The Doorman's Diary 3.22.13

The bartender opens early, so when I arrive it is common to walk into the club with patrons scattered around the bar. A solid couple is there and a group of four further down. A tall bearded man stands trying to monopolize the bartender's attention. He speaks at a volume level slightly higher than the din, which makes me take notice. I look and he has the crazy eye. The tender says at a level matching his: "Here's The Doorman, he will BE collecting the door charge," while he arches an eyebrow. I could have been mean and said, "Is there something wrong with your eye?" Others filter in, but the pace is as relaxing as the jazz guitar quartet. They play John Scofield's "Cool" and it is cool. The drummer, keyboard, and bass add flourishes that match the guitar work. A pair of couples walk in lead by the boss, a dominating woman, who is fueled by alcohol. She hears cover charge and balks. She faux slaps my face but hits hard enough to make me instantly dislike her. One of the men hands me a Jackson to cover them. I was devising interesting ways to torture her when a customer walks past with the tip jar for the band. It's empty and she's making it her mission to fill it for the band. She approaches customers and asks them to toss a buck in for the band. I should have exerted Door authority, but I do what I do in cases where I'm witnessing the unbelievable....observe while thinking "is this for real or am imagining this?" I let her go. I stay at my post and enjoy their renditions of Take Five and Horace Silver's Song for My Father. I enjoy their versions and wonder what it might be like to be on the Great Lakes boat of the one visiting out-of-town couple who promise to float into town some day this summer. 

The Doorman’s Diary: 5.19.12

A warm night where air conditioning serves its purpose. But we were going without. Front door propped wide and windows open to the world. There was a strange vein coursing through the night. A guy with broken logic had beckoned me over and said, “I have a business proposition for you.” Nothing made sense. I excused myself and went back to the door. I was chatting with a cute young woman who had just moved to our city days ago with her boyfriend when I got the signal to go back to the troublesome guy because the owner was clearly having words with him. Now remember, I am The Doorman. I am not a bouncer, so my approach is to calmly convince, not bark orders. The owner was threatening to call the police. I put my hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on… let’s get you out of here before you’ve got cops doing a Rodney King with you.” He left. The bartender said I should have walked outside with him to make sure he moved on, but then the owner said don’t go outside, let him go and don’t touch people like that. The guy was on something – he wasn’t drunk or stoned on grass. I don’t know, nor do I have the interest to learn the typical behavior of the various street drugs. Fortunately these occurrences are rare. I may be at risk, but I got to handle things within my comfort zone.