Our family sat around the kitchen table at dinner and shared our stories about what happened during the day. None were very intriguing.

 

After dinner, we enjoyed playing Monopoly on our game table in the family room and talked to one another about nothing of great importance. And so, I began to wonder what it would be like to hear interesting . . .

 

 

Table Talk

 

     Some talk too much. Others talk too little. Then there are those who talk trash. And entertainers on TV and radio talk rap. This is quite confusing for something like me to be a part of.

     Let me introduce myself. My name is Bill Table. Some say I’m an athlete, while others don’t always agree. I live in a world of hard knocks. I enjoy the banging around that I take, but at times the hits can be unnerving.

     My mother, Kit, and father, Chess, met in a furniture store a long time ago. I don’t know when, as I didn’t come into their lives until much later. Mom is practical and serves meals to those who live with us. Dad is crafty and helps those who sit with him make all the right moves.

     I’m the eldest of their three kids. My sister, Picnic, is an outside sort and stays in the backyard most of the time. My brother, Game, is up for any challenge that might come his way.

     We were a very happy family until . . . “Hello, is anybody in there?” a voice echoed. Hearing no response, a key turned in the lock and two of the largest men I’d ever seen entered the house.

     “Hey, Chuck, this must be the place. The boss said there were a lot of tables to pick up.”

     “Yeah, Fred, that’s right. Let’s get started loadin’ the truck.”

     I couldn’t believe what happened next. These two oafs grabbed me and my balls started going crazy—rolling back and forth and hitting each other. Where the hell are they taking me?

     They dragged me through the open door and up a ramp onto a truck. And then they threw a blanket over me. I couldn’t see a thing. If I could cry out, I would have, but it wouldn’t have helped.

     “One down, four more to go,” Chuck yelled.

     Silence fell upon the van. I didn’t like what’d happened to me, but it appeared I wouldn’t be alone for long. Soon I heard trudging up the ramp.

     “This thing’s damn heavy,” Fred complained.

     “Seems to be workin’ against us. Almost lost a king and two knights,” Chuck said.

     “Just pocket ‘em. Maybe we can ‘pawn’ ‘em later,” Fred responded.

     Both men laughed. I heard, Dad, rattling around. He couldn’t be happy. The men left and it became very quiet.

     Then the ramp creaked again. “This one’s quite bulky,” Chuck grumbled. “I think I pulled somethin’ in my back gettin’ it out of the kitchen.”

     “Must be the glass top. It’s huge,” Fred gasped, as Mom’s legs banged on the floor.

     “Hey, Fred, let’s take a break. We need a rest after luggin’ that one. Grab the lunch buckets. The next one to be loaded is in the backyard. It’s a beautiful day. That’ll be a great place for a picnic.”

     “You said the magic word,” Chuck.

     “Picnic?”

     “No, break.”

     The men shuffled off. I hoped they wouldn’t hurt Pic. She just liked to lounge in the sun and take it easy. And these two guys didn’t care if they made our lives miserable. Some time passed and then . . .

     One of them shouted at the other. “My God, these benches are attached.”

     They dragged themselves and Pic up the ramp into the truck and dropped her onto the floor so hard my balls rolled around out of control. Without saying a word, they left to get my bro, Game. He was “game” for anything, but I believed this would be too much even for him.

     Covered up, I couldn’t see how the others in my family were doing. But since everything was quiet, I felt all was as well as could be expected.

     And then I heard, crash.

     “Oh, crap!” Chuck bellowed. “I think I broke my leg.”

     “Well, as long as it wasn’t one of the legs on this thing, you’ll be all right,” Fred retorted.

     “That’s easy for you to say. You ain’t in pain.”

     After that ordeal, they placed Game so carefully in the truck, I didn’t know if he was there or not.

     “Guess we’re done, Chuck. I’ll lock up the house and we’ll be off,” Fred grunted.

     Be off? I thought. Be off, where?

     The truck rumbled out of the driveway and onto the road. It seemed like hours passed. And then it stopped. The back door rolled up and I heard footsteps. Someone removed the blanket, letting me see the world again. My family seemed all right—safe. And then . . .

     “People, stand back and let me see what we have here,” a man stated, as he looked at me. “Yes, yes, marvelous.”

     “Well, sir, is it the real thing?” a bespectacled, middle-aged woman asked.

     “Most certainly,” the man replied.

     A warm feeling came over me. I looked at Mom and Dad. They seemed proud. And Picnic and Game appeared to be at ease. The crowd of onlookers cheered and talked about us—a whole lot of wonderful “table talk.”

     It seems we’d been in that house for over one hundred years. And now, after the current owners had passed away, we were going to our new home, something the gentleman who’d removed my blanket referred to as a museum. He said we were antiques. And I guess that was a good thing.

     With pen in hand, he checked off our names on his list and called them out for all to hear—“Kitchen Table, Chess Table, Picnic Table, Game Table, and Billiard Table.”

     I wanted to scream out in delight, . . . “That’s me, Bill.”

 

 

Copyright © 2018 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.