Its fan, however, usually come in the same form — ready to get fucked up.

Maybe it’s the boots, or the flannel, or the low cut tops and the fringe, or just the idolization of the whiskey slinging lyrics, country music fans want to party like the best of them.

Except they can’t. And never have.

Because country music fans (and frankly most Nashville based artists) are full-on posers.

Oh, you have “Southern Pride” in Michigan? We’re more north than all of island of Manhattan. I think people forget that. I described last night’s show to my aunt as “country music made by people who actually lived in places you need cowboy hats.” Last night’s performer was from Oklahoma, and we had a band from Lubbock, Texas a couple weeks ago.

They have country cred. Our country folk? Fantasy camp cowboys.

Don’t believe me? I’ve got proof.

So, when I see hundreds or thousands of country music fans stroll through doors I just know the following:

• Fake IDs aplenty

• Somebody snuck in a flask where you’d otherwise not put your mouth

• The floor will get wetter than Sea World in a hurricane

• A teenager pregamed with Twisted Tea in the parking lot

• A man will lose one of his boots

• A woman will lose her phone

• 5% of the audience won’t make the headliner

• There’s a couple way too old to be making out in the front row

• We’re kicking out at least a half dozen minors for drinking

• And someone wants to fight

This pattern of behavior all stems from trying to be a character in the songs they love. They want the new truck or the old truck, the trad wife and the picket fence, the ability to guzzle whiskey by the gallon and sip tequila til sunrise.

They can do none of those things. Well, probably the old truck thing. But the rest is for the real country boys and girls. The below-the-bible belters and cattle ranchers of the Old West. In other words, the TV show Yellowstone* has ruined America.

*I have watched Yellowstone, my favorite character is Teeter.

All Hat

Flatland Cavalry falls into that Americana vein of country music. A little slower, some fiddle, dress up to get down flavor. The Lubbock based band came through Grand Rapids for the second time, this one to quite a bit more fanfare.

I worked their first show here in 2023, and boy the difference 18 months makes. This year’s show was by far more lively, halter tops, more fringe, more people doing dumb shit so early in the evening.

I was fighting back yawns last year. This year I was fighting back the smell of the man I was walking up to, who had just vomited on the floor and the trash bin.

And now into his crisp and clean black cowboy hat.

I approached with caution. After all, it was early, 4 minutes into the opener’s set. The top of the second song.

I asked the guy if he wanted to get checked out by the EMT. Being so early, I immediately went to medical emergency rather than over stimulation. He declined.

Not exactly.

He told me he’d “walk it off and be fine.”

I reiterated that if he chose to do so, he’d be walking it off outside and would miss the rest of the show. The endless night ahead of us. He declined again, soup bowl of inner human stew Stetson in hand.

Some venues really care about the wellbeing of their patrons. The customer experience is paramount to putting on a great show. Part of this experience includes warm food or expanded restrooms, water stations, comfy seats, or overhead heating units outside the front doors to welcome you to a cozier environment.

If someone refuses help, there’s not much you can do.

Once our man walked it off through the lobby, outside the doors, and away from the heating vents, he got a little chillier than expected.

So, he put his hat back on.

No Cattle

Josh Meloy in on the more authentic side of red dirt country.

I must admit, his fans were mostly chill. Sure, there were a few drunk dads who got a little out of control. But out of control in a “throw my back out dancing” way and not “trying to fight the world” kinda way.

And then there was the crew.

One of our front door security warned me of a crew, two “adults” and four minors that just came in and beelined for the barricade. Each of-ager had two drinks in hand and the minors mysteriously went without.

Sure, I’ll monitor them. Who would be dumb enough to drink as a minor at the barricade?

It almost writes itself!

The smallest of the crew, a fire-haired girl in rusty fringe and big flared jeans was chugging her Modelo not five feet in front of me. Duty calls.

It took me less than a minute to reach them (5 minutes into this opener) and motioned for them to come talk with me.

“She’s gotta go, and you, too for giving it to her?”
”Do you have it on video?”
”We probably do, but she definitely does,” I said, pointing to her Snapchat that was literally recording every sip.

Red got the hint and made her way out of the crowd. The boyfriend was a human Pit Mix, a mop of hair, flannel and denim shrouding his 250-plus pounds. As he walked ahead of me, he turned and asked for a refund. “She won’t do it again,” he said. Sir, she wasn’t as much of the problem as you are, and she knows this, as she’s leaving faster than you.

As I declined to comment, Pit made an about face, puffed his chest and rammed his head straight into my chest (he was approximately 5-foot-7, 5-9 in his cowboy boots). I shouldn’t have been so surprised, but soon it was on and I was doing my best 18-year-old lineman moves until Pit dropped to the floor and hugged my leg like a toddler. Then he twisted it.

After going through months of surgery recovery, my chances of wriggling out of this were slim, so I went into the twist and tumbled to the floor.

Never a proud moment when a smaller man takes you down, but sometimes it’s unavoidable. Still doesn’t sit right.

Anywhooo…I had help. [I may edit to insert names and details later upon approval later] but we eventually got Pit off the ground, each suffering some scrapes, bruises, broken glasses, and a fat lip. Tussling with an overweight infant throwing elbows from the floor will never be quick and easy, but we managed.

After we put him out on the street, Red shouts at us for his hat.

His hat? You’re lucky cops weren’t called.

A few beats go by and they’re more vocal about the hat. If this gets them to leave, so be it. I fish the hat out from the trash (not sure how it got there…) and frisbee toss it in his general direction.

“Oh, real mature!” said Red, the woman we just kicked out for underage drinking.

Country music fans from Michigan getting ejected during the opener.

All hat, no cattle.

I’m squarely looking at you, Gen Xers.

I Hate Marshmallows

Years and years ago, in a balmy summer quite like this one, my dad gave me a big bag of marshmallows and let me eat them and run around to my heart’s desire. My stomach’s desire wasn’t quite up to speed as my other internal systems.

To say I annihilated the bathroom would be an understatement. In my childhood imagination, the bathroom looked like the liquified destruction of the Stay Puft man at the end of Ghostbusters.

I have yet to eat a “normal” marshmallow since. Swiss Miss marshmallows? OK, but not preferred. Lucky Charms? they get a pass. The fluff? Not a chance. Same goes for S’Mores and Rocky Road. Can’t do it.

