Open To Anyone
Everyone who was anyone knew that on a Thursday night The Surgeon on Tottenham Court Road was the place to be. As the day’s work finished up for the night, the pub would slowly fill so that by the time 8pm hit, it was standing room only and secretaries would be shoulder to shoulder with builders, traders, lecturers, accountants, all waiting for their moment in the sun.
The tension mounted until finally Mark flicked the switch to turn the microphone on. The familiar intro to Living on a Prayer started up. “Ladies and gentleman, it’s karaoke night at the Surgeon, so get those requests in and get singing!” Mark burst into the song he always opened the night with to the whoops and cheers of the audience, as people made their final selection and passed them up.
As the guitar faded away, Mark rifled through the slips of paper until he saw a name he recognised. “Opening for us tonight, we’ve got Maria up to the stage!” There was a shriek from the table in the corner where a group of girls always sat. Only a couple of them ever dared sing, but they were there every Thursday, ready to have the time of their life.
The beauty of karaoke was that you never knew what was coming next. One minute you’d have a long haired layabout singing Oasis and doing a passable imitation of Noel Gallagher, the next you’d have a drama student showing off their vocal licks. The one thing you learned was that you could never judge by appearance whether someone could sing and what they’d choose to treat the crowd to.
Never was that more true than when Jerome’s name was called. Jerome was a stalwart of Thursdays at The Surgeon. He was always late, but you knew when he arrived because of the cries of “Jerome!” as he pushed his way through the crowd to hand his own CD to Mark before quietly sitting down at the stool that was mysteriously suddenly available for him to patiently wait his turn.
An unassuming man, he was always impeccably turned out in a suit, his hair neatly parted, a handkerchief poking out of his jacket pocket. Whenever anyone tried to engage him in conversation, he was polite, but shy, and most people knew to leave him to his drink until his time came.
At last, Mark announced “it’s Jerome time!” Maria and the girls squealed and pushed their way through the crowd to drape themselves around him as he made his way to the stage and took the mike. “Which one tonight?” Mark asked and selected track 7 at Jerome’s request. Usually there was some chatter during songs, but when Jerome was up, silence descended.
The opening chords to Mac the Knife began and Jerome began swaying, clicking his fingers. The fact that he was ever so slightly off beat didn’t matter. He was about to sing.
Jerome couldn’t sing. His voice was toneless and he had no sense of rhythm. But none of that mattered as he closed his eyes and lost himself in the music, taking everyone in the room along with him. For that moment, he was Frank Sinatra, Tom Jones and Boyzone all rolled into one delicious Jerome sized package and the crowd was eating him up. He was Jerome!
Nobody could put their finger on what made him so cool. Maybe it was just that he was a regular and The Surgeon loved their regulars. They were what made the night what it was and nobody cared that he couldn’t sing to save his life. By day, he was a simple civil servant, going home to his Siamese cat and microwave meal for one. But once a week for one glorious song, Jerome and his audience were transported to a world where he was an international sex symbol. Women wanted him, men wanted to be him, while all his friends swore that fame hadn’t changed him, he was still the same old sweet Jerome who visited sick children in hospital and didn’t tell anyone where he was going.
The song drew to a close and the girls invited Jerome to sit with him, as they always did. He courteously turned them down, as he always did. Mark handed his CD back and Jerome nodded thanks before making his way out through the crowd. By the time he reached the door, he was all but forgotten as the next singer was up. He turned to look back one last time at the room he’d brought such pleasure to for a few minutes and smiled before making his way out into the night air.
Nobody knew why Jerome stopped coming, just that things weren’t the same without him. Soon the Surgeon was taken over and the new management didn’t like karaoke. They installed a wide screen TV, since London didn’t have nearly enough sports bars, and it was only a matter of time before Mark had gone, leaving The Surgeon empty on a Thursday night except for a few die hard football fans from the office round the corner who showed up to shout obligatory obscenities at the screen.
The Thursday night regulars scattered to the four winds, the easy camaraderie built up over years of singing together meaningless without The Surgeon to bring them together. But those who’d been there, those who’d seen him, never forgot Jerome and his easy charisma epitomising everything that karaoke should be.