I've gone far too long without posting a blog, so this seemed like an opportune time to share a few of my tales from work this past weekend.
For anyone who may have missed my previous entries, I have been doing some part-time work as a bouncer at a local club. The work is easy, if a bit boring, and I suppose that babysitting adults isn't the worst job a lad could have. In fact there are moments that help the time to fly by, and almost make the hours and the pay seem worth the aggravation.
This blog will contain a selection of anecdotes from my nightly interaction with various club attendees. Please note that most of these happened before any alcohol had been consumed. Before I get to the stories, however, I need to give you all some background.
Cover charges are a funny thing. Some people cannot bear the idea that they might have to spend a few dollars to get into a club. In fact, that's the very idea of a cover charge. If you're the kind of person who balks at dropping a few bucks to get into the place, we sure as hell don't want you taking up valuable space inside. People will argue and curse and accuse me of sexism, racism, and everything nasty under the sun, and all because I asked them to give me five or ten dollars before walking in. The real irony of the whole thing is that most of them would not think twice about spending $50-$150 or more on a bar tab once they get inside, but for some reason, dropping a Lincoln is apparently tantamount to physical torture. Also amusing is that fact that many patrons see being exempt from the cover charge as a status symbol of sorts. The truth of the matter is that if you're not paying cover, it's probably because the bar owners have figured out that you're guaranteed to spend an excessive amount of money no matter what, and they just want to get you inside to take your earnings the easy way.
I mention all of that because this past weekend was a lot worse than usual when it comes to people whining about cover charges and dress code. Which reminds me, I need to talk about dress code. The official policy from the (now ex-) manager is twofold. His exact words to me were "no thug shit, they've got to look respectable--except for the rednecks, they spend a lot." The second part of this twofold master plan is "If they're black, find a reason." What he means there is that I should find a reason not to let them in. I should clarify that a number of our best customers are a group of local black men who come in and dance and spend quite a bit of money while making the club a better place to be. These guys never pay cover when I'm at the door (I used to coach wrestling with one of them,) and the owner would probably be pretty unhappy if I turned them away. The (now ex-) manager has decided that they don't count as "black." No, to him, only violent, drug-dealing thugs are really "black." Urbane and well-heeled locals are apparently colorless. It's hard to believe that it's 2007 sometimes.
What's funny about this is that I don't really enforce either portion of that policy. First of all, there's no way I'm going to enforce a racist policy. Period. Second of all, as long as you don't look like a bum, I really don't care about your fashion sense. Just one more irony in the whole scenario is that the (now ex-) manager loves the fact that I bring in so much money when I work the door, which is most likely due to the fact that I don't bother to enforce his policies. The only policies I DO enforce when it comes to dress code are:
1. If you are wearing one of those sundress-looking long-ass T-shirts, you have to tuck it in.
2. Take off your hat.
3. No jerseys, unless you just came from the game and are wearing the local team colors.
4. If your pants are hanging off your ass, pull them up.
5. No wife-beaters (the shirt, but that would also go for the action)
6. No offensive slogans on your clothing or anything that will cause a fight.
7. Once you're inside, if you want to untuck your shirt, pull down your pants, and put on your hat, I really don't give a damn, just be respectful when you're in my immediate presence.
So as you can see, I don't usually deny anybody admission, and I usually don't charge anybody extra unless they are being an exceptional ass. I just ask them to do what it takes to comply and to dress up a little when they come back. Almost without exception, they do.
Yet even with such a lax and permissive policy, I still get crap about it every night that I work the door.
One young man strolled up wearing an oversize Eagles football jersey. I stopped him at the door and told him that I couldn't let him in wearing a jersey.
Him: "What if I was white peoples?" (sic)
Me: I couldn't let any of you wear the jersey.
I don't think he got the joke.
One young lady had a particularly rough night on Friday night. My guess is that she was using something else, maybe G, because after only three drinks she got so plastered that she passed out on the bar, vomited all over herself, and started making high, keening noises while crying for her mommy and drifting in and out of consciousness. This despite being of ample mass to handle a couple of drinks pretty easily. She had to receive constant attention to keep her from hurting herself until her mother showed up. Did I mention that this was at 2 am, and the girl in question is in her mid-to-late twenties?
As an aside here, I asked the (now ex-) manager how he knew the number for the girl's mother. His response? "I used to (have sex with) her back when she was on meth. She used to be pretty hot. It's a shame the way she's blown up."
He's a prince among men, that guy...
So the next night, the girl comes back AGAIN. She was not embarrassed in the least when the barback and I tried to convince her to go back home by relating some of the shameful details of her behavior the night before. "Ha, ha--was I really that bad? I can't remember at all!" This was said with a laugh and a huge smile.
I tried to drive the point home. "We had to call your MOTHER, who had to get out of bed at 2 am to drive down here and pick you up!"
"Oh, it's totally cool," she said, giving us each a reassuring pat on the arm. "She's used to it. She sleeps in her clothes now, so it's no problem!"
Then she walked into the bar, head held high. Something to be proud of, that.
Many people are surprised when they move to GA and find out that we stop serving alcohol at midnight on Saturdays. This is a "blue law" left over from a bygone day that is surprisingly unlikely to be overturned here in the Bible belt.
The way the club handles this law is that they allow people to buy several drinks at a time before midnight, and then they stay open and allow people to drink until 2 am. This is significant because if you arrive after midnight, you can't buy anything. In light of this fact, I double the cover charge at midnight, because we don't want people just coming in and using our place as a free after hours hangout.
Many people are surprised when they show up and I ask them for more money than usual and then tell them that they won't be able to drink. I explain the law and the situation, at which point they are free to either pay or leave.
One woman, who showed all of the signs of being a drugged up, past her-prime, day-shift stripper, gave me an extra helping of crap about it, but she finally paid up and I let her inside. Later on, she came outside to find me again and complain about a law that I didn't pass and a club policy that I didn't invent. I gave her my usual response to people who want to debate the issue.
"Think about that the next time you vote, and don't let anyone into office who wants to restrict your freedoms."
She turned to me with a smug smile and said, "Well I have a felony, so I can't vote. What's that do to your little argument?!" Satisfied, she grinned from ear to ear, turned on her heel, and walked back into the bar.
She sure showed me.
We have a small, but loyal contingent of British nationals who patronize the bar, two of whom are wealthy lads of Indian descent who hail from London. They periodically bring cousins to the club, and recently started bringing an uncle who is newly arrived to the states. In addition to being really great guys, they are frequent customers who spend quite a bit, so we try to make sure that we take proper care of them and that they are always treated well.
One large group of young lads had finally been admitted after griping and haranguing over the cover charge for a good long while. Almost immediately after they had walked into the courtyard, the aforementioned uncle walked into the club with no more than a shake of my hand and receipt of a welcome. This infuriated the youngsters, who had just parted with a fair sum of money to gain entrance.
"How come we have to pay, and he doesn't? What the fuck makes him so special?"
Tired of having the same discussion over and over, and feeling no need to justify myself to these hooligans, I played the race card.
"South Asians don't pay at this club!" I responded. Not technically true, but I love messing with the rednecks.
"Asians?" Came the reply. "That's bullshit! He don't even look Chinese!"
I started laughing so hard they just gave up and went inside.
Who came first, the idiots or the drunks?
I think the drunks were always idiots. They just use the alcohol to turn their own volume up.
Something to ponder, no? Comment away...
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