Knowing this tragic backstory, imagine my horror when dozens of marshmallow rain down near me at the conclusion of Breakaway 2024.

Marshmello is a popular DJ whose fans often wear his … helmet? But not simply the general public. It’s mostly kids. Do kids belong at Breakaway? Debatable, as the surrounding people are often nice, though inconsiderate of personal space. Crowds can pack themselves tight near the barricade, and kids more often than not are mushed, forced to either go on shoulders or down by legs, and neither are great options.

In between the barrage of puffy missiles, a woman gesticulated wildly at security to help her son. Her son, dressed in a self-decorated blue Marshmello shirt and plastic Mello mask, needed help out of the crowd. Her exact words were, “help him, he needs to get out. It’s an emergency.”

Alright, we’ll get him out, but somebody needs to come with him.

The woman reluctantly agreed.

As we were crossing the barricade alley, the woman slowed, but we sped up. Then out came the phone.

Understanding the moment, I picked up the kid and hurried for the end of the alley, away from view of the stage. An emergency is an emergency. It’s a magic word that means don’t betray our trust by trying to get video of your kid blurredly moving 9 feet below his favorite DJ.

But she didn’t see it that way. How do I know?

She tried to abandon the boy with us.

Once I crossed the speakers and let the kid down, the woman tried to run back to her spot on the barricade line while shouting, “He’s 8 years old, take good care of him!”. We grabbed her by the arm and spun her around back to the boy.

Upon reaching the end of the alley near the gate to the GA field, the woman asks why we did that. Why? you said “emergency” with a kid in a crowd of thousands. That means get him the fuck out out of there like your ass is on fire.

Twenty minutes later, a man motioned us over, “where’s my son?”

What do you mean?

“He’s with the woman who asked us to get him out.”
“YOU LOST MY SON? HE’S 12 YEARS OLD!”

I thought he was about to go full Mel Gibson in Ransom before I spotted them a hundred feet behind him in the crowd. “They’re coming back around,” I said. “But maybe you should talk to the woman before getting mad at us.”

The kid looked more 8 than 12 and didn’t seem to mind that he was continually handed from one adult to the next.

All of this was in pursuit of a photo of mini Mello with Marshmello prime. Which, if they were all patient, happens naturally after the show. Not haphazardly during a false emergency ploy. Yes, the boy got his photo, but he’s going to have a rough life if those were indeed his parents.

What That Mouth Do

Adults love to use the phrase, “use your words,” when talking to children about conflict resolution. It’s sage advice because you really can talk down a tense situation.

But the phrase isn’t, “use your mouth,” because that typically is construed as a sexual overture. Then there’s the much less used, “use your teeth,” which does nothing for conflict resolution, is definitely already rule 34’d, and shouldn’t ever be used as a preemptive striking option at an indie rock show.

Speedy Ortiz, the opener, was amid their set when they suddenly stopped the show. A ruckus broke out near the barricade and a woman was beside herself accusing a much larger man of punching her in the face. The crowd pointed toward three men in new band tees and a 50-year-old woman in a brown leather jacket.

We needed her to come to the lobby for a chat as we do for all patrons. She refused. Wouldn’t budge. “He punched me, a woman, in the face!” The man did not disagree.

Men really don’t confess to hitting women in public (or private).

And women rarely try to slap people’s drinks out of their hands for looking at them. Or claim a bewildered stranger is their boyfriend as a shield from further questions.

Something hinky is going on here.

The woman was ejected for slapping the drink. The men? One left on his own, one was ejected but later allowed re-entry after we confirmed details.

What was the third man’s excuse for hitting this woman? We hashed it out in front of the merch stand.

“She said you hit her in the face? And you told us you did. What happened?”

He lifted his shirt sleeve.

She bit him.

She bit all three of them.

In the arm. Hard.

For standing in front of her at a concert that was half capacity, during the opener.

After the show, I talked to the lead biting victim. He couldn’t believe it, his friends couldn’t, the third person unrelated to his group was in the same boat. “Who bites people,” he asked. I couldn’t answer. Thankfully, she didn’t break the skin, but she left her mark.

And a stain upon the earth.

Ground and Pound Rules

As I was checking the man’s bite mark, a coworker walked by, equally astonished as I was that was at the show. He admitted he hardly sees shows, and the two he has gone to this year, I was working. Each at a different venue.

After I dealt with the aftermath of the rabid cougar, I scoped the crowd for him. He was sat on the opposite side VIP section that would become the arena for the next knock-down drag-out brawl.

Five minutes after our pleasantries, two VIP tables alike in dignity erupted in grudge and mutiny to claim two great warring factions, the head of each thrown asunder arse over tit.

Apologies, American reader. My colleague is from across the pond, so I was attempting to use more upmarket language.

Two drunk idiots — one short one tall — in adjacent VIP tables decided to fight each other until both of them fell down. The shorter captured the taller in a headlock. Once locked, the taller man tried to regain footing and accidentally and absurdly flicked off his shoes in the crowd below while his wife screamed about his broken glasses.

Ma’am, your husband lost his shoes in a fight and is about to get kicked out. If I lost my shoes while fighting, I’d have to move to a non-extradition country because I “silenced” everyone around me who witnessed said public embarrassment.

Too Big. Too Old. Too Tired for This Shit

Moshing is a perfectly fine way to let loose and release negative energy during a show that warrants moshing. I thought this was common knowledge among music fans that you don’t mosh to indie rock, especially when the average age is nearing 50.

Armed with this common knowledge, a man near my size, though he may have weighed a touch more, barging into an unprepared cluster of petite women is grounds for immediate removal from said crowd. Read the room, read the people, read the music you’ve been listening to for 20 years.

Dance to your heart’s content, but don’t try to shove the 90-pound woman sipping on her G&T into the next century. Moshing requires a give and take. It’s not an invitation to total obliteration.

I escorted the ungentle giant out of the main floor, arm around shoulders to restrict any violent twists. He responded in kind by cupping my right hip. When I dipped, he dipped, we dipped.

Then I told security if he stood up from his timeout corner he’d dip right out of the building. Didn’t last 30 seconds. For misbehaving, Millennials and Gen Z still take the cake, but their poor social performances were baked by their shitty parents.

