The Coffee Table Reader

By Kenneth Pealock

Don't miss this delightful collection of inspiring short stories that will make you laugh, cry and think. Here are stories about love, marriage, friendship, pets, heroes, fools, humility and aging. they remind us why we should live our life, love everyone and laugh often.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kenneth Pealock
• Release date: Nov 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393762119

Kenneth Pealock

Ken Pealock is a prolific writer in many different genres: self-help books, politics, religion, cartoon books and novels. He has a background in marketing, advertising, psychology and constitutional law. During his colorful career, he has published 67 books, sued the entire 11th Circuit Court of Appeals, filed numerous pro se petitions to the Supreme Court, and once held power of attorney over hundreds of secret CIA bank accounts. He lives in Georgia

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The Coffee Table Reader is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Copyright © 2019, by Ken Pealock.

A Dying Child’s Prayer

A FIVE-YEAR-OLD GIRL dying of cancer says a prayer from her bed.

DEAR GOD,

I’m sorry I can’t get on my knees to talk to you tonight. It hurts too much. I just want to thank you for giving me a mommy and daddy who love me and didn’t ‘bort me.

And thank you for giving me a big sister to teach me things so I don’t get in trouble. And thanks for my little brother. He can be a brat sometimes, but he doesn’t mean to be. I know he loves me ‘cause I saw a tear in his eye when mommy told him I had cancer. My puppy loves me too; I see it in his eyes, and I see it when he wags his tail. Please look out for them so they don’t get sick like me.

Thank you for giving me five-years of life, to be loved, and to feel the sun and wind in my face, and to play in the snow, and to make a snowman, and to see a rainbow and the moon and stars. And, I almost forgot, for letting me taste ice cream and other good stuff. But can you please make the spinach taste better so kids don’t make faces when they eat it?

And can you send some money to my daddy? He and mommy sometimes argue about not having enough money. I think it’s my fault for being sick and costing them lots of money. When I get to heaven, I’ll work hard to pay you back.

I’m sorry, God, that bad men killed your son for trying to help people. And I know it’s asking a lot, but can you please send him back ‘cause lots of people need help. Daddy talks about all the wars and fighting over religion, and somebody needs to tell them religion is supposed to be about loving one another.

Please, God. I’m not asking anything for myself ‘cause you’ve given me so much already. Just help others who really need it.

I’m getting tired and sleepy now, and I must rest. But when I get to heaven, can I hug you for all the blessings you and your son gave me? Amen.

That night the thankful little girl died in her sleep.

The Three Scrooges

THIS STORY IS ABOUT helping those who are less fortunate and doing so without thought of personal gain or recognition.

A BLAST OF ARCTIC AIR blew snow into the bar when the priest stepped inside. The town was feeling the leading edge of a polar vortex. He brushed the snowflakes off his overcoat and hung it on the coat rack.

Looks like we might have a white Christmas, Father, Oscar the bartender said.

We may indeed, Oscar, the town needs a little of the Christmas spirit. Since the plant closed everybody’s feeling down and out. The priest sat down at the bar.

Mayor Burns was also at the bar. Yeah, and I’m getting blamed for the plant closure...like I’m the Chamber of Commerce or something. Oh, well, there goes my reelection. He frowned and shrugged his shoulders.

Speaking of the Christmas spirit, what’ll it be, Father, the usual red wine? Oscar asked.

Maybe you ought to spike it tonight; I’m feeling a little depressed myself.

Oscar knew the priest had recently been defrocked for financial and sexual improprieties. He poured a shot of vodka into the wine. Any word from the church on being reinstated?

I haven’t asked. The priest took a sip and grimaced. He wasn’t used to the stronger alcohol taste, but it felt good going down.

Everybody in this town’s got problems, Father; don’t feel like you’re the only one, the mayor advised.

What about you, Oscar, care to lean on my shoulder? Confession is good for the soul, and it’ll be strictly confidential.

Skid Row Joe, the only other patron in the bar, raised his head from the table. No, it ain’t. I can hear every word you three are saying.

