guess it was too late for that poor man.
      I don't know nothing about that guy. The police told me his name's Michael, asked if I knew him. I said, "No, but I ain't saying nothing more without my lawyer. I have a right to a lawyer, don’t I? I saw it on TV." And then they left, and I called my lawyer. He says it's gonna be all good now, because I told him. I told him, "I don’t know nothing about no intent. Yesterday was a freak accident. With a piano, on Friday the Thirteenth.”
      And he believes me.