Sir Dick and I

It was Me and Dick. Dick and me. Side by side, roaming the streets. What on earth were the odds? It was a phenomenal coincidence. Surely an act of fate. Two vectors intersected with perfect harmony at this exact juncture, this precise culmination of events. Me and Dick. Dick and Me.

I ogled the clock with weary nonchalance and a hint of spite. I’d never been held back at work this late on an evening shift. I finished up and my feet carried me homeward, lethargically strolling down Swanston St past hoards of boozed-up revellers and armies of scantily clad mutton barely dressed as lamb. Drifting through the Friday night city buzz and balmy Melbourne breeze my eye glanced the Town Hall clocktower complete with its illuminated golden aura…It captured me, for some reason more so on this night than any other, compelling me to abandon my customary route along Flinders Lane and instead head across towards Collins St.
I stationed at the lights, a lone bloke amid the giggling, gossiping cheap perfume, waited for the little green man to do his thing, and crossed the street.

Outside a swanky Collins St bar I noticed the blonde Englishman. He stood with his back to me. The rich, smarmy accent was unmistakably British, his demeanour undeniably uptown. I overheard his request for directions to the Sofitel to random locals who were close to useless, bereft of any concept of direction. Lucky for him I work at a hostel where helping out the common geezer is par for the course. I’d been doing it all night at work. What’s one more lost pom?, I thought to myself.

“Sofitel’s up this way mate, I’ll walk you there”.

‘Blonde English’ took heed of my assistance and strolled alongside. As I continued to trundle uphill with this chap I was increasingly perturbed by the frequent attention passers-by were granting us. Out of nowhere came pointing and gasps, wide-eyed amazement, cars slowing down, blocking hook-turn traffic. It became a circus. What the hell was going on? Was my fly undone? I turned to glance at the Englishman. It clicked. He looked familiar. A smooth, cheesy grin of chunky white teeth. A stocky build, bold and self-assured, clad in a jeans and sportcoat combo that screamed ‘money’. The circus had nothing to do with my fly. The only exposed dick at that moment was him.
I’d collected Sir Richard Branson.

So there we were, ambling up Collins St…Sir Dick and me. Me and Sir Dick. He proved to be a pretty friendly bloke old Branson. Shorter than I’d imagined. We mused about life, his family, the tennis, and our plans for tommorow. I was rostered on at work. He was off to Fiji and China.
He seemed relatively interested in my hostel front desk exploits, or at least feigned interest well. I was introduced to a local girl he’d met at the swanky bar. Her name was Stephanie. Now it was Dick, Steph and I, two locals, one multibillionaire playboy entrepreneur - three strangers strolling through the night, chatting away amid the hoopla and howls of excitement that followed Dick like rats to a pied piper. Deflecting ubiquitous female attention with a skybound, waving arm and a glint of orthodontic perfection, Dick lamented that he was not 25 years younger. Steph and I got talking. She seemed a nice girl. We both agreed how truly mind blown we were by our fresh companion.

Always ticking away furiously, Branson’s mind chimed effortlessly into our conversation. He pointed at the both of us with a toothy grin.
“There you go guys – ‘Virgin dating’, starts here!…”.

Branson's handshake commenced the parting of our ways. He strutted across Collins St towards the Sofitel, turning back on reaching the tram tracks and waved us on. “Don’t forget to send me pictures of the kids!” He turned again, and disappeared.

Steph and I decided not to get married, nor have kids. We didn’t even get to the first drink. Instead she took her train back to Glen Waverley, and I walked back home to Fitzroy, pondering the random collision of two distinctly polar lives.