Oscar Krum, Mayor Burns, and Father O’Conner ignored Joe. They believed he wouldn’t remember anything they said.

Business has been awfully slow for this time of year, Father. Between the plant closure and the recession, nobody’s got any money, and they ain’t drinkin’ enough...except Joe, of course.

At least Skid Row Joe stays in good spirits all year long. Mayor Burns laughed at his lame joke.

I got problems too, Joe said. It’s a problem for me when my homeless friends are hurtin’, ‘specially at Christmas and in this merciless weather.

What have you done for them besides share booze with them? the mayor asked.

Okay, what has our fine mayor done? Joe bellowed from the table, before laying his head back down.

I advise them to see Father O’Connor for a handout, Mayor Burns replied.

And what have you done for the homeless, Father? Joe asked Father O’Connor.

I bless them and send them to Oscar for a donation, he replied.

And you, Oscar, what do you do?

I tell them to see the mayor.

Doesn’t sound like anybody’s being helped.

The three men looked at each other. Joe’s remark stung like a hornet.

Oscar spoke up. They ain’t my responsibility; besides, my taxes pay for food stamps and welfare to help those folks.

It ain’t enough, Joe said, and you can’t buy toys with food stamps.

Father O’Connor spoke up next. There’s nothing the church can do. The Christmas fund is empty this year because most of the townsfolk are unemployed.

And it’s not my responsibility, either, the mayor said. The shelters are full, and the food donations dried up.

Joe didn’t accept their answers. "There must be something you three scrooges can do besides make excuses." He slammed his bottle on the table in disgust.

Mayor Burns, being a political animal first and foremost, thought of a solution to everyone’s problems. "Old Joe’s right, all three of us should do a little something for those hapless folks. Me and Oscar can have our wives slap together some cheap peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And you, Father, can probably collect a few broken toys from church members. Then I’ll get a TV reporter to video us giving something to those homeless families.

Think of the advantages to us: As mayor, I’ll get the free publicity needed to get reelected; you, Father O’Connor, may get reinstated at your church; and you, Oscar, will be rewarded with lots of customers who come in your bar to thank you for your generosity."

Skid Row Joe listened to their scheme without comment.

_______________

On Christmas Eve, Skid Row Joe led the three scrooges and a TV crew to a homeless camp on the outskirts of town. The mayor and Oscar brought two measly bags of sandwiches and Father O’Connor brought a batch of discarded toys for the kids.

Entire families were living in tents made from cardboard and plastic tarps. Used milk cartons filled with frozen water were stacked outside, and laundry on clotheslines was too iced over to flit in the wind. Everyone was trying to stay warm by gathering around a rusty 55-gallon drum burning scrap wood and tree limbs. Snow flurries blew across the huddled men, women and children. It looked like a Mideast refugee camp.

The three scrooges waited until the camera was rolling. All right, listen up everybody. I’m Mayor Burns and with me is Father O’Connor and Oscar Krum, the town’s bartender. We’ve come to bring you gifts of food and toys for the kids because we care about you folks. Mayor Burns turned to put on his best smile for the TV camera, while the cold, hungry families waited for his speech to end.

And I want you folks to know we’ll be back next Christmas Eve with more food and gifts, the mayor promised. At that moment, a 4-year old girl with dirt smudges on her cheeks began tugging at the mayor’s pants leg. He tried to ignore her, but she kept tugging until the cameraman focused on the little blonde girl.

What about the rest of the year? she asked, holding a doll with one arm missing.

Well...uh... The mayor stammered so badly the TV reporter spoke up.

What about it, mayor? What are you going to do for them the other 364 days?

I...or rather, we...Father O’Connor and Oscar, that is, hope to...ah...well, you see, the townsfolk are unemployed and...

"You mean nothing, don’t you, mayor? Will the kids have to wait until next Christmas to get more broken toys?"

He was trapped and the entire charade became national news. The desperate pleas of the 4-year-old girl were placed on YouTube and went viral. A sympathetic billionaire bought the closed plant and started a sports shoe factory that hired most of the citizens.

