The Table

Thursday morning, Fran Zimmerman woke and swung her legs over the bedside and landed her feet upon the floor. She stretched her toes and patted the mattress twice with both hands, a ritual as old as the ragged sheets themselves - not even Fran could say why she did it. She walked slowly into the kitchen to discover her husband lounging behind his newspaper. He normally regards her with a flick of the paper , but this morning he surprisingly lowered it and gazed at her with a furrowed brow.

Fran was stunned and stood before him as if a captive doe - after a moment of this peculiar standoff, Fran spat into the quiet of the room with a sound that represented a question but seemed more an ancient, marital lament.

Whaa? she said.

The noise seemed to whirl around the room like a heavy bird and rested on her husband's milky crown. He cleared his throat with a great 'guffaw' and the invisible bird awkwardly fluttered out of the open window.

There is a strange object in the back yard, he said.

What sort of object?

Well, why don't you have a look?

Fran stood in the backyard in her withered yellow robe and stared out at the intruder - a wooden writing table.

.  .  .

Gregory Tennison woke on Wednesday morning in his uptown apartment with a great hammering in his head. He had been drinking with friends from his department, and as the dreaded sunlight poured into his small bedroom, he groaned and looked up at the cracks in his ceiling which decidedly shared a resemblance with his insidious supervisor.

Gregory stood and realigned himself with reality when he turned and gasped when he saw, beneath the window ledge, an empty white rectangle.

My table! he whispered suspiciously, it has been stolen!

He showered quickly and dressed and stumbled down two flights of stairs, his head still throbbing. He was suddenly struck with the hazy vestiges of the prior night's escapades. He recalled waging a bet on a sporting event and losing the bet. He recalling heaving his bare bottom out a car window as they passed the office and his coworkers jeering. Gregory scolded himself for his behavior and felt himself ashamed and prepared for the renumerations and rejoinders at the office. But first, he thought, the table!

So, what great value did Gregory ascribe to this old writing table? Possibly a bit of history will assist us in sympathizing with our poor Gregory. The table was given to him by his father, an acclaimed mystery writer in his time. His father had once told the story of the table - it's exact origin is unknown but is approximated to have been build in 1713 somewhere in Eastern Europe and bought by a famous daguerreotypist whose portrait dwells in many museums in numerous great nations. He is rumored to have been responsible for the sole daguerreotype of Henry Clay. The table sailed to America in 1819 with Gregory's great, great grandfather - his only possession. The table was passed down until it was given to Gregory when his ailing father was upon his deathbed. Gregory rarely sat at the desk, and rarely utilized its surface save writing rent checks once a month. But he had planned on cashing in on its value at some time in the future. He’d often look upon the desk and imagine a mountain of bills being pushed across a countertop in his direction.

Gregory hurried down St. Benedict Avenue, the great shopping district of Wellsboro. Men in business suits and close-cropped hair strutted down the sidewalks like blue-blooded pigeons and carried leather briefcases with golden clasps. They chatted on their ear-pieces and passed each other silently and without acknowledgement of one another. Gregory maneuvered through this wave businessmen and chatted to his earpiece although their was no listener on the line. Down the avenue there was a great commotion and many men gathered around the spectacle.

Gregory hurried to the spot of the commotion and found himself amongst a circle of men who scratched their raised chins with manicured fingernails. In the center of this group of men was a very peculiar sight. A writing table was making its way down the avenue, galloping like a horse.

My table! Gregory yelled.

Nobody turned to inquire. They stood silently amongst one another watching as the table passed down the avenue. Gregory pushed his way through the crowd and chased after the table, but it disappeared into the most popular cafe on the avenue.

Peculiar, Gregory thought, is he fetching himself a cappuccino?

Gregory entered the cafe and found the table pouring creamer into his coffee. He approached the table and cleared his throat before beginning conversation.

Excuse me, but may I bother you for a moment? he said.

I'm sorry, the table replied, how can I help you?

Well, I woke this morning to discover an empty space in my apartment you see, and I believe I've been robbed. And I don't mean to accuse you of anything but I think you…

Are you accusing me of theft, sir? The table cried.

Oh, no! You've got it confused.

I believe it's you who is confused, sir. Now, if you'd kindly allow me to go about my business I’ve got a very important meeting to attend.