To clear things up, yes, I let the man who punched the woman who bit him stay for the rest of the show.

Using self defense in that manner is completely justified. If you disagree, come find me and I’ll ask a stranger of the opposite sex bite you at a random time of their choosing and expect you to do nothing.

No, I mean aping the mannerisms of a child caught doing the wrong thing — shutting down, crying instead of listening, blaming someone else who isn’t even remotely responsible.

I recently worked the Breakaway Music Festival. It was a fun two days of music I mostly tolerate and people watching. Oh, the people watching. EDM festivals are like Renaissance Faires if history played out exactly like Bill & Ted’s Excellent Adventure & Bogus Journey.

The most immature individuals attempted to either sneak alcohol into the field or jump a fence. The boozehounds did it comically. I saw bottles strapped to abdomens like cash in a heist movie, resealable bags of liquor hidden in boots — underneath the feet — and hidden in “super secret” pockets near the inner thigh. I saw more on Day 2 than Night 1, which is gross because there’s not one mouth source for those bottles or bags that wasn’t sweat-saturated in the 90-degree heat.

If I got there in time, I made them pour it out, or they’d slam it in front of me like some big power play. It looks childish. Good luck with your UV Blue hangover tomorrow.

The fence jumpers on Night 1 were actually pretty chill, jumping from VIP to GA instead of the more normal route. Was GA more crowded? You bet. But the sight lines were admittedly better. VIP simply means fewer people and nicer bathrooms.

On Day 2, the jumpers turned violent.

While the front barricade dealt with a sucker-punched guest, I had three hoppers. Hopper 1 stood and looked at me as if I was the problem. Staring blankly up at me asking why he was singled out.

“You jumped right in front of me.”
”But… like yeah. I don’t know what you want.”
"Go back," I said, motioning to the VIP entry/exit..
”But I belong here.”
”No, you don’t. You have no wristband, no lanyard, no common sense.”

He was also wearing a bright green shirt and a pink bucket hat. Despite being able to jump over the fence — twice — he rested from exhaustion on the other side. As I was crossing in interior gate H1 sped off, his pink hat bobbing up and down through the crowd. I caught up to him less than 20 seconds later.

“How’d you find me?”

One of the mysteries of the universe.

Hopper 2 pushed back immediately after he landed on me. Dude, you’re even easier to spot than the last guy. H2 tried to shove me and run, so I picked him up and threw him over the gate in which he came. After the final set, a radio station guy said, “I’ve never seen someone just pick up another person like that.”

Well, read the blog it happens fairly often.

Hopper 3 looked like he wanted to fight. He ran right at me, then hopped the bike rack into VIP at the last second.

And instantaneously ate shit. He got a shoe caught in one slot and went hard into the earth. I grabbed onto some of his shirt to corral him back, but he wriggled free. He raced off after shimmying his head and arms out of their holes.

Left with a handful of cloth and a mouth open, I tossed the aloha shirt behind me and darted after him. He experienced the “joys” of Porter Robinson’s DJ set for approximately 40 seconds.

Not everyone was so physically hostile.

There was one gap in the gate line — the swinging door panel that lets production, police, security, and exhausted festival goers in and out of the alleyway. If you’re bold enough and nobody was around or leaning on it, this was your access point.

It’s not a great access point because someone (me) was in the alleyway from the early hours until show end. If I wasn’t, team patrolled the area every few minutes.

This man was easy to spot. No badges, no bands, no lanyards. Hanging over the bike rack, staring away from the stage. I walked up and asked him where his wristbands were.

“I’m allergic.”
”To what?”
”I can’t wear anything. I’m allergic.”

He was wearing a tan button down shirt, a beige crusher hat, black thick-rimmed glasses, corduroy shorts, socks, and shoes.

“Well, what about a lanyard?
”I’m allergic to that, too.”

Amazing.

“OK. What about your ticket? Show me your ticket and I won’t have to come and talk to you ever again.”

The man was already holding several items. He had a cocktail, a Red Bull, and a phone. This being 2023, his ticket could easily be brought up on his phone.

That was already in his hand.

No, no. Too easy. Let’s put the phone in my cocktail and Red Bull hand, he thought, to search the fanny pack to fool this tall dumb security guard.

You know who can hold hold multiple things in one hand? Servers and multi-tasking women in a hurry who forgot their purse. End of list.

Not short and stocky men dressed like Jack Black from Jumanji suffering under this heat.

The phone changed hands, then out came the cocktail, down went the Red Bul and phone. He threw his arms up to the hevans in disgust.

“Oh great, look what you made me do!”

Then he picked up his phone and stormed off in a huff.

Children.

Some of these stories, however, do have a connection: over-privileged older white women.

The most thin-skinned animal on the planet. Loud enough to get others to try and fight for them, but too afraid to actually step in and get their hands dirty. You just know that first shove on the dock guard was precipitated by the drunk mom leaning over and saying, “Billy, you gotta protect our boat!”

That woman and the following must be cousins.

Groupie Grumps

Where are these people living that “I’m with the band” still works in a post-COVID world? You need passes, badgers, stickies, laminates, escort privileges, guest lists, and then you might be allowed to the ultra exclusive…waiting room with a Red Bull cooler. Or backstage.

Which if you’ve seen backstage areas indoors, it sounds a lot cooler than it is. There’s a reason we put up pipe and drape. It’s just wires and containers in dark spaces. You really can’t see the crowd. You have to be really into sweaty clothed butts to want backstage passes.

A group of women, over-served and over-tanned, started a fight out front out front because they were still living in 1979 — when “I’m with the band” worked for what I can only assume was cocaine and quaaludes.

So, I have to back up. Yes, they were actually with the band.

Which band you ask? Someone cool like a mega headliner national touring act?

Or maybe the moms of an up-and-comer?

Surely it must be someone noteworthy to throw hands with college co-eds on a Saturday night.

Yes, they were with the band.

The backing band. Of the first opener. Of a non-sellout show in the venue’s third smallest room.

And these women had the caucacity to sneak past one of the largest humans in any given area.

But I wasn’t the one who was angry. No, that rage belonged to the women at the front of the line. At first, I had to talk down the co-ed HBIC from attacking me, thinking I would just roll over for these California Raisins. After some assurances, the HBIC lashed out and started a verbal beatdown, or so she thought.

