Story #51 - The Napkin Story

Hey everybody! Wow, there's only one story left. Anyway, this week's story goes back a long way. Months ago, I was brainstorming on what story to write that week and my dad suggested that I write a story from the point of view of a napkin. Initially, I dismissed the idea, but it grew on me, and now I've decided to give it a try. I'd love to know what you thought! :)

Title: The Napkin Story
Warnings: none
Summary: A napkin learns a few things about life, security, and what it means to be a napkin.
Length: ~1,650 words
Notes: First person point of view, present tense. Genre is other.

The Napkin Story

            I am about to see my new home. I wait eagerly for someone to lift the lid of the box. I have heard that I have been bought by a very wealthy family. That’s just as I wished – I am made of the finest blue cloth, and my maker has always said that I deserve to grace only the best tables. I hope my new owners are not complete fools and have a decent sense of color. I would hate to be a fine blue cloth napkin gracing (or, in this case, hiding) a hideous army green table. Do they even make army green tables? Well, I will soon find out.

Someone lifts the lid and I can see the room and the table where I will be placed. It is a fine mahogany table underneath a grand chandelier and covered by a beautiful purple tablecloth. Purple – the color of royalty. My worries come to a halt. This family has good taste. I shouldn’t be so surprised – they bought me and others like me, after all, and we are the crème de la crème of napkins.

Someone scoops me up and places me next to a plate. I’m a bit surprised at how roughly they handle me, but I must accept that a napkin’s place is to serve the diner however they need to be served. If that involves being squeezed between their sticky hands or wiped across their mouth, so be it. That is what we napkins do, and at least I will be able to enjoy my spot at the finest of tables.

I wait and watch as my fellow napkins are laid around me. There are only three table settings. It is a small family, then. That is good. I am brand-new and have never served a family before, but I have heard stories of large families with many children and they sound fearsome. I hope the three places consist of a husband, a wife, and perhaps a grandmother.

An hour later tells me this is not so. It’s lunchtime, and I see the husband and wife, but along with them comes a little girl. All of us wait nervously to see what spot she sits down at, and to my dismay, it is mine. I wonder if this is her habitual spot. Well, if so, I hope it doesn’t become mine. Humans often can’t tell us apart, and I can only hope that I would be switched to the husband or wife’s spot. As I’ve mentioned, no one treats napkins especially well, but children are the worst.

This girl immediately grabs me and squashes me onto her lap. She is fidgety and lots of crumbs fall on me as she eats. I try to listen to their conversation – it is always good to get to know your family – but it is hard to concentrate as the girl keeps on picking me up and shaking me out. Eventually, she settles me back beside her plate.

“I like Nappy,” she says. At least, that is what I believe she said, but I’m not sure what those words mean.

“Nappy?” asks the husband/father. I am not the only one who is confused.

“Nappy the napkin,” the girl explains in her little-girl voice. “We’re going to be great friends.”

Nappy the napkin? Oh, no. No, no, no. She can’t mean me.

“Your napkin?” the wife/mother asks, delicate incredulity evident in her voice. “That’s what you’re going to attach to, Celeste?”

“What’s wrong with Nappy?” The girl – Celeste, a decent name – asks. She picks me up (surprisingly gently) and hugs me. I did not expect this when I was getting prepared for today. I imagine that I can hear the scathing thoughts of the other napkins. The first day here, and already I am Celeste’s pet.

“Nothing,” the man says. “Why don’t you keep Nappy? We have plenty of other napkins we can use.”

“Yay!” Celeste squeals. She runs off, carrying me with her, and I lose sight of the beautiful dining table. Celeste runs too fast, and I find myself wishing I were back safe in the box, or catching crumbs for the husband or wife. Why did I have to get stuck as the plaything of a little girl? This is not what I wanted to do in life.

