I felt trepidation about manning the jazz club door tonight. There would be a super moon—a full one of rare size and beauty. Full moons bring out the loonies and all it takes is a couple of moon-pumped lunatics to ruin a relaxing night of jazz. The night started out slow which gave me time to chat with a customer sitting at the bar closest to the door. He fills ATMs with cash and earns money from the transaction fees. He’s got 400 locations and a half-dozen trucks driven by hired heavies who can stock a machine with $30,000 to $120,000 in about 30 seconds. Learned that he goes through $1.7 million during the run of the State Fair. Apparently folks who like farm animals and cream puffs run out of cash quickly and frequently. As the band did their version of Freddie Hubbard’s Super Blue (maybe in honor of the Super Moon), a group of twenty-somethings were at the door fumbling for the cover charge. I waved them in and said, “I remember being your age and never having enough money.” They were appreciative. About a half-hour later I notice that one of them had wandered in among the tables in front. A friend grabs the wanderer by the shoulder and drags him out toward the door where it was clear the wobbling chump was sauced. The friend says to me, “Sorry, I’m taking him home—he’s had too much. He’ll be hitting on any female—pre-teen to near death.” I scanned the crowded club for other trouble and couldn’t detect any. Lots of couples—straight and gay—enjoying the jazz. No looney tunes. Then, at the door was a guy in a hooded sweatshirt—hood up. I let him in and he revealed himself—the drunk schmuck. I’ve learned that drunk people generally just want respect, so I respectfully said, “I hope you can help me out, we’ve got a problem. You’ve been cut off, you won’t be served. Your friends are gone and I don’t want you wandering around the neighborhood alone.” He looked at me and said, “Were you ever in the Marines?” Must be my big shoulders and my tough-guy demeanour (which is transparent as a sham to anyone sober, but this guy wasn’t sober). “No,” I said with authority, “I’m a certified draft dodger.” We did a knuckle bump and I learned that he’s in the Marines, as are his two brothers—their mom was career army and raised them like a drill sargeant. Clearly, the poor guy has issues. To top it, he ships out in a couple of days for Special Ops training and will likely end up in North Korea. (Geeze, the poor guy wants to out-do his brothers and earn his mamma’s respect.). I wanted to say, “You want to show your brothers up and make your mother proud, don’t you.” Instead, I said “Man, I’ve got a lot of respect for you.”
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