Listen, these women haven’t worn ear plugs to a show in over 40 years. They didn’t hear a damn thing you said. Their morning hairdryer also spews more hot air than you ever could.

Sensing a loss of her precious space at the front of the line, the HBIC laid a hockey check into a Raisin.

It was like seeing a toddler play with am inflatable clown — it looked cool for a hot second before the clown beats you back.

The Raisins and Co-eds are now pushing and shoving by the entryway. My entryway. By the time I saw a hand stretch out for a glob of hair I yelled for the crowd to stop or none of them would get in.

Remember the no ear plugs comment I just made? Yeah, I should’ve known better, too. Nobody stopped doing a damn thing. More hair than I was able to grow in Covid was pulled in such a short amount of time, though still much less than the aftermath of a Lil Baby show I worked.

A band member rushed outside and tried to vouch for the Raisins to no avail. He said he’d even go inside and grab some cash.

I never saw him again.

I finally stepped in because as “hot” as the layperson would think six women fighting is, it’s never like in Stripes or Old School. If anything it more or less plays out like the dress scene in Bridesmaids.

Yelling. Screaming. Spewing bodily fluids. And some poor woman ends up in the street.

The Raisins lingered a few more minutes more until the adrenaline wore off. One of them received a moment of post-hair-pulling clarity — either get beat down again by a much younger generation, or go to another bar to be someone else’s problem. They walked down the sidewalk and hailed a cab.

And by that I mean they yelled at a passing Uber driver until he relented for $20 cash.

No, I didn’t let the women at the front of the line in, either.

Because where’s a folding chair when you need one?

But this night.

Man, this night, well over a year ago…

We had 9 fights.

And that’s a lot of intricate writing to wrap my head around.

They all exist up there in the ol’ noggin, but contextualizing everything is pretty difficult.

To add some context, there were a few petty scuffles. A poking match. Full-on fights inside, then more fights featuring those fighters outside, but not against the same people they fought inside. Then two passers-by got into fights outside with the people we kicked out, and finally one guy volunteered to fight someone we didn’t let in but didn’t leave our stoop until he was arrested several hours later.

I’m the “make it make sense” guy and that is exactly why this night has been stuck in the drafts folder for so long.

I wrote about one of the fights, then deleted it because it just wasn’t good enough.

Then tried to finish them all at once. That was a month ago.

So, we’re going back to the piece-by-piece model. First up…

Hypoglycemia Dude

This is a fight warmup. It’s not one of the nine, but it might have been. On us.

Hypoglycemic people needs a boost of sugar to feel good and normal, however, there’s a weird line in the sand where hypoglycemia looks like public drunkenness.

We stopped the bachelor party at the door, telling them we wouldn’t let the friend in because he’s had too much.

They replied he just needs sugar.

“OK, well, there’s a gas station down the hill. Get him a Honey Bun or a candy bar, but he can’t come in the bar looking (wasted).”
“Dude, what the fuck? He has a serious medical condition!”

An overreaction if I’ve ever heard one, but go on.

“Just give him some sugar,” said someone in the group with the tone implying I had sugar, but was refusing to give it to their friend.
”Gas station, down there,” I pointed. “Candy bar, Honey Buns, Little Debbie, whatever. But he’s not coming in looking like that.”
”Fuck you guys, he’s just having an episode. Go inside and give him a doughnut!”
”What, in the Lord Almighty’s Name makes you think we have doughnuts?”
”GET HIM A FUCKING CANDY BAR THEN!”
“What do you think we do here?!?”

It really felt like I was about to fight four dudes over a baked good we definitely didn’t have.

Oh, yeah. The dive bar bakery. That totally exists.*

I held firm because there’s nothing in the bar that would help him other than a soda, which we offered. He remarked that it needed to be eaten, for some reason.

“What do you think we have that we’re not letting you have?”
”He needs a fuckin’ candy bar!”

Tensions are rising, but I chuckled after that last quip. He said it like Adam Sandler yelling at McDonald’s employees asking for a Happy Meal in Big Daddy.

Eventually, the group settled down and I let half of them inside. The others escorted HD to the nearest convenience store. No, it wasn’t the gas station. That closed because they spent too much time arguing with me. This little group had to trek an extra half mile to find an open store.

A long while later — 40 minutes or so — HD came back with a spring in his step. Oh, he was just fine and dandy, standing upright, walking, talking like a normal busybody.

I asked what set him right.

“Honey Bun.”

Fuck you, go inside.

*Anyone have $500,000 to start a Dive Bar Bakery?

But I did leave, and I made a pretty big stink about it. Even gave myself a retirement party. Well, planned a retirement party. Due to some unfortunate and unforeseen circumstances, I have to return to the bar once in a while until something more permanent comes back.

So, in my sulking, you get a few more bars stories, because you guessed it, people were still being dumb in public.

ID No. 1,029

I almost felt sorry for her. Like, what are the odds that the first fake I find was of an ID from my hometown? The last ID was a kid with the same first name, and now her? It’s not just bad luck for her and good fortune for me, it’s got a cosmic twang to it.

Like, there should be an incredibly long German word for double-sided luck after time spent away from one’s job.

Anyway, the girl with the Milwaukee address didn’t seem too fazed by it. It just leaves me at an awkward number. One away from 1,030, but now that I’m sort or working again, I don’t wan to be stuck in a weird limbo. Nobody wants almost the next set of digits. You want to be on an even plane, or right in the middle.

You want to win $50, not $49. You’d be OK with $45. If someone walked up to you and gave you $49, you’d ask why not $50. Same with IDs. I don’t like this 1,029 business.

I’ll just have to get more.

Victoria’s Secret (Is That She’s Dumb)

A young woman in a bright red bustier was kicked out at 1:35 am for yelling at a man who walked into the bar not five minutes before. Wow, I thought, she’s angry, what did this guy do?

He … goes to other places.

That’s it.

Let’s go back three weeks.

Victoria is 21 years old. She’s just starting to enjoy the nightlife with her friends at Bar S. Bar S is small and offers little to no actual privacy. You can see all the people on all the seats from every corner of the narrow hall. Victoria has a few friends and she spots a man ordering drinks for a few people. He notices her, she notices him.

Sparks aren’t flying, they’re just people who notice each other in a bar.