New people flooded into the now-famous town, opening shops and restaurants for tourists, and building homes for the homeless. Oscar sold his bar and fled the town in disgrace, along with the priest and the mayor. The 4-year-old girl was named honorary mayor. The bar remained open with a new owner, and Skid Row Joe sat in a back-table with his bottle. He smiled.

He smiled to himself. No one would ever know who told the 4-year-old girl what to say. It would be their little secret.

A Friend for Life

I WAS ABOUT 6 YEARS old visiting a mean uncle when he used a bullwhip on his hunting dog. If I had been older, I would have put the whip to him. My best friend growing up was my dog and I don't understand how anyone can be cruel to animals. That experience forms the basis for this short story. It also illustrates that no matter what you do for some people, they don't appreciate it.

THE WIRY OLD MAN IN overalls cracked his bullwhip in the air. It sounded like a firecracker to the dog cowering under the car. He knew he would soon feel its sting.

Get out from under that car, you worthless hound, and take your whipping.

The dog never knew what he’d done to anger his master. He did everything he could to please him, but the beatings still came. He crawled to the right side of the undercarriage, hoping to avoid the worst of the whip.

You think you can hide, do you? Well I’ll show you. He slung the long leather whip underneath the car, hitting the dog in the side. The dog yelped from the sharp pain and the man ran to the right side of the car to get a better shot. The dog scooted to the left side.

The whip again struck the dog, and he moaned a pitiful sound. His body trembled in fear of his master, and he wondered how long this beating would last.

All the neighbors knew the old man beat his dog regularly but did nothing to stop him. Yet, on this day a bow hunter emerged from the woods and saw the dog being mercilessly whipped.

A wild hog also emerged from the wood that day, a deadly Arkansas Razorback. Excited by the sounds, the Razorback saw the man with the whip and charged him, knocking the old man on his back. The man held his hands in front to protect himself from the sharp tusks.

Suddenly, the dog bolted out from under the car to save his master. Instinctively, the dog went for the throat of the tough Razorback; he bit as hard as he could but was weak from not being fed lately. The hog tossed him aside, barely glancing at the hound before returning to gore the old man.

The dog had no thought for his own life; all he knew was to save his master. He growled as fiercely as a wolf and jumped on top of the Razorback, again sinking his teeth into its neck. The wild hog violently spun around, first one way, then the other, until the dog lost its grip. This time the wild hog went for the dog, ripping open the hound’s belly with its tusks. The dog knew it was a fight to the finish and he was losing.

The bowhunter pulled an arrow from his quiver and let it loose into the flank of the Razorback. The razorback broke off the attack and fled; though it was a killing shot, the hog wouldn’t die until it bled out.

He sprinted over to check on the man and the dog. Are you okay? he asked the man.

That hog gored me good, but I’ll be okay; might need you to bandage me though.

The bowhunter ignored his request: instead, he checked the lifeless dog. Blood seeped out his ripped abdomen body and he knew the dog was dying. Your dog won’t make it without treatment by a vet, mister.

Who cares? He’s just a worthless mutt.

He just saved your life, mister.

That mongrel was only protecting his meal ticket.

From the looks of his ribs, he hasn’t gotten many meals from you. The bowhunter saw missing tufts of hair from the whiplashes and had to control his anger. Can I have him?

Take the mangy mutt, it’ll save me the work of burying his stinking hide.

The bowhunter removed his shirt, wrapping it around the dog’s middle to keep his intestines inside. He gently cradled the dying dog and carried him a mile down the dirt road to his truck. Placing the dog on the seat beside him, he petted the injured animal and talked to him as he sped to the veterinarian clinic. I don’t know if you can hear my voice, pal, but I’ll do everything I can to save you. I don’t care what that mean old man, says, in my book you’re a hero and a champion.

The bowhunter was vastly exceeding the speed limit, but the dog’s breathing was shallower than ever. He pulled into the vet’s parking lot and rushed inside with the dog in his arms.

What happened to him? the Vet asked.

Razorback got him. Can you save him, doc?

