Mr Table Goes to Parliament

The Table waits in a corridor. Rocking nervously, quickly. He places most of his weight on his first leg, his second, his third, his fourth and back to his first leg. Around and around, in an infinite, circular sway. He is waiting for a job interview. His first opportunity in five years. His first opportunity to pull himself out of the basement!

He visualises the pain of missing the interview because he goes to the bathroom. So he doesn’t go. Then he convinces himself that if he does not go, he will soil himself in the middle of the interview. What a disaster! But he is so terrified, he cannot bring himself to leave his post.

He shakes himself out of his funk. I am not just a table, he reminds himself, I am The Table! He opens his bag and pulls out his reference from Hillary Clinton. “I am The Table,” he tells himself again. “Hillary put so many issues on me—she brought so many voices to me!”

Good timing. Just at this moment a door in the wall opens, and a curt voice from an unseen man ushers him in. The Table is ready. With remarkable strength, he does the equivalent of a massive sit-up, pulling himself up on to his side. All his legs are now pointing back down the corridor. Two of them are flat on the floor. He pauses to catch his breath. He notices for the first time a beautiful French chair that has been sitting in the corridor too, slightly further down. The Table can see she is very soft, very plush and very beautiful. He catches her eye. There is nothing so good as looking over at a woman, only to find that she is already looking at you. The Table realises that it is his special sit-up that got her attention. “Good luck,” she mouths quietly. From one captive to another.

With this kind thought, The Table’s mood is completely reversed. On his side, he manages to slide in a semi-circular motion through the door. Then he releases his sit-up and stands right way up in the interview room. It is a large room. The interview panel is three people, seated behind a rather lifeless-looking table over on the other side, in front of a large window. A woman on the left, a man in the middle and a second man on the right. They are three of the most boring-looking people The Table has ever laid eyes on.

The Table does his shuffle, one-part swagger, three-parts waddle, over to the other side of the room, to stand in front of the panel. He brings himself to a halt, about a metre from the table. With his improved mood, The Table is now feeling confident. He announces abruptly, “It is not very inclusive of you to have a door that is so difficult for me to use!”

This draws the attention of the panellists. But The Table has met his match. The man in the middle asks pointedly: “Do you feel excluded by us inviting you here for a job interview?”

The Table has just enough maturity to read the undertone of this question, and to respond with silence. The middle panellist continues: “We are considering you for the position of ‘furniture piece’, here in the Parliament of Australia. Can you tell us why you would be a good addition to the furniture of Parliament?”

An easy question to begin with. The Table is ready.

“I have worked as a table for thirty years. With a very solid track record. But my key experience was really the months of June to November 2016. I was recruited to be the star piece of furniture for Hillary Clinton’s campaign. Every speech she said: ‘I want to put that issue on the table’ or ‘I want to hear more voices around the table.’ She kept saying these things, over and over again. So they recruited me. I became a central figure in her campaign. I travelled to every main stop with Hillary. I became The Table. Most evenings Hillary would be photographed putting lists of issues on me—this was her literally putting the issues of the day on the table. Other times she would pose for a photograph with a group of people, all chosen for their diversity, around me. This was her bringing more voices to the table. But it was me who made those photos. They were always big on the campaign’s social media.

“It was all me. As I said, I was The Table. My role grew over time. Soon it was not just complete nobodies having their picture taken around me with Clinton. Important people, statesmen and stateswomen, business leaders, intellectuals, and others, all came to have their picture taken around me.

“So I would be a great addition to the Parliament of Australia. I have great experience—meeting and connecting with leaders of august rank, notables, the quality generally—no problem. I am sure I would serve them and you well.”

The Table pauses briefly, caught in a reverie of happy memories. A world away from the basement. He shudders slightly with this latter thought before continuing.

“Yes. And in August 2016 I was voted the most significant piece of furniture in history by the editors of the New Yorker. You see, in this one speech in New Orleans, Hillary used the table metaphor twenty-seven times—and the speech only lasted five minutes! She put twenty-three different issues on the table in that speech! You should have seen her. And you should have seen me! Everybody wanted a photo of them, her and me. Most major newspapers had a photo that included me on their front page the next day. So I become very important. Very important. Not like now. I even had my own website, which was a whole separate section of the campaign website. And that was why the New Yorker people voted me the most significant piece of furniture of all time.”

There is a slight pause. The woman panellist looks directly at The Table and clarifies: “You would serve us well by facilitating discussion?”

“What do you mean?” The Table replies.

“Why did Hillary Clinton get people around the table? Around you?”

“You are right—to facilitate discussion. That is what I am good at. That is how I helped Hillary. She says this in my reference which I can give to you. I should add that in the list of the most significant pieces of furniture of all time, they voted my ancestor, the Round Table—at which King Arthur’s knights sat—number two! That’s how important I was!” The Table has a smile as wide as himself now.

Another pause. Something is not right. The Table can sense doom descending on the interview. The woman changes the topic: “What do you do now, Mr Table?”

“At the moment I am between opportunities.”

“Right. How long have you been between opportunities?”

“Since 2016,” The Table admits, softly. This initiates another pause. The doom descends further. To a level where it is obscuring communication between the parties.

“Where have you been in that time?”

“I have been around. Some of it, the recent part, I have been here in Australia.”

“Doing what exactly?”

