When I arrived for the night’s doorman duty the bartender was seated at the far end of the bar chatting to a little old lady (and I use that description aptly since she was diminutive in size, elderly, and a lady). As I walked the length of the bar toward them I appreciated the gleam of a clean counter and the glow from the candle lamps, which are spaced apart every few feet. Some little old ladies have the demeanors of Chihuahuas, and such was the case here. “Who ARE you? Are you a musician?” she barked. Keeping my hands far away from her mouth, so as to not be bit, I said, “No ma’am, I’m The Doorman here at the jazz club.” She cackle-laughed, like it was 1958 and Dean Martin had delivered a one-liner on stage at the Stardust. “You’re The Doorman, heh?” Her beady yap-dog eyes looked me up and down. Great, I thought, dressed down by a Medicare recipient with an attitude. It took me a few moments to regain my game. I signaled the barkeep for a conference: “Listen, this old lady is pure evil – you’ve got to get this she-devil out of here.” Yes, I admit, I was concerned. The last thing I need is someone who can look through my polished façade and see the real me. It’s like sitting at the adult family table for the first time and having the mean-witch-aunt stare at you while thinking loud enough so that everyone can hear, “You don’t belong here…go back to the card table in the corner with all the other children.”
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