He winced at the dog’s sever wound. Maybe. He gave the dog an injection of antibiotics and plasma for the blood loss, then sewed up the wound while the bowhunter watched. I put a drain tube in his abdomen, so you’ll have to treat the wound with peroxide twice a day.

No problem, what’s his prognosis?

"I can’t say. He’s seriously malnourished and probably has heartworms, to boot. If he survives the night, we’ll have to treat whatever else is wrong with him when he’s stronger. Judging by the welts, somebody’s been beating this dog; care to explain?

It wasn’t me, doc. I got the dog from an ornery old man who was mistreating him; he lives on the dirt road to the lake.

Ah, no wonder! You’re talking about old man Fowler. That reprobate never brought this dog in for so much as a rabies shot. He’s an old bootlegger, mean as a snake and hates everybody, including man’s best friend. The vet clenched his fist and punched the air, wishing it was Fowler’s face.

I’d like to hit him myself, doc; a man who mistreats his dog isn’t much of a man.

The vet nodded, gazing with sympathy at his canine patient. "I need to keep him overnight to administer an IV drip of saline and antibiotics. I also need to feed him intravenously to regain his strength. The only question is whether the dog has the will to live, considering the way he’s been mistreated.

Can I stay here with him tonight, doc; he needs a friend.

"Well, that’s not normal procedure, but he does need love if he has a chance of surviving. I’ll put blankets on the floor of a spare room for both of you to rest.

The dog opened his eyes at daybreak. He didn’t know who the sleeping stranger was who lay beside him on the floor; all he remembered was being picked up by somebody and brought here. He licked the bowhunter’s face until he awoke.

Hello, pal, and good morning to you, too. He petted the dog’s head and gently rubbed his back. The dog wagged his tail. I don’t care if you are a mixed breed, my friend, you were a real hero and champion yesterday. Come to think of it, Champion is a good name for you.

When the vet arrived, he examined his patient and felt he was well enough to go home to his new owner. Keep a check on his temperature because he has a slight fever; call me if it doesn’t get better. 

The dog loved his new home. The bowhunter fed him regularly and let him live inside the house. He felt safe and loved by his new master – especially after inspecting every square inch of the house and finding no whip. However, the vet told a reporter about the heroic dog and the bowhunter named Keith who brought him to the clinic. National newspapers ran the story and sympathetic donors sent thousands of dollars to Keith to pay the vet bills and feed the dog. As a result, word of the donations got back to old man Fowler, and he went to Keith’s home.

Say, my neighbors told me it was you who took my dog. I appreciate what you did for him, but I want him back...and the donation money.

You gave that dog to me, remember?

Nah, I don’t remember anything of the kind.

Look, I’ll pay you for the dog.

He’s ain’t for sale. All this publicity makes him worth a lot more than you could ever pay.

Keith wanted to strangle him. Read my lips: you are not getting the dog back. Fact is, you ought to be in jail for mistreating him.

The old man sized up the muscular bowhunter and knew he wouldn’t win a fight. He left without a word. The next day, however, when Keith wasn’t around, he broke into the house and took the snarling dog.

When the bowhunter returned home and couldn’t find Champion, he knew what happened. He drove to old man Fowler’s house to confront him. The dog was under the car and the old man had his whip out.

Drop that whip, he ordered Fowler.

You can’t tell me what to do with my dog.

Okay, I won’t tell you. He jerked the whip out of his hand and punched him in the face.

I think you broke my nose! Fowler screamed.

I’m going to break a lot more than that if you ever touch that dog again. Here’s a pen, paper and $200 payment for the dog. Sign a receipt or I’ll break your legs one at a time.

The old man feared the larger man and signed the receipt. Blood was still streaming out his broken nose.

"And let me tell you something else: If I ever see you whipping any animal again, I’ll put the whip to you. You got that?"

"Yes, Sir.

Come on Champion, let’s go home. The dog crawled out from under the car and walked with his new master. He lay on the truck seat, resting his head on the bowhunter’s knee. Champion’s child-like eyes looked up at his master with nothing but love in his heart, then closed his eyes the rest of the way home.

