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My Piano Teacher Fired Me, and I Deserved It

I’ve been fired before — but never by someone I hired. 

It all started when I met Carl, an old guy I drank with at my neighborhood bar.

I live in a suburb that once held the prestigious title of “Most Bars Per Capita in Ohio,” and at the corner near my house is a hole-in-the-wall bar I frequent. It’s not quite a dive, but it’s down enough that you wouldn’t recommend it to someone you were trying to impress.

It’s the kind of place where no influencer posts selfies. The kind of place where no first dates are held.  The kind of place with no tapas menu, no craft cocktails, and frankly, no bright lights.

It’s just a neighborhood bar that serves only booze where people come to drink, talk, and occasionally drown their regrets.

I liked it immediately.

The bar’s clientele was odd. The bartender played in a touring metal band, and for the most part, local business owners gathered after work. There was a guy from city council, another guy who’s likely responsible for most of the city’s gambling problem, and the chef from the restaurant next door would sneak in via the backdoor between dinner rushes. All of this was interesting to me.

And then there was Carl.

The old regular who lived to catch a buzz.

Carl wasn’t just old — he was old-old. Not “just retired and taking up golf” old, but “please don’t fall, you’ll likely break your hip” old.

He was deaf in one ear, wore a beret unironically, and dressed like he was perpetually about to attend a jazz brunch in 1964. Even better, he had this high-society vocabulary I’d only heard in movies, and as someone who is a writer, being around people who have a better vocabulary than me is always interesting.

I liked Carl immediately; he was a character from the start. 

In my own life, I have a soft spot for old people.

I grew up around them, and it always struck me as odd that people handle old people like they would a toddler. Ever been to dinner around an old person? Pay attention to the questions they get asked.

“HOW WAS YOUR FOOOOD?”
“DID IT TASTE YUM-MY?”

“ISN’T IT NICE TO-DAY?”

Which is ironic, because old people are quite literally the opposite of babies. Their minds are sharp; it’s just their bodies that are failing them. Most people fail to realize this. 

So when I saw Carl sitting all alone, and myself being a regular, I decided to talk to him.

After all, every human wants someone to talk to — especially when most of your friends are dead.

We started with small talk — weather, sports — fortunately, none of this interested Carl… me either. But soon enough, we were swapping life stories and opinions we’d rather not have overheard. And that’s when it all happened.

Carl told me he was a piano teacher.

And I happened to own a piano…

…In the same way most people own a treadmill — mostly as a place to pile dust. I’d never had any burning ambition to be a musician, but there was a nagging voice that said I should probably figure out how to play the damn thing.

After a few drinks, and the conversation shifting to the piano, I made a decision I would later laugh about.

I hired Carl to teach me.

The plan seemed perfect: he’d come over, give me a lesson, and then we’d head to the bar for a few drinks to, uh…”recap the lesson.”

Learn music and get buzzed?

That’s a lesson.

But boy, oh boy – how wrong I was.

I turned out to be the student every music teacher dreads — the kind that didn’t take it seriously. I practiced exactly once a week: during the lesson itself. That was it. I’d sit there, fumbling through scales while Carl watched with the weary patience of a man who realized he had made a bad decision.

The first few sessions were fine. Carl would scribble out handwritten notes, explain the basics in his professorial tone, and I’d nod along like I was absorbing it all.

Me messing up… it was expected. I was new. But after a few weeks, the rouse was up when I was asked the dreaded question:

“So… did you practice?”

“Oh, sure, Carl,” I’d lie, smooth as butter. “Every damn day.”

But my fingers betrayed me. They flailed across the keys like I was wearing mittens with extra stuffing. I wasn’t just bad — I couldn’t even pass for noise.

I noticed Carl started dropping hints — like little storm clouds dotting the horizon.

“How’s practice going?” he’d ask, eyebrow arched. “Show me your C chord.”

I’d stumble through it, my hands flopping across the keys. Carl would just sit there, sighing like a man who’d survived two world wars only to end up here, watching me butcher what he dedicated his life to.

Then, as time marched on, more clouds kept coming.

“You know you really ought to practice.”
“You only get good with practice.”
“Tony, you have to practice.”

“Why aren’t you practicing?!”

When, finally, five weeks in, the hammer dropped.

We were mid-lesson, me absolutely mangling some simple tune while Carl sat there, arms crossed, looking like a disappointed headmaster. Finally, he turned to me, voice calm but firm.

