The Doorman’s Diary: 11.19-20.10

The quartet’s music was angular with soft corners. The bass rained plump notes on us. They were avant garde with a melodic undercurrent—much like the crowd. A bear-shaped man with dreds down to his ass had a hard look when he entered the club. After a couple of hours of soothing jazz, he left with the same street face. As doorman at the jazz club, I keep people in the entranceway until the cover is in hand. I heard a hard knocking at the door, opened it, no one. A guy rushed around the corner, “Why do you keep it locked?!” I let him in, checked the door—unlocked, and then found him well past my control point gesturing like a stranded islander waving down a propeller plane and yelling “It’s 1975!” I mistakenly asked for the cover and his ranting escalated. The bartender snarled at him to get out. I cornered the time-warped dude and corralled him toward the door as he yelled, “Read it in verse 411—it’s 2010 and the end is upon us—you will repent!!” I was wondering if the bible has a directory-assistance verse while he made a couple more threatening lunges to the open room before parting the door like the Red Sea to escape our prosecution. The bartender locked the door until he was safely blocks away and said “He’s O.K. when he’s on his meds.” Clearly, he needs a refill. All returned to mellowness, once the agitated prophet was gone. It was coming to closing. The sax and keys were well into a cat and mouse—harmonize, then stray apart—thing when a young noodle-drunk guy made his way in. I was supporting the wobbler when he said, “What did you ask?” I didn’t ask you anything, what did you think I said? It was fast becoming what computability theory refers to as the halting problem so I broke from the who’s-on-first exchange and went to the heart. “I can’t let you in, but you can’t be out there wandering alone—you’re an easy mark.” He confessed he was out with two friends who got lucky with the ladies and left him stranded. A cab was called for Mr. Unlucky and tried to keep him alert until the taxi arrived. I learned he’s half black, half Winnebago…alone in the world. He said he didn’t know what to do. “That’s easy,” I said, “you’re taking this taxi home.” As I loaded him in the taxi, he was slobbering, “You were nice to me…I love you, man!” When the cab pulled out, I quietly said, “I love you too…I love you too, man.”