He finally had all he ever really wanted.

A friend for life.

A Stranger in Town

THIS IS A STORY ABOUT a man seeking a father he never knew.

ROY AND MARTHA SAT on their front porch waiting for the sun to set behind their apple orchard.

It had been their routine for seven years and a nightly reminder that the sun would soon be setting on their lives.

Both had lived 81 years now and were partially crippled with arthritis. Even their old coon dog, Jake, was nearing his end. Sometimes Martha would bring out the family photo album and they’d reminisce about their children and the good times and hard times they had on the farm. After the laughter came sadness and bedtime. Some nights, after Martha fell asleep, Roy would go back on the front porch to pray.

This evening, however, their usual routine was interrupted by a mysterious stranger. They saw the dust cloud raised by his truck before they heard it lumbering down the dirt road. Another minute passed before the red pickup came into view and they watched it drive past their farmhouse headed east.

I never saw that truck before, Martha; I wonder what he’s doing way out here? Roy said.

He must be lost; nobody drives on this old road anymore, Martha replied, gently rocking back and forth.

Yeah, most of our neighbors died long ago and went to their reward. Ain’t no farming going on now that everybody’s moved to the city. Twenty minutes later, the red truck returned. Yep, he’s lost alright, here he comes back. Roy said. This time, however, the truck pulled into their gravel driveway and stopped.

The driver was a young man, about 30 years old, wearing a black T-shirt, dungarees and cowboy boots. He walked up to Roy and Martha, planting one boot on the porch.

Howdy folks. I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m looking for the Hempsted Farm. Am I on the right road?

He seemed to have a permanent smile etched into his face. It was so infectious that Roy and Martha couldn’t help but smile back at the stranger. Even old Jake managed to open one eye.

You’re on the right road, mister, Roy replied, but the Hempsted Farm no longer exists. Mr. Hempsted died in a nursing home 10 years ago this spring and his farmhouse rotted and collapsed about five years ago. Nothing left but weeds, trees and saplings. Fact is, ain’t much left of anybody or anything in this farming community. There’s only me, Martha, and a dozen old retired farmers. And we won’t be around much longer.

The stranger’s smile briefly turned to a frown. I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Hempsted’s death; I’d hoped he was still alive since I came here to repay him for a favor. By the way, my name is Duncan, Edward Duncan.

Roy stood up to shake his hand. I’m Roy Palmer and this is my wife, Martha. She nodded and smiled at the stranger.

How do, ma’am. Edward turned his head to Roy. Say, is there a motel around here; I’m from out of state and dead tired from the long drive?

Nope, Roy answered. Ain’t no motel or anything else within 70 miles of here.

Edward Duncan looked up and down the dirt road, undecided on what to do. I think I’ll just pull off the road and sleep in my truck tonight. Nice meetin’ you folks.

That evening Roy and Martha sat on the front porch way past sunset. They speculated on what favor Mr. Hempsted had done for the stranger. They also speculated on which neighbor would be the next one to pass away.

The following morning, Roy woke up early, as he had all his life. He took a bag of dog food to the front porch and filled the dog’s bowl. Jake opened one eye, then closed it. Jake was a late sleeper.

Roy turned to go back in the house where Martha was preparing breakfast when he spotted the red truck parked 50 yards away on the side of the road. The stranger must also be a late sleeper, he thought. After eating breakfast, Roy and Martha came outside to sit in their rocking chairs and observe the red truck.

Moments later, Edward Duncan awoke and started the engine of his truck. He drove once again into their yard and approached them on the porch. I’m sorry to bother you folks again, but I couldn’t help thinking about this dying farm community. Since I can’t return the favor I owe Mr. Hempsted, perhaps I could do something for you two and the other folks that still live here.

Well, that’s mighty generous, but there’s not much you do for this community. There’s been no profit for small farmers since the big corporations took over. Besides, everybody’s too old to take up farming again.

"I’m afraid you misunderstand. I’m not talking about reviving the farms; I’m talking about giving joy and happiness to all the old folks in the community." Edward’s smile persisted.

