A Toast to All America
It would appear evident that the tablecloth has been pulled out from underneath all of the tableware, and there are so few people who have noticed. Just like that, from under our noses! In less than two years! Or perhaps, for a few decades, the machinations of a superior table-cloth-pulling-mechanism have been gently and fastidiously installed in the shadows. In the middle of the night — no, while we were watching TV! While we fell asleep to its hums and drums! Grey, clammy hands. Gentle, sinister movements up the legs of the table. Firm grips on the red and white checkered cloth, and — YANK!
You may understand, then, where the emotion may come from. Where passion may be seated. It takes quite a while to set the table so that a meal can be had, freely and in peace! How are we to eat atop this rotting table! It will not do! Nooks and crannies and rot! Gnarled and knotted! Even some of the food went missing! Do you not see, how are we to eat the soup? Ah, I see you sucking at the bowl with outstretched lips!
Sadly, what has happened cannot be undone. There is no device of inverse means to thinly and neatly caress the tablecloth back into its place. No, there is no instantaneously-simultaneous tabletop-displacing device in which we could jettison our world up but one-quarter of one inch so that we might return all our things, to then gently rest it all back down. Our bread and butter lie upheaved, and cold. The mutton-chop is in ruin! We have tossed the conversation in the microwave, and nuked it dry. The steak knives are dull. Were that not enough, you must actively dullen them so as to not cut yourself. You must! So as to not cut yourself! Should your neighbor wield a sharpened steak knife with the capacity to cut through the gristle, YOU MUST DISMEMBER HIM OR HER WITH YOUR DULL POINT AND RETURN TO YOUR SEAT!
New food has been slowly introduced to the table. Innocent servings of fish carcasses placed on top of a hot-pad rest where the now-cooled steak and the once-loved cornbread would lie. Old food we previously threw away has been neatly re-dressed and microwaved. Ah, here is your helpful serving of those rejected red potatoes with mildewed yellow cheese that you so violently upheaved just yesteryear! We pass, and pass again, the servings of this new-but-familiar menu around our closed loop, from shaking hand to feeble wrist, the weight of each dish taking its toll. No one wants to be so genteel as to decline their serving of ham-handed consensus! So we take, and pass.
Lo! Behold! We bear witness to majesty on high — strange hosts at the head of the table now mandate: no one must drop any weighty serving dish of which they have been handed! And of course, it is on no one’s mind to do so! That would be both rude, and, uncouth! Pass it along! Ah, but the food grows colder. YET, YOU MUST TAKE A SERVING!
Everyone around seems to be enjoying the meal. Who of us does not like to eat what is put in front of them? But even the bristled spine of a decomposing carp? It is settled to be delectable, we are told, though my palates strain and disagree.
And besides! What can be done about our curiously missing tablecloth? I would risk looking the psychotic fool should I thrash about and lay waste to these putrid servings on their chinaware, in a manic attempt to clear the table! Indeed, where are my manners?
To destroy this meal would be to displace the people. To upend the table would be to defrock the tablecloth of its due. To kick out the chairs would be to deprive the seats of any friend or stranger who would otherwise care to join our conversation. What then?
The clarity sharpens! I see now what we’ve forgotten! There is no shame in claiming the head of the table, so as to speak freely and inform! Who has convinced us otherwise? To have shame in our opinions? Surely not those same people preparing fish carcasses for our consumption? Surely not! I ask myself this now, staring at the place where the tablecloth once was. I can still picture it in the forefront of my mind! The familiar wrinkles and creases where we once set out our thoughts and opinions for others to try. They are ours to share! This is no single-minded trough! Do you see the table? Do you see your seat? Will you acknowledge where the tablecloth once was?
Yes! Agh!
I resolve to keep my seat at the table — stoic, as sterling silver. Stern, and eating their disgust no more. To starve will be my preferred course! Will you join me and wither?
Let us converse in truths on empty stomachs! Only then, yes only then! When no spoon reaches for the distasteful heap placed in front of us, can we begin to clear the table. To toss out what should never have been cooked. Vile chefs! To scrub the dishes and the silverware. Scum and scud! To wash the tablecloth and return it to our table. Stained, mighty fabric!
Only when the individual ceases to trade this rotten course between hands.
Ah! The world we grew up in no longer exists! What a peculiar thought. Could the cloth still have been swiped away had but one of us kept our hands upon it? In a way, I wonder if I too gave it a yank.
Towards prosperity I toast. To acknowledging the place where the tablecloth once was! To declining perverse servings of distasteful heaps! Towards starving in truth! Sit up straight at the table!