One week passes.

Victoria and her friends go back to Bar S, and the man arrives a short time later. Victoria realizes he’s the man from last week. The man also sees this and offers to buy Victoria and her friends a round.

The man is in his mid-30s and bar hops on the weekends. He is often with a woman, though I can’t remember if it’s the same woman.

Victoria and her friends accept the drinks and everyone talks for a while. The night ends.

Victoria heads back to Bar S the next night. The man is also there. Victoria is now unnerved. She walks up to the man and asks if he’s following her.

The man replies that he’s not, he just happens to frequent that bar, and many others. Because he’s a grown man in his 30s.

Victoria asks him to leave.

The 21-year old new drinker asks a man who was already at Bar S to leave.

Cut to last night. It’s 1:29 and the man (with a girlfriend in tow) arrive and narrowly miss the last call cutoff. While he’s at the bar, Victoria notices his and rushes toward, screaming and causing a scene.

Cue Marinara and the ejection.

She’s pretty irate but wants to fill me in on all the details. That’s what was above. She said it’s her first time at Bar T, so obviously the man was stalking her, like any man would do to someone like her. (read: a 21-year old dressed in lingerie when it’s 35 degrees outside.)

After explaining that, while the timing may ring an alarm to her, the man often comes to the bar between 1 and 2 am and has done so repeatedly for approximately 6 years. She was aghast. How dare I not believe a 21-year old who doesn’t own a jacket. A boyfriend or GBF walked up and handed her his coat, reiterating that the man was following them. I replied, “following you tonight, or you just went to the same bars in a 3-week span? Because if that’s the case, I’m stalking dozens of men and women as we speak.”

It would be one thing if Victoria kept seeing the man at every bar she went to, whenever she went out. That would be alarming. But what really happened was a new legal drinker discovered what “regulars” are, and that people can enjoy different spaces at socially common enjoyment times.

Yep. Now I feel like I’m back.

I tried to have a last day full of festivities. St. Patrick’s Day the night before, followed by “bar weekend St. Paddy’s Day” on the next night. Weather had other plans. We were busy during the day, but a blizzard knocked out what would have been an eventful night. A country show across the street was all we could hope for, but that didn’t lift up anyone’s spirits.

Even on a down last day, there were some bright spots. A few friends came by to say hello. Many of them unexpected.

I did increase my final ID total by three, including the last one whose name was Jonathan. A tad serendipitous, for me at least.

And this guy.

Napoleon’s Revenge

I do not know why Marinara kicked this gentleman out, but it was neither calm nor quiet. This man had to be picked up and carried out. Now, granted, Marinara is a sturdier guy, but not a towering presence, like I am.

And he still carried a man out of the bar. Was he shorter than most? Sure. But like 5-foot-7. Which, given today’s downward model of average height, is only a couple inches.

Hey, some of my favorite actors are right around that height. Bono, Kiefer Sutherland, Tom Cruise.

Short Kings, I think they’re being called. And there’s nothing wrong with that.

People always tell me it’s impressive that I’m this tall. No, not really. It’s impressive that people can create sculptures out of marble or make a video game. I just happened to be tall. I literally didn’t do anything other than eat a lot and sleep a lot. I also didn’t smoke or drink coffee, or some other old wives’ tale nonsense.

Being tall is not an accomplishment. Being tall and not turning out to be an asshole, however, definitely is.

But this story isn’t about me. Or is it?

After all, Marinara kicked Napoleon out. The height difference? Three inches, maybe four. Not staggering, by any means.

What was I doing? Standing outside, minding my own business, watching the snow dissipate (only to come back in full force several hours later).

Napoleon is angry. He’s huffing and puffing, threatening to fight everyone on the sidewalk.

Nobody is on the sidewalk, we’re all still on the patio.

He wants a fight to prove he’s the top dog. Nobody can push him around and get away with it. He points to Crash, “I’m going to kick your ass!”

Still not the one who kicked him out.

He rushes up to me, “I’m going to kick your ass!”

“I didn’t even kick you out,” I said. “What are you talking about?

Flustered, he angrily paced up and down the rail until his group came out to see what the holdup was. As more patrons came out, Marinara stepped back on the patio. Napoleon saw this and erupted.

His friend asked him why Napoleon got kicked out, before Marinara could speak, Napoleon shouted out into the night.

“I AM SICK AND TIRED OF TALL PEOPLE TELLING ME WHAT TO DO!”

Practically in tears, Napoleon kept wanting to prove his worth by challenging everyone to a fight. I wasn’t buying in, neither was Marinara nor Crash.

Napoleon walked up, pointed at my chest, and yelled, “fight me.” When I didn’t budge, he paced even harder.

“I’m gonna fight you (to Marinara)…and you (to Crash)…and…”

Finally, Pharaoh comes outside to see what’s going on. He’s tall, 6-3, black, with dreads and gold accoutrement. A real sweetheart most of the time. He strides outside hands up high on the hoodie, coming to check out why this small white boy was causing so much ruckus.

“you…no, no, not you.”

Talk about one of the quickest backtracks in history. Much like his historical counterpart at Waterloo, our Napoleon found himself directly in front of an enemy his subconscious sought immediate retreat from.

And we laughed, and laughed, and laughed.

Yes, diabetes can make you look and sound like a drunkard having too many at the bar. What having diabetes doesn’t mean, is getting too drunk at the bar, and then claiming you have a medial diagnosis to explain your dastardly behavior.

Chatty Cathy and her friends shouldn’t be drowning in Lemon Drops like there’s a citrus surplus if she needs a steady hand to inject her insulin later. Or get too off balance that she knocks off her insulin pump.

Or two friends clearly hold one up for balance. That one gets old. “That’s just how girls walk,” they say. “She has low blood sugar.”

No, she admitted to drinking three tequila shots and weighs 95 pounds. “But we had the same amount?” While that may be true, none of you weight 95 pounds, no offense. Or they’ll pair it with, “he’s way drunker than I am,” while pointing to another person also in your exact current state — wasted and refusing to understand logical arguments at 1:15 am. Hooray. Pot, meet kettle.

Marinara was attempting to kick out a woman for [insert disgusting carnage that happened in the women’s restroom] when she ran into a table like thrice divorced Matt Foley who lives in a van down by the river. Luckily for us, the structural integrity held and only a few barstools were harmed.

