Johnny used to work the bar. He was tall, slim and a little gangly. But he looked like he had some level of acceptable co-ordination. I mean, he played the bass guitar. You have got to have rhythm to play the bass guitar. Jerome, on the other hand, worked the other side of the bar, wore thongs, mostly, and didn’t really cut an athletic figure. One night, for some reason that I can’t really remember, Jerome challenged Johnny to a foot race. He measured out a distance in the laneway with the finish line being just outside the bar. Jerome said that if Johnny won, he would double his week’s wages. But if he lost, he wouldn’t be paid that week. There was a bit of back and forth as Johnny thought that it was easy money, but knew that Jerome couldn’t, under any circumstances, be underestimated. Finally, after much coercing, the race was on.
Jerome kicked off his thongs and they both proceeded down to the starting line and waited for the starter to drop the cloth.
Johnny got out to an early lead, and it looked like his initial instinct was correct. This was going to be easy money. He was coasting at the half way mark. But as they approached the gathered and cheering crowd, the gap had been reduced by some way. We had a race on our hands.
Coming up to the finish, it looked as if Johnny had run out of steam and no matter how much harder he tried to run, he looked to be going backwards. Jerome however, had momentum and almost pipped him at the line. But Johnny had found a little extra and managed to cross the line ahead of Jerome. Johnny, ever so humble, acknowledged he was lucky to win but looked forward to double wages that week. Jerome said if he had 10 more metres he would have caught him. And he would have.
But even if he had of caught him, he said he wouldn’t have kept any of Johnny’s wages. Just the bragging rights.
Milli’s brother and his soon to be wife, MC, had just moved to Melbourne from northern NSW. We thought it would be a great idea to show MC around town during the day whilst Milli’s brother was at work. It was a little after 2pm when we wandered into St Jerome’s for toasted sandwiches.
As we walked in, there was Jerome, perched in the corner by the bar in his standard attire. Short sleeve taxi shirt, long shorts, thongs and a Melbourne Bitter can. He looked happy to see us and invited us all to sit down with him. More Melbourne Bitter cans appeared and we thought, why not? A nice afternoon beverage on a warm summer’s day seems like the civilised thing to do.
One round turned into two. Then two became four. Four turned into many, and soon it no longer mattered. Before we knew it, we were drinking like men fresh out of jail. The crowd had grown from comfortable to bulging, the music was louder and I was trying to remember whether or not we had got our toasted sandwiches.
It was an untidy afternoon that turned into a messy night. Details are sketchy, but I do remember a lot of laughing, some dancing, and a rotating door of characters from a Dickens novel — whose intentions ranged from flirtatious liaisons to shedding light on their own existential philosophies — before we finally spilled out the door at about 10pm headed for another party. We stumbled down Swanston Street, promptly losing MC (we didn’t realise until the next day that she’d disappeared), toward our next engagement.
We rolled into the party drunker and louder than the party itself. We tried to mingle, but it was no use. Our conversation was mostly nonsense and our jokes were brutish at best. So we took what was left of our reputations — and whatever drinks were still in the fridge — and headed home, leaving a trail of empty bottles behind us like a drunken Hansel and Gretel.
We woke the next day bolt upright to what seemed like a 1000-piece orchestra outside our window. We lived right next to the MCG in a tiny flat at the time and to my tempered delight, and Milli’s absolute disgust, a bronzed statue of Dennis Lillee was being unveiled with great pomp and ceremony. I tried to get myself together enough so I could go out and join in the festivities, but my head was thumping, my eyes were burning, and my mouth was as dry as a fifth day MCG wicket, and with probably as many cracks in it. It was at this point that Milli realised she had lost her purse.
I sheepishly called our friends whose party we attended (ruined) to see if it was there.
No dice.
So we decided to go back to St Jerome’s to see if it had turned up.
We dragged our hung over, weary bones into the city and entered Caledonian Lane to find Jerome and a few characters from the night before sitting on milk crates outside the bar, looking like fresh-faced cherubs and drinking Melbourne Bitter cans. Astonished, we asked about Milli’s purse.
Jerome replied, ‘Is this it?’ and held up Milli’s pink purse.
‘Yes!’ we exasperated.
‘Well, you can’t have it back until you both sit down and drink at least two Melbourne Bitter cans with us,’ ordered Jerome.
What could we do? There’s no protesting Jerome with a can in his hand. With encouragement from this Artful Dodger and his cohorts we sat, and physically shuddered at the sound of fresh cans of beer being cracked opened. My first mouthful went down like a fencepost, but steadily improved. I wish I could say the same for Milli. With each sip it looked like she was wading through fresh concrete. Jerome noticed and decided not to hold the purse for the full ransom. One was enough.
Milli and I thanked our hosts and bade them farewell. It was an overcast day and we fell back into our tiny flat and devoured toasted bacon sandwiches. We later found out that MC had spent the night on the bathroom tiles babbling incoherently with Milli’s brother cursing all of us, including St Jerome’s.
On the other hand, when Milli’s father heard the story, he promptly booked a flight down to Melbourne to have his own St Jerome’s experience.