We fall into a routine. During the night, Celeste drapes me across her pillow. I comfort myself with the idea that I am serving my purpose as a napkin by catching any drool, but Celeste hardly ever drools. During the day, Celeste carries me with her unless she’s at school. If she’s at school, I wait on her end table, which is neither mahogany nor purple, and is in fact a rather garish pink plastic. Perhaps wealthy families do not concern themselves with buying expensive furniture for children because they will just ruin the furniture. Or perhaps they let Celeste choose her own end table. That is more likely, and more tragic (for me, at least).

Whenever we pass the dining table, I wish I could weep. I see the majestic tablecloth and the nice box where my fellow napkins get to spend their free time while I am either dragged up and down stairs or left languishing on a plastic pink end table. Occasionally Celeste will bring me to the table during a meal, but she almost never uses me as an actual napkin. The parents accept this now, merely commenting several times about how “napkins are apparently cuter than teddy bears.” I believe that is a compliment, but even a boost to my ego cannot lessen my despair. Months ago, I came here to grace the table of a worthy family and serve them as a napkin to the best of my ability. But now, the only thing I am gracing is Celeste’s hair when she decides to hide underneath me, and my purpose as a napkin has all but been forgotten.

But I suppose it is not all bad. Celeste is kind to me, despite her insistence on calling me “Nappy” and her boundless energy. And sometimes, when I watch my fellow napkins during meals, I am shocked at how callously the husband and wife treat them. Celeste is a bit kinder to her napkin, perhaps in deference for me. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that a job of a napkin is actually pretty miserable. I do not know if being a child’s toy is any better, though, especially when I do not even get the pride of being a valued and beautiful object on a wonderful table.

Time passes and I begin to realize something that should have been obvious to me the moment I found out what napkins do. Napkins are not valued or beautiful, or at least humans hardly ever think of them as anything but a functional object. Napkins are made to be crumpled, and used, and thrown away. We clean up other people’s messes, we get stained ourselves, and then we lose our purpose. Cloth napkins have it infinitely better than paper napkins, of course, but cloth napkins are only slightly fancier functional objects.

Take today, for instance. Celeste had brought me to the dining table for supper. She set me down and everything went smoothly for a while. I found myself once again wishing that I could be a normal napkin and wondering why Celeste had so taken to me. Suddenly, I heard a gasp and saw that the husband had spilled his wine all over his napkin. He quickly stood up, tossing the napkin onto his plate. The wife leaned over to look at the wet, stained napkin, and frowned.

“That’ll stain,” she said.

“Yeah,” the man said casually, checking to see if the wine had stained anything but the poor napkin. It hadn’t. “I don’t think we’ll be able to wash it out.”

There was a moment of consideration. Celeste, the other napkins, and I all waited to hear my fellow napkin’s fate.

“I guess we’ll have to get rid of it,” the wife said eventually. “We have no use for a stained rag.”

“Well, at least we were planning on buying new napkins soon anyway,” the husband said sheepishly.     

“You can’t throw it away!” Celeste cried. I wanted to cheer her on. Save my fellow napkin!

“Sorry, honey,” the wife said, ruffling Celeste’s hair. “It’s ruined. But don’t worry – even if you spill bleach on Nappy, we won’t get rid of him.”

Celeste relaxed, and I did, too. I was safe.

That was the moment I realized how important I am to Celeste, and how important she is to me. When I first arrived here, I never imagined that I would feel unsafe. I would serve my family, look good, and be admired, and this would go on until the end of time. But now I know better. I have seen my fellow napkins get crumpled, stained, tossed into the washer and dryer, and thrown away. I have heard sinister plans from the parents about buying a whole new set of napkins and ditching the old ones (they are going to get a golden tablecloth, and they would prefer purple napkins). I have never seen my fellow napkins receive admiration or respect or even love from any of the family they serve, but I have received all of those from Celeste. She values me, and without her, I would likely be thrown away the minute those new purple napkins come in.

But now? Now, even if the purple napkins look better than I do on the tablecloth, I know that I have won. Safety and love, even in the hands of a willful little girl, is much better than gracing a table and ultimately ending up in the trash.    

I am Nappy the napkin, and I am proud of it.

The End! J