The fact that the store was in Melbourne’s CBD and nowhere near a beach was no deterrent;I would be surrounded by surf clothes,surf magazines,spunky customers and as much Spiritual Sky perfume oil as I could bear.
As a wannabe surfer girl,this was my dream job.Supplied
Here,I learnt to bluff my way through the merits of O’Neill versus Ripcurl wetsuits,and did a convincing spiel on twin fin versus thruster surfboards. But when it came to skateboard decks,trucks,wheels and hardware,I was out of my depth.
As the only female employee,I became the womenswear buyer by default. My stock uniform was Hot Tuna pants,Golden Breed T-shirt,a windcheater made from old chenille bedspreads,or a multi-colour Jakpak from Bali.
Despite being a sales assistant,I didn’t actually do much assisting. My favourite spot was sitting behind the cash register,so much so that the manager,Pete,would exclaim tell me to get up lest I get bed sores. I’d do an exaggerated shoulder slump walk to watch the changing-rooms.
Theft was common,usually discovered only when we found a coat hanger sans garment. Once,after a girl exited the change room leaving the tell-tale hanger behind,I followed her out the door,chasing her down the street. When I finally caught up with her and told her I knew she had a stolen windcheater under her jumper,she snarled “whatcha gonna do about it,moll?” She had a point. As it turned out,I could do nothing and so returned to the store empty-handed.
On the upside,the job provided the beneficial boost for my love life I’d been hoping for. From meeting surfers straight from the pages ofTracks magazine to a dubious date with a touring American motocross champion (and Bobby G from Bucks Fizz asking me out for “tea”),there was plenty of adventure. Then,there was the Victorian skateboard champion that I was totally smitten with who always seemed to be on crutches whenever he came into the store.
One scorching hot day,there was a commotion outside,and we walked out to see an enormous red wave rolling down Bourke Street,swallowing whole buildings in its wake. We had no idea what it was,and there was panic on the faces of people who began coming into the shop seeking shelter. We closed the door,watching day turn to night. Turning on the radio,we discovered it was a massive dust storm carrying red earth all the way from the Mallee,a dramatic consequence of drought.
While summer days were busy and flew by,winter was long and quiet. We once amused ourselves by stuffing a full-length wetsuit with newspaper,adding wetsuit booties and gloves,and placing it in the front window. We tied fishing line to the arms and legs and threaded it through the bamboo blind backdrop to operate like a marionette,moving the limbs when someone would look at the window display. Yes,we were bored.
On Fridays,we worked 9am to 9pm,a shift that awarded a meal allowance (which went towards the weekly bottle of whisky). A young grommet called Dodger worked the busy Friday night and Saturday morning shifts,and Pete was a diehard Rolling Stones fan,with 20 or more of their tapes on high rotation. With the Johnnie Walker kicking in,the cassette deck pumping and Pete channelling Keef on air guitar,it was party time.
Pity my fellow passengers on the 9.15pm Frankston line as I would waft onto the carriage in a funk of patchouli or sandalwood and try not to nod off on a shoulder during the hour-long trip home to Edithvale. Dodger would hit the city and often come in the next morning without having made it home. He’d promptly roll under the clothes racks for a snooze,much to the surprise of browsing customers to whom we’d explain,“it’s OK,it’s just Dodge”.
I was only there for a year or two,but I came away with lifelong friends. And that guy on crutches became my husband. Now,just like Avril Lavigne and some 40 years later,I’m still with the skater boy.
Kerrie von Menge is a Victorian-based writer.
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