Princess Grace, meanwhile, stumbled as she rebounded from her fall but refused help from Marinara.

Her girlfriend finally made her way up and asked why she was being treated in such a way. Marinara said she was throwing up — a little here, a little there — and that it was time to go.

“So, you’re kicking her out because she has diabetes?”

Could you, theoretically throw up multiple times if you had diabetes? Yes. But what’s getting you there? Was it the shots?

Probably the shots, the bombs, and the cocktails. Sugar water that could be ignited.

Grace was bordering on incoherent, so her friend came up again to her defense, asking why her medical issues meant she was getting kicked out. Lady, if there’s any reason to get kicked out of a bar, throwing up and falling into a table unassisted are right up there, regardless of medical history.

Outside, Grace was even more aloof. We were looking out for her more than her friend at this point, as the friend just kept telling people she was being ejected for diabetes. We told her to call Grace an Uber and she told us she would and waved us off. Ten minutes later we found out that the phone she was holding wasn’t for car delivery, but rather to facetime her boyfriend to complain about her ordeal.

Her own ordeal.

The car finally arrived, but it wasn’t theirs. She ordered a silver sedan. She attempted to steal a man’s red crossover.

And he relented!

You can only shout, “that’s not gonna end well,” so many times before the door slams shut.

A Whale Tail of Time

Speaking of yelling, if you have to scream, “I just met him tonight,” to justify your proximity to a man about to get his ass beat, you can just leave him be. You don’t have to keep defending a bad date.

He wasn’t even her ride, but she stuck around.

What was the payoff, exactly? Is it a drug thing? I’m thinking it was a drug thing, because he was definitely on something. In the lead-up to getting his ass kicked he:

• Repeatedly left his drink unattended at the bar so frequently that Big Mac dumped it out and he had to buy a new one.

• Bounced around the room from person to person, chatting up people who weren’t the young girl with the whale tail and crop top.

• Called three guys in line the f-word that isn’t fuck just because they were wearing Kansas City Chiefs hats.

• Doubling down on the slur, replying, “this is a free country, I can call them f**** if I want to.”

And still this girl was like, “he’s bad … but …”

Yes, he’s bad. Not in a cool 50’s greaser/James Dean kind of way. More like when we all found out Armie Hammer was into cannibalism kink and a serial sexual abuser. Just because a guy seems normal for a split second, it’s OK to distance yourself when he yells, “people nowadays can’t take jokes anymore.”

Like, at that point it’s a given you know he said the n-word or something similar.

But thankfully they didn’t leave together.

I mean, all signs pointed to them ending up at the same destination, they probably just took separate cars to get downtown.

The Wrong Bar Foam

Beer foam = good. Foaming at the mouth = not so good.

If I’ve said it once … you get the idea. Pinballing is my favorite way to tell if someone isn’t handling being in public anymore. That and sleeping where you shouldn’t. And fighting.

Luckily this man succeeding in showcasing all three, and we still gave him a chance to call his ass down before he got himself into more trouble.

First, we witnessed the Little Rascal doze off, then when we startled him awake he rattled off the walls, patrons, and load-bearing columns. Finally, we thought a few minutes outside would do him some good. Get that crisp winter air in his lungs. Normally that snaps people to, but it made this guy angry. He started to lash out, sort of.

He played the dumbest possible version of “I’m not touching you” I’ve ever seen. He’d stand up, get in someone’s face — then later Crash and myself — and then claim some kind of constitutional right to privacy when they physically moved him back.

Yes, he claimed he had a constitutional right to get in someone’s business so long as he didn’t touch them.

Keeping the act afloat until he started to initiate contact, he was … handled before lashing out with wild swings that had less force than flicking a paper football.

His friend came out and asked why he got kicked out. I really just pointed to the fact that he was foaming at the mouth and trying to get people to hit him.

The friend hit us back with the classic, “but he’s with us,” and, “we have others inside, we’ll watch him.”

Oh, you’ll watch him? We didn’t know you existed until right now. It’s been 15 minutes and the bar is less than half full. Even by mistake you would have seen us escort him out.

But no, you’re trying to shame us in public like we should give a damn about horrible people simply because it’s cold outside. In Tom Segura’s words, why do I need to treat these TikToks — who have watched too many first amendment YouTube videos but hasn’t figured out that a lot of them are staged — better than people who aren’t actively trying to fight everyone?

Where’s My Mahomie?

You already get the idea that someone got kicked out. It’s the theme. Moving past that we now meet our heroes outside the bar. He’s fairly tall, scruffy, with a blue coat and a polo, muttering to himself and calling us, you guessed it, not fuckers.

In the span of three minutes he’s insulted each of us, our mothers, punched the light post, the bus stop sign, kicked the fence, and threatened to burn the place down.

Otherwise known as “one cool guy.”

As Cool Guy is pacing outside, his friend in a Patrick Mahomes jersey comes outside to his aid.

“Bro, why are you outside?”
”We kicked him out.”
”What? He’s only had one drink.”
”He’s had a lot more than that.”

The group of five or six walked up from another bar. Most were older, late 30s to early 40s. Strolling up in the cold has its benefits — for the inebriated. Cold weather creates shivering, rosy cheeks, runny noses, and frantic foot traffic that masks just how much alcohol is impacting your system.

Once they warm up to “room temperature” the veneer fades and they act their normal buzzed selves. Cool Guy was fresh off a Tall Boy Bud Light and at least one shot. That’s 3 drinks since arriving. One of those was his last one.

“So, you’re kicking him out over three drinks? Tons more people inside had three or four drinks.”
”Yeah, whatever the count was, it was one too many than he could handle.”
”Then kick out everyone that had four drinks,” he said as he crossed his arms like I was about to do something.

Disappointed that I wasn’t going to eject those who had exactly four drinks, Mahomes started accusing of the people coming in that they had fakes, and that we’ll kick out anyone who has exactly four or five drinks.

“Woah, it’s five drinks, now?” I asked. “Can’t wait to hear what the actual number is later.”
”Nah, you’re just messing with us. Let him back in for $10.”

First off, embarrassingly low. Second, not my first rodeo.*

A member of the group walks out to see what the hold up is, Mahomes says, “they kicked him out because he has diabetes!”