“You know,” he said, “I’ve been doing this long enough to spot the ones who want it and the ones who don’t. And to be frank… you don’t.” He paused and adjusted his glasses. “So, with that in mind, I’m going to stop giving you lessons.”

I blinked. Blinked again and felt awkward in my own house.

Where do you go from here?

I’d never been fired by someone I’d hired. It felt like ordering a pizza and having the delivery guy say, “Nah, you don’t deserve this pepperoni. You didn’t work out yet.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but nothing came out — just a faint wheeze of disbelief.

I couldn’t blame him. If it was writing, I’d probably do the same thing.

Carl clapped his hands together. “Let’s go to the bar,” he said. “We’ll mourn.”

And mourn we did.

Over whiskey and bad piano. I toasted my brief, disastrous career as a pianist while Carl told me stories about students who actually practiced.

The nerve of them.

I didn’t learn a damn thing about music, but I did learn this: even at seventy-whatever, Carl had standards.

And I had whisky, which helped me forget I didn’t meet them.

Please like, comment, share and tell me what you think. Carl and I remain friends to this day.

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57 thoughts on “My Piano Teacher Fired Me, and I Deserved It”

  2. Fun, amusing story! Would you say you took this lesson on in your life? Did you recognize the things you knew you really wanted in life more? Were you more conscious of the things you put your time and effort into?

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  3. Loved this! As a recovering alcoholic, this means so much more to me than you being a “failed pianist”. It represents a lot of things from my past. Thank you for sharing! Great read.

    Reply

  5. Ok. Back. That was a great tale and you told it masterfully. I loved it even if it didn’t take place in Barberton. Which when I lived there was said to have the most bars per capita, just in case your wondering…

    Reply

  9. I love this, your usual mix of self-deprecating humour and a real moral, of sorts – with an interesting character on the side. And you’ve given me an idea for my own blog this weekend. Thank, Tony, and keep ’em coming! 🙂

    Reply

      1. It’s scheduled for about 5 – 6 hours from now. I’ll make sure to let you know. Funny how one person’s experiences can trigger memories for another! 😎

      6. I’ll have to check out a keyboard! A trivial pursuit, perhaps, with hope springing eternally, but maybe one day I’ll learn it. Thanks for reading, Tony, and for the idea – and there’s more to come … 😎

  11. I love your writing and your story telling is captivating. I wanted to hear more. I love Carl already, he knew to count his losses and not thow aware the capital too! A toast to a great relationship and to shared life with Carl.

    Reply
  13. Pingback: My Piano Teacher Fired Me, and I Deserved It – JAMES KEDZE BLOG

  14. I loved your honesty and vulnerability. I have been in your position too, I got fired by my guitar teacher. He said, “You know Yana, most people play too softly…you on the other hand think you’re Courtney Love.” (I did listen to an album of hers faithfully). So, you’re not alone, at least you and Carl still have a great connection. Thanks for the story.

    Reply

  15. “Over whiskey and bad piano. I toasted my brief, disastrous career as a pianist while Carl told me stories about students who actually practiced.

    The nerve of them.”

    I loved the culmination of the story overall.

    Such a hilarious post! 👏🏻👏🏻

    Reply

  17. So…. can you nail that c chord now? Like you, I like old people. We’ll, some. Some are real assholes. But they don’t have time to BS and I’d gladly pay for the honesty! 🙂

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  18. Sir, why didn’t you practice? Lol. Better yet, why were you wasting Carl’s time?! He was not having any of it! 😭😫😆

    Reply
  20. Pingback: My Piano Teacher Fired Me, and I Deserved It – Site Title

  21. well at least you and carl remained friends. Most of the teachers I’ve had ,never want anything to do with me afterwards I guess its because they’re young. I’ll look for an old one.

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  22. I popped over to your blog after you liked one of my posts…and the title of this post caught my attention…it reminded me of the 17 year old girl, who’s mom managed a bowling alley and said girl worked for her. The 17 year old got quite cocky, even saying “she would never fire me, she needs me.” Famous last words as one Saturday night she showed up at the bowling alley, asked for said girls keys and told to go home. Yes, I was the 17 year old girl…and yes, my mom did fire me and YES, I deserved it 🙂 Thank you for the trip down memory lane and also giving me a topic to write about – hope you have a terrific day!!!

    Reply
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