The Doorman’s Diary: 9.17-18.11

He pushed past with sweat-sheen flush face and a wild look in his eyes, like a housecat with a crinkle-ball toy in his sight. Solidly 30’s, 40-something, he had prey in mind. It was very late in the night—minutes before I’d be nursing a B&B cognac and enjoying the jazz quintet’s best playing and final songs. He was quickly scanning the club while I was assessing whether to let him in—no $5 cover--or charge him 20 bucks to scare him away (or make it worthwhile to deal with his sorry butt later). “78% men,” was what he said before spinning on his heels and leaving. The club owner, who had been standing beside me in the soft yellow glow of the entryway’s light while we enjoyed each other’s quiet company, deadpanned “A little late for a hook up?”  No shit Sherlock, was my response, no shit. I went outside to fold up the LIVE JAZZ & BLUES sandwich sign, which I tucked inside the front door. I paused at my post for a final review of the remaining jazz lovers and dang if that guy wasn’t dead on: 22% of the remaining crowd were women… 78% men.