A couple visiting our city had received a couple of recommendations to visit the jazz club. They’re familiar with top tier venues, so comparisons would be made. As The Doorman, I was confident our venue would stack up and the quintet playing had its A-team players. I knew they’d be blown away… and they were. The club had filled. It was standing room only. There were a fair number of couples and a couple groups of women. I didn’t notice the usual lone wolves except for old Doc, whose love of jazz brings him to the club from his independent living home with his walker. Unfortunately, Doc’s now in a wheelchair so it’s more of a hassle to hoist him up the one step – the drunk-test step. I call it that because those that have drunk too much seem to falter a bit either coming in or leaving on that one darn step. We got Doc in and situated. Then filling the door was the Big-Foot-Man from a few weeks ago. He’s a massive guy with a Grand Canyon deep and full voice. “HOW’S MY MAN!,” he said with the force to move a concrete retaining wall. I’m glad he’s friendly. I’m glad he’s happy, I’m glad he likes me. It would take more than a hippo tranquilizer to slow this guy down if he charged. I got him and his lady situated at the corner of the bar. I gave them a few minutes before I walked toward them to see how they’re doing. He bellowed out, “THAT’S MY MAN—THAT’S MY DOOR MAN” which literally knocked the horns that were at full tilt in the midst of Horace Silver’s Filthy McNasty down to the level of a couple of kazoos.