NO FUCKING WAY.

Out of nowhere. Didn’t see it coming. Wasn’t mentioned at all in the first one, two, three, four, or five drink count. Now this man has full-fledged Type 1 diabetes.

What are the odds?

Mahomes, seeing me in hysterics over the diabetes comment says that it’s not a laughing mater. I disagreed and proceeded to laugh even harder.

Once I caught my breath, Mahomes whips out his phone. He’s recording me and the bar. Asks for my name, I pull down my mask and give it.

“Yeah,” he says to Facebook or Instagram Live, “we out here, just minding our own business while my man got kicked out for having four drinks.”
”I thought it was five?”
”He’s not even that bad,” Mahomes says not acknowledging me nor his friend’s urgent medical condition.
”Yo, tell them that' you’re fine.”
”I’m actually pretty fuckin’ drunk right now, man,” Cool Guy said.

Total reversal. Love to see it. But he wasn’t done.

“No…no…they kicked you out though for no reason. Tell them how many drinks you had tonight.”
”I had like, six, seven…eight...” the Cool Guy said before his voice trailed off and he could add more drinks to his tally.

Mahomes stopped recording immediately and took his phone from face to pocket.

Seldom does the vindication come from two fronts.

*I have never been to a real rodeo, but I would love to know if they hand out certificates like baseball stadiums do to little kids for “baby’s first game.” I’d even love a tee shirt that says “My First Rodeo” with a timestamp on it in the style of a brand ‘flaming’ the shirt. I would pay upwards of $35.

Speaking of cowboy hats and clothing, my friend Maui visited a few times in the lead up to my retirement. He was talking to a woman on the patio about … something I wasn’t paying any attention to. The conversation paused and she told him, “thank you Mr. XL.”

Coming back to what was happening under my nose me, I said, “XL? He’s at least a 2X.”

Unbeknownst to me, the woman came up to Maui’s chest where all she could see was the logo on his vest.

Excel.

Right there in big, bold embroidery.

If those weekends are full of the batshit insane.

Read the Companion Piece — Small Potatoes: Part 1

These people didn’t even have the benefit of a full moon to mask their level of social ineptitude. What was on display was their unbridled selves — pure, unadulterated animosity for public decency.

I might miss these days when I’m gone.

Duke Over the Juke

Do you ever just want to punch someone in the face over the wrong song on the juke box?

Me, too.

But how many of us actually do it?

These guys.

There are two teams. Hockey bros and their Hinge hookups vs a menagerie of Mexican Americans. Just two groups fighting over music, like if West Side Story featured a bunch of guys in Van’s or Premier merch squaring off against people who have definitely said the n-word in their Snapchat.

What’s setting these people off so much? The hockey bros don’t like that Bad Bunny keeps playing and the Poser Posse just keeps loading money into the jukebox, taunting the bros as they do so.

Playground shit, basically.

And it’s not like the Hockey Bros thought to play something revolutionary. You could tell when their songs came on because it was tThe typical mix of “Tennessee Whiskey,” “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” and “Friends in Low Places.” Wow. So original. Totally worth fighting over.

I hear a commotion inside and see these two chirping. Lead Bro, Lemieux, has almost a foot on a young Michael Peña, and the pair won’t stop egging the other on until they almost come to blows inside.

I corral the two leads and bring them in close. I sternly tell each corner that if there’s any more talk between either member of either party, they all get kicked out. All 12 of them.

And you know what? They listened.

All parties involved didn’t come near each other for 45 minutes. The music played and nobody got into a fight.

Until…

Casanova Bossa Nova

Most people fall into two categories — lovers or fighters. What happens when you’re both? While our inside activity had reach a head, our outdoor activity was reaching its own … climax.

A friend of the bar was going through a difficult time. Needless to say he left in a state, came back in a worse state, and needed to get to somewhere warm as soon as fucking possible.

Just one problem with that, he didn’t have any money. No cash, no cards. Just a phone and his passport. I already know he’s not destitute, but he’s definitely a poor planner.

Oh, and he wanted to straight up murder anyone who was going to piss him off even more than he already was. Which, for a brief moment was me.

We tried to get Casanova an Uber or Lyft, which was already a task he lives far from downtown.

Having the apps help, too.

No Uber. No Lyft.

That’s fine. Everything’s fine.

He says a hotel will work. He’s done it before. Cool. Great. He gives me permission to look through his phone and order him a hotel. We have plenty of options. Embassy Suites? Too far to walk. Hyatt? Closer but up a moderate hill he wouldn’t be able to navigate. Hilton? Phew. This one is close.

One final step, what’s the back three numbers of his card? And yes, I already checked if there was auto-fill.

“I don’t have shit.”
”No, just the numbers. Do you remember the numbers?”
”I’m gonna murder them.”
”Can we solve one mystery at a time, please? What are the numbers on the back of literally any credit card you have?”
”I gotta get home. Give me my keys!”

Ahh, forgot to mention. He’s mad at me because I took his keys. And yes, I already checked if his money was in the car.

The phone isn’t much help without access to his cards. But wait, I’m sure someone will accept PayPayl, Venmo, or CashApp. Hell, I’ll settle for Apple Pay, Google Pay, or Zelle!

Casanova doesn’t have any of those.

What does he have? The fuckin’ Little Caesars App.

Shit.

Crash and I look at each other, helpless. Until Sunshine saves the day. He orders Casanova a decently expensive Uber ride out of the city. It just needs to hurry up and get here.

About ready to broke someone’s neck over … a grievance I will not share … Lemieux and Peña’s groups all spill out into the cold TWO MINUTES before Casanova’s Uber is set to arrive.

In those two minutes, Lemieux makes one final chirp at Peña that absolutely sets him off.

Just one issue. Lemieux didn’t have the rest of his lineup ready to pounce. Meanwhile, Peña had every able bodied man within 4 feet of him ready him to assemble like the goddamn Avengers in one of the quickest sidewalk attack teams I’ve ever seen.

Lemieux didn’t learn the lessons of street fighting outside the rink. You should only talk shit when you have A) the nerve to take it as strong as you give it, B) the fighting skills to back up any immediate repercussions, and C) knowledge that your friends will back you up.

Lemieux had none of these things.