“Well, very little actually. They move me between basements. That’s where you generally end up when you are an unwanted piece of furniture. Most recently I have been staying in the basement of the National Museum, here in Canberra.”

The middle panellist now interrupts, incredulous and sneering. “You’ve been staying in basements? What, do they cover you with a sheet?”

“Yes, that’s right.” The Table is barely audible now.

“You’ve had a sheet over you for six years?”

“Not for the entire six years …”

The panellists exchange significant glances. The middle panellist looks like a man who has just paid $5.50 for a cup of tea at a café and hated it.

The woman addresses The Table again. “Mr Table, you must understand that we are not looking for a table that would help us by facilitating discussion and the exchanging of views.”

“But—did I mention that I was voted the most significant piece of furniture in history by the editors of the New Yorker, and my ancestor, the Round Table …” The Table trails off into silence. Another pause. Just blackness now. The Table realises he is completely, utterly lost.

The woman continues. “This is the Australian Parliament, Mr Table. You must not have access to newspapers under that sheet of yours. No one talks around here any more. I doubt anyone has exchanged views in this place for at least six years. It is just shouting all day. We look at each other when we shout, but we are not really shouting at each other. We shout at the space occupied by other people. Every day, every hour—”

She is cut off by the man on the end of panel, who suddenly rises to his feet, sending his chair flying backwards. The Table winces.

“Let me be frank with you, Table,” announces the man, as he marches around, so he can tower above The Table. He glares down. His voice is dripping with contempt. “I’m not interested in hiring you if you mean to help me debate others. What I need is a piece of furniture I can use as a barricade. It’s war here. War—do you understand? I need a wide, sturdy object that I can crouch behind while I hurl insults at the morons who infect this place.”

He pauses to let his words sink in. His expression slowly turns into a vulpine smile. “Table,” he says softly, “can you—can you reinvent yourself?”

The Table musters all his remaining dignity. “I was voted the most significant piece of furniture in history by the editors of the New Yorker. I have no need to reinvent myself.”

This sends the standing man into an apoplectic rage. “You live under a sheet! In a basement! Do you understand that I’m offering you an opportunity?”

“John, stop!” the woman tells him.

But John will not stop. “Reinvent yourself! Go on, reinvent yourself!” He glares down at The Table. The Table stares back up, confused and terrified. He is incapable of moving. John grabs The Table and violently hurls him onto his side. He jumps over to the other side and turns back to look triumphantly at the other two members of the interview panel. The Table starts to cry.

John tells him: “Shut up! You are no longer The Table. I have reinvented you. From this day forth you are my barricade. I will use you for cover while I hurl insults at these morons. Do you understand? You should thank me!” He gives the table a sharp kick in the back.

The Table starts to cry, quietly uttering: “This is not respectful, you are abusing me, please—”

This makes John even angrier. He kicks The Table again: “Thank me for reinventing you, you piece of shit!”

The woman tries to interject again. “John, you have to stop doing this.”

But John’s face is flushed red. He ducks down so only his eyes, which gleam with fire, and the top of his head, show above the side of The Table. He looks at the woman. “You are one of the morons, Cathie. You infect this place like the plague. Do you hear me? You’re stupid! And you cannot touch me behind my barricade! My barricade was once voted the most significant piece of furniture by the editors of the New Yorker!”

The Table is riding the bus home. He is very sore, and utterly humiliated. A baby bawls loudly at the front of the bus. The Table is about to waddle over to the mother to ask her to quieten her baby, but he is beaten to it by the driver: “Listen, lady. I’m trying to drive. Can’t you make that thing be quiet?”

The mother retorts: “He needs a change. I’ll do it at home.”

The driver pulls over to the side of the road, and says: “Do it here. Change the kid right now. We’re running ahead of time. We can wait. I can’t drive with him carrying on like that.”

“I am not changing my son on the floor of your bus. Or on the seats. They are disgusting.”

The driver looks at her angrily. He reminds The Table of John from the interview. But the lady does not back down. So the driver looks around for other options. His eyes fall on The Table.

“You, table. Waddle over here and set yourself up so this lady can have a nice spot to change her baby.”

The Table, who has recovered some of his dignity since the end of the interview, glares back at the driver. “I am not a changing station. I am The Table. I was voted the most significant piece of furniture—”

“Mate, don’t worry about that,” snorts the driver. “You have to reinvent yourself. You are responsible for how useful you are. Waddle over here and help this lady so we can all move on.”

The lady looks at The Table. The defiance has gone out of her eyes. “Please help, Mr Table. I would really appreciate it.”

The Table yields and waddles over to the lady. “Put him on me,” he says.

The lady lays a soft muslin shawl down on The Table. The Table feels the warm little body on his top through the shawl. He can feel it rolling around playfully.

“What’s his name? If you don’t mind me asking?”

“His name is Ethan,” says the lady, kindly. She quickly changes the baby. The driver even stands by, holding a bin for the nappy.

“Thank you, Mr Table,” says the lady. “That was very helpful.”

As they approach his stop, The Table pushes the button. He alights and the lady waves through the window. The baby bangs his hand on the window. The Table smiles as he walks back to the museum. He enters and finds the curator.

“Mr Curator,” he announces, “from this day onward, I refuse to be covered in a sheet.”

The Table makes his way down to the basement.

Tom Randolph is a writer who lives in Queanbeyan