Roy laughed. There ain’t no joy or happiness left for us old folks, Mr. Duncan; we’re just waiting for the grim reaper to take us...and so is old Jake here. The lazy dog opened his eyes at the mention of his name and padded over to his food bowl.

I can prove you’re wrong, Roy. Give me two days to arrange things and contact all your neighbors. Edward said.

"You’ll have to prove it, stranger, but I’ll admit I’m curious to see what you’re all about."

The stranger waved bye and drove off.

The next morning Roy and Martha were sitting on their front porch drinking coffee when they saw Edward Duncan’s red truck drive past. It was pulling a flat-bed trailer loaded down with a tractor and bush-hog headed towards the old Hempsted farm. Following behind was another pickup with a load of lumber.

What do you suppose that stranger is up to, Roy? Martha asked.

Who knows.

Thirty minutes later they heard the growl of a tractor and chainsaws ripping the air. Then they heard a circular saw cutting lumber and hammers nailing it together.

Roy’s curiosity got the better of him. He climbed into his rusty pickup and drove to the Hempsted place to see what was going on. His saw the undergrowth cleared and picnic tables under construction. He drove back to tell Martha.

The next morning, they observed a truck loaded with barbecue grills make its way to the Hempsted place and two catering vans follow it. By mid-afternoon, Edward Duncan, the ever-smiling stranger, drove into Roy and Martha’s driveway and knocked on their screen door.

Well, my friends, Edward said, today I’m going to give you the gift of joy and happiness. Everything is set up at the Hempsted place for an all-you-can-eat barbecue feast, with catered side dishes. All your neighbors have agreed to be there, including Reverend Haystone and his wife. I hope you will join us at 5 pm.

What about it, Martha?" Roy asked.

If everybody else is going we might as well.

By 5 pm everyone was there to enjoy the banquet. A couple of neighbors strummed country tunes on their guitars and the women sang gospel songs. During an interlude, one of the neighbors questioned the stranger.

Mr. Duncan, I want to thank you for bringing a little joy and happiness this evening like you promised. That was mighty kind of you to go to all this trouble and expense for people you don’t know. He gazed at Roy and the others before continuing. "However, we’ve all been talking about this and, not meaning no disrespect, but why in the world did you do this for us?"

The stranger climbed atop a small podium his hired carpenters had built for speaking to all the retired farmers. His smile was even wider. "Folks, I think you all need an explanation for this little shindig I put on. You see, I owed a favor to Mr. Hempsted and promised to repay it someday. Mr. Ralph Hempsted was my father and he separated from my mother before I was born. As you know, he worked hard at farming all his life, just like you folks have. Although he didn’t make much money, he always managed to send money to my mother to help raise me. My birth resulted from a stranger-in-the-night encounter, so she never knew my father’s name. He knew her name, however, and he knew it was his duty to pay for raising me.

He sent money orders and letters under the fictitious name and address of an imaginary uncle of hers because she’d found happiness with another man and dad didn’t want to ruin their marriage. I promised my mother before she died that someday, if I found him, I would repay the favor of caring about me when he didn’t have to. I only found out who he was last month while rambling through my mother’s belongings. That’s where I found an envelope he’d sent where he had accidentally listed his real name and address. He was an honorable man and I regret that I never got to see him or thank him. The best I can do is repay his good neighbors.

Martha and the women couldn’t hide their tears. Roy even had to wipe his before speaking to the stranger. "Mr. Duncan, we are thankful that you chose to share your story with us, but please tell us how a barbecue for us returns a favor you owed your dad. I mean, you don’t owe us a thing."

Yes, I do. My dad sent many letters about you folks. He told us how you helped him during crop failures, when a new barn needed raising, and how you helped him deliver calves in the middle of the night. Whatever he needed, you folks were there for him; you are a caring community as tight knit as the Amish. Since I can’t repay my father, the next best thing is to repay all of you for being his good friends. I hope this little get-together has brought all of you some joy and happiness. The most rewarding thing we have in this world is the love and friendship we show each other.

Amen to that!