The Table Speaks

A Story by Weston R.

A coffee table tells his tale.

What can I say about Thanksgiving? That “wonderful” holiday where I am condemned to serve as the trough with which these barbaric little…little heathens eat their food. How revolting! I dare say that I am a coffee table! We are the upper crust of tables, wouldn’t you say? We hold your more mentally stimulating objects, like books for you, as well as sophisticated drinks at parties. And this is the use they put me to? I deserve a bit more than serving children!

I can see that smug dining room table smirking at me. Why does he get to enjoy the polite conversation of reasonable adults and I’m stuck with four year olds? Sure, I suppose one could say that he does this every day, but that’s all the more reason to give someone else a chance to it. Ugh! Some of the young kids are starting to spit up and salivate--and the food hasn’t even been served yet! All I need to do is make it through the next few minutes, and then the food will be presented. Then I can have the distraction of the flavors of the food.

Excellent! One of the older children is joining the table. She’s 10--only two more years until she has to go to the adult table. And she’s unhappy too. Okay, at least someone else is upset about being here. Come to think of it, why do these people bring these small kids to Thanksgiving anyway? They dress them up in nice clothing, only to have them ruined because the kid can’t even be bothered to use a napkin or keep the stuffing in his own mouth.

Oh, she has a twin, too! Perhaps I can finally hear some form of intelligent and deep conversation. Wait. Shouldn’t have spoken so soon. They seem to be talking about some new toy they want--hardly thought provoking.

Thank goodness! The food is finally done! Now I’ll be able to get something to take my mind off this monotony just for the next hour or so until I can get sterilized and get back to some meaningful work. Ah, the children are staring out with salads (at least the twins are, for that matter). The lettuce is Iceberg--perfectly crisp, and just right for the other assortment of vegetables, croutons, and ranch dressing. The two girls savor this course to the best of their ability, as do I. But surely this will pail in comparison to the entrée, which should be here shortly.

Dear God, a baby has arrived late. A baby! I don’t get paid enough to do this. I don’t even get paid at all! Oh no, don’t allow the table to try and enjoy the meal, just put an infant there--how delightful.

Yet it doesn’t matter now: the main course is here. A turkey with mashed potatoes and stuffing, all covered with gravy. The beautiful bird is succulent and the potatoes are like fluffy pillows, all held together with a great stuffing and drenched in liquid heaven. Magnificent! It almost makes it worth what I’m doing right now. Almost.

The entrées are almost finished, and the baby is sliding itself off its seat, and no one’s noticing! Well, what can I do? I can’t tell anyone. Can’t pick the small thing up. Oh well, it’ll probably just end up crawling, or scooting or some infantile thing of the sort.

Now wait a second. He isn’t crawling. My goodness…he’s picking himself up. Oh my God, he’s walking! Amazing! The others are taking notice finally, whispering how this is his first time walking, but no one’s stopping him. He’s staggering toward the adult table. He’s going to his mother. How nice.

Well, it seems that, on that note, everyone’s departing. The wife is taking the dishes to the kitchen, while the husband sterilizes my tabletop, right on cue.

And now, I’m back in place, with my assortment of coffee table books and remote controls in their right location, as usual. But something’s different. I’m almost happy for next year--heck, even Christmas. Who knows what that boy will be doing by then. Maybe next Thanksgiving, he’ll be talking. And I’ll be there to witness it all.