My jazz club doorman duties click on 45 minutes before the first note is played. I arrived at the club expecting to relax a few moments with the bartender and the parking lot attendant. Instead, I entered to find a dozen customers Velcro-ed to the bar. I snagged my starter wedge of fives and began squeezing covers from the assembled. The guy sporting the dark-gray fedora said that he and his long-legged lady-friend will be leaving soon—“we started too early and have consumed too many martinis.” Ahhh, responsible. I collected from everyone else and assumed my post at the door where a steady influx immediately began. At 15 minutes into my shift, I counted $100—thus, 20 jazz lovers had entered. The club was filling and the bartender was efficiently pouring beers and wines, crushing maraschinos and orange slices in the bottom of Old Fashion drink glasses, shaking (not stirring) martinis. Even though things were solidly under his control, I texted the owner who was already en route. She jumped in when she arrived, thankful to have received the heads up. Before long the band launched into its first song and the place was packed with good folks. One delightful couple ordered a fun mixed drink that will be my favorite for a spell. Tastes like Dr. Pepper: generous thirds of vodka and amaretto almond liqueur finished with Coca-cola. Yum. The crazy guy pushing a wheelchair like a walker entered and while struggling to get into the door said “Yeah, I know it’s five bucks… I’ve got it.” Nice to know he could be trained. I’m hard on the weasel guy, because he’ll sit there most of the night and drink water, so on a busy night like this, he’s got to pay or get his dramatic ass on his way.
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