When I say he got his ass kicked up and down the rail, I mean UP and DOWN the rail. North and South, East and West. Have you ever seen a man swarmed by other humans? It’s like World War Z. At one point Lemieux tripped and Peña’s Vengadores swiped his head along the fence like they were grating cheese.

Casanova, seeing the fight start, leaps out of his chair and gets an arm on Peña. I grab Casanova and throw him back down in the chair I put him in to wait for the car.

“Can you calm down for one fucking minute! You don’t even know them!”

He mumbles incoherently.

The Vengadores let up for a half second — because they ran out of rail — and Lemieux escapes across the street, but the Posse is hot on the trail. We hear two loud wallops from the parking lot followed by cars screeching out. Casanova’s Uber still hasn’t arrived.

A crying girl with a bloody plastic grocery bag pleads for help. We give her some towels and we send someone inside for water.

One of the Hockey Hinge girls asks me, “how could you let this happen?”

“They didn’t fight inside. The rest is street justice."

I wanted that to sound as cool as, “Forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown,” but it didn’t land.

And then everyone just … leaves. Like, all the people on the entire block. Casanova’s car arrives, the Vengadores rolled out. The Snapchat cinematographers either went to the next bar or back inside. Hockey Hinge squad picked up their boyfriends and are now nowhere to be found. It’s like everyone decided it was time for the next scene in the midnight special.

Midnight MeetCute

I think Crash and I got five minutes of relaxation before two women came up. One of them was in a black catsuit without pockets. Her friend had an oversized red hoodie, plenty of pockets, and was waging a contest against Post Malone to see who could tattoo their face faster.

It’s a toss up, frankly.

I should note that this evening happened on Valentine’s Day weekend. Turns out $80 worth of discount candy from the pharmacy can be split evenly between two nights, and people still aren’t happier.

A few even kept begging for candy in the weeks that followed. Candy for what, March 3rd?

The catsuit, Halle, so called because of her abysmal performance and not appearance, disrobed and left here friend in the weeds to see her other friends, who were inside already.

But were they her friends? Not really, no.

They were people she thought would come to her after party. Her birthday party. Her birthday party that doubled for the afterparty even though I would hardly call what was happening right now a party. The afterbirth party.

Wait….

Ew. No.

Apologies.

While Halle looked around for people she thought had money, drugs, connections, or a car, Crash and I were temporarily stuck with Malone, who had to stay there because even though she held all of Halle’s belonging’s, had none of her own. Like an ID.

Unless you’re Maori, I do think that if you’re old enough to tattoo your face you would also be old enough to have your ID. But I also think that if you tattooed your face, you should be doubly responsible for brining your ID so I can at the very least see the progress you’ve made between DMV photos.

This post isn’t to knock face tattoos. I know a few humans with visage visuals that I regard in high esteem, but this woman was not one of them.

Because she wouldn’t stop giving us shit for not letting her in.

In those first 15 minutes, both Crash and I were accused of:

• Having small dicks

• Having micro-penises

• Having no dicks

• Having no chicks (harsh but true)

• Being pedophiles

• Being date rapists

• Looking like Jeffrey Dahmer (Crash)

• Looking like Shrek (myself)

• Not being able to perform sexually

• Somehow being told the above was not in relation to insults one and two

Then Halle came back to try and get Malone to come inside. Turns out, she, too wanted to talk some major shit. Except here’s where it took a turn.

Not for the better. Just turning, like never leaving the roundabout once you enter.

To no avail, Halle tried everything to get Malone in, at one point snuggling up to Crash, even though he had a small dick. Which, at this point was a step up from his former eunuch self. I, on the otherhand, gave Malone a piece of chocolate to shut her up, thinking that if I was nice to my abuser things would stop.

But they don’t stop.

Instead they criss-crossed. Halle calling me names while Malone defended me as her boyfriend, and Malone negatively commentating on Crash’s anatomy while Halle invited him to her party.

This lasted for 20 more minutes.

And hardly anybody came into the goddamn bar. If it wasn’t the dead of winter I’m sure a tumbleweed would’ve rolled by. Those that did were greeted by the surliest woman they ever met and her noodley-dancing compatriot. In Malone’s eyes, every woman under 25 was a skank, ho, or minor, and all of the regulars we waved to were part of our Epstein-pedo ring.

Yet Crash was still invited to the party. I have to admit a touch of jealousy.

After 55 minutes of trying and failing to get into the bar, the dynamic duo left without so much as a word.

“Where’d my girlfriend go,” I asked Crash coming back from the bathroom.
”She left, finally.”
”So, you going to that party?”

I thought I saw Crash give it a nod, but that’s likely my eternal optimism clouding my memory. No, this wasn’t the fabled starstruck romance they talk about in movies. This was a prologue from a Rob Zombie flick we narrowly escaped.

Lavatory Story

Which leads us to these other fine, upstanding and dignified women.

The story goes, there’s a pervert recording someone in the women’s restroom.

Well, that’s the version I got, at least.

A distressed woman frantically searching for the door finds me outside. She says that someone is harassing her and recording her without permission. That’s serious, I say. Please tell me where they are.

We walk into the middle of a half-full bar and the aggrieved woman coyly hides behind her girlfriends.

“If you don’t tell me who it is, I can’t help you,” I said as I scanned the room.

Because I’m looking for a creepy guy who just stalked a woman in the bathroom.

Not a group of five women celebrating a birthday.

I motion the woman who came up to me to point out exactly who I should be looking for. While I’m doing this, the Birthday Girl BFF — the recordist — spots what’s going unfolding.

“Not this bitch again,” she says. “This woman keeps harassing us!”

Well, that flipped, didn’t it.

“You were recording me in the bathroom without my permission!”
”No,” the recordist said the other woman. “You wanted to be interviewed!”
”Play the tape, then!”

As they continued to shout over one another, Marinara runs up to me and informs me of the other side of the situation.

Was someone recording in the bathroom? Yes. They should be kicked out then, that’s weird. He says they’re already in the process of cashing out.

I go up to the recordist and ask her for her side. Yes, she is recording their group outing. Why? Still not sure. I asked if it was a TikTok thing because I’m down with the youth like that.

The Recordist gave me a non-answer and said a bartender already went into the bathroom and quashed it. Then the interviewee went up to Marinara to complain