The Doorman’s Diary: 1.28-29.11

It happens rarely, but the doorman was flummoxed. I arrived at my regular time and found the guest band cooking and customers well into their drinks (?). This is a full 45 minutes before the regular 9:30pm start. The bartender signaled me to conference. I walked past the former doorman who was seated at the bar (??), and saw the club owner who was dressed like Blossom from the old TV series—hat, her long hair, and a shy “I’m not here” look on her face (???). If we were playing “What’s wrong with this picture,” I was definitely stumped. I WTFed the bartender who said, “They just started and the cover is $7 tonight, not five, and they’re only playing until 11pm.” I did what I should: adjust and adapt. I like the group—they’re young, they’re good, and they’re take on the traditionals is unique—but their geriatric timetable is confusing. I caught up with the club owner, complimented her on the teeny-bop look, and demanded a fistful of Washingtons to accommodate the odd cover. “I’m sicker than a dog…going home…good luck,” she said before taking her cute Blossom look out the door. I eased into my post and enjoyed the avant garde melodious jazz coming from the band and imagined myself in a larger city’s black laminate past—especially when they did their exquisite take on Grover Washington’s Mr. Magic. The $7 cover requires higher math skills and surgeon dexterity to extract change for the 20’s and 10’s. Even the patrons fumbled a bit, like the jazz-woman who gave me a five and two singles. When I discovered that one of her singles was a ten, I chased her down to correct her overpay. She was surprised. When did honesty become surprising? The karma of my honesty was repaid by another customer who surprised me with a $5 tip—a sweet woman, indeed.  In this what’s-wrong-with-this-picture night, there appeared to be plenty that was right.