by Ben Morton

Created on: January 26, 2007   Last Updated: May 14, 2007

Table Nine

Bloody weddings', Jack grumbled under his breath.
Your name, sir?', the woman repeated for a third time. This time through her teeth. The fact that she was maybe a quarter of Jack's size didn't stop her from looking down on him, figuratively speaking.
Jack twisted in his sweaty, over-starched collar. It had been exceedingly difficult to find a tuxedo in his size. The guy in the shop had sworn the dinner jacket was black, but so far three people had commented on such an unusual shade of purple. He had shaved this morning, not that you could tell it now. He continued looking around the room for anyone he knew. No good.

Bloody weddings,' he mumbled again. It was hot. He could smell the mass of hair care products evaporating off the snooty little woman. He went to the table she had directed him to, and looked for his tacky heart-shaped place card.
Table nine. He grimaced. He was reminded of a line from a half remembered movie, the mutants from table nine'; the phrase had stuck in his mind. Every wedding reception has a table nine', it's the table where you put all the guests who don't fit in. Aunty Mavis the permanently baffled, second-cousin Hamish who couldn't be trusted with sharp objects, and the sweet guy from the supermarket who always smells like parmesan cheese. The happy couple feel obliged to invite these people, for whatever reason, but they can't bring themselves to subject their actual friends to close proximity to them during dinner.
The reception was being held at the local footy club rooms, and they'd done the place up pretty well, considering. The pink and orange streamers were really clashing with the massive green Hoppers promotional merchandise which adorned every flat surface in the room. The Grasshoppers had never won a premiership, but they had more suspensions for fighting than any two other teams in the district. Jack had played footy for a few years in high school. The guys had nicknamed him Fridge'. Since he easily doubled the mass of any other player on the field, his job was to try and get the opposition to collide with him at high speed, and be taken off with suspected back injuries.
Jack located his seat at table nine, and put in a few token greetings to Auntie Mavis and the Parmesan Bloke. Hamish had bloodshot eyes, an unnerving grin, and was spilling red wine on his trousers, so Jack went over to the bar to get himself some bourbon. It was promising to be a long night.
Then she came in.
Shirley was a teacher at the local high

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