As The Doorman at the jazz club I am seen differently by
different people. To some, I am the welcome at the door. Others see me as a
pan-handling filter collecting the door charge. And for many I am no different
than an animated manikin to be overlooked and ignored.
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They
continue with their backseat-of-daddy's-car-parked-in-a-dark-parkway writhing
and slobbering antics as the club continues to fill. Jazz patrons gingerly
walk a wide arc around them. I didn't know whether I need to shine my 5-battery
Maglite 17-inch police flashlight in their faces and bark "TIME TO MOVE
ON" or what... Meanwhile a large man tries to avoid their passion aura and bumps into a small ornate table near me sending a couple of drinks, a candy
dish, a candle, and neat pile of cocktail napkins the waitress pulls from when
seating guests flying into our reception-area bench seat.
While I'm busy cleaning up the mess, the near-coupling couple slips out of the club leaving unfinished drinks and her red faux-leather handbag on the bar. Clearly, they are in a rush to get to the alley out back or a dark parkway or a sleazy motel room with its coin-fed vibrating bed.
While I'm busy cleaning up the mess, the near-coupling couple slips out of the club leaving unfinished drinks and her red faux-leather handbag on the bar. Clearly, they are in a rush to get to the alley out back or a dark parkway or a sleazy motel room with its coin-fed vibrating bed.
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