And with that the table hustled swiftly out of the cafe and turned down the avenue. Gregory chased after him, but the district was so crowded at this hour he couldn't make table form taxi. Late to work, he walked to the office weary and his head still throbbing.

When he stepped in the office his friend Jeffery smiled at him, remarked his lateness and asked him if he wasn't 'a little behind.' Then Jeffery burst into laughter and smacked Gregory on the back. Gregory continued to his little office in the back and as he did he was greeted with knowing smiles.

On his desk was a note from his friend and coworker, Dennis, which expressed satisfaction with, what he called, 'an unexpected full moon' and explained that his 'show of cheekiness' will never be 'eclipsed.' Also, he added, 'Was that you conversing with a writing table in the cafe du jour this morning.'

He sat down and began writing a police report.

On Gregory's lunch break he walked down to the police station and stood before the clerk who donned a great black robe.

I'd like to make a report, he said.

What does this regard? the clerk replied.

A table - it's well, its run away.

Hm, that's very peculiar indeed.

Never mind the peculiarity, Gregory said, this table is of great sentimental and monetary value.

What's the approximate value?

About twenty-thousand dollars.

Twenty-thousand!

Yes, that's correct.

Well, I'd put in the report, but I'm uncertain as to whether it should be filed as a missing person or stolen property.

Well, it's certainly not stolen, unless of course the table can be accused of stealing itself.

Well, in that case, if we returned you the table, we'd also have to fine and possibly arrest the offender.

Oh, never mind, can you list it as a stolen person?

Well, without sounding terse, sir, I don't think a table meets the criteria for a person.

Well, it walks, it talks - oh it talks you should hear the fellow!

Why this is very strange indeed. I would write a missing person's report, but I can't file it for forty-eight hours.

Oh - damnit anyhow, Gregory yelled. He pounded his fist on the table and darted out into the street.

He peered out upon the faces that bobbed up the street, scanning for the table. When suddenly he saw Alexandria, a woman he had recently taken out on numerous dates though had amounted to very little. He noted her smile and her red lips. Her eyes sparkled in the midday sun and appeared to be talking with some very stout fellow. But, wait, Gregory thought to himself, don't I recognize that man? And lo, it was his beloved writing table courting Alexandria down the street.

Gregory called out to her and she looked up at him and waved him down. They met at the bottom of the stairs and the three of them stood in silence for a moment.

Alexandria, he said, it's very good to see you. Who is this friend of yours?

Oh, this is a new friend of mine, we just met a moment ago at the bistro down the way. The table checked the time and looked up at Gregory with disdain and coughed quietly.

Well, would you like to get dinner some time this week? he asked.

Oh, I’m so busy this week, I think I’ll have to take a rain check. The table smiled at Gregory.

Oh, alright! Gregory smirked, but if you’d like to go out just let me know. You know my number!

And with that Alexandria and the table walked away together and disappeared into the crowd.

.  .  .

Gregory sat on his bedside with his face in his hands. He cursed the table and the ridiculousness of his predicament.

I’ve worried about an awful lot of things, he thought, but never that I would be usurped by a writing table.

And sitting on his bed he sipped from a bottle of scotch and burned cigarettes late into the night. His despair grew about him like vines upon a lamp post and soon he felt himself imprisoned by his thoughts and by his life.

I have never left, he thought. My entire life all I’ve wanted to do is to travel and see the world, or at least another country. But here I have stagnated and my stench fills this room. For twenty-two years I’ve lived in this room. And I’ve got nobody. Only my poor, sorry self. And with that he raised himself from his bed and made his way down the stairs. He stumbled through the dark, empty streets and his footsteps echoed off the walls. He passed in the moonlight, swaying this way and that. He thought of Alexandria. He thought of his despair and his solitude. He made his way for the bridge.

He stood on the edge of the bridge beneath a lamp post and trembled in the amber light. The stars shown and he cursed at them in their refined distinction. He looked down at the black, viscous water that passed quickly below him. When suddenly Gregory heard a clip-clopping on the bridge, and he turned and there stood the writing table, stoic and fraught in the cold autumn starlight.

(this story was inspired by Nikolai Gogol's "The Nose")

This week's Indie Ink Challenge came from Wendryn, who gave me this prompt: Tell the story of the most important piece of furniture that you own. I challenged Octoberesque with the prompt: Write a story about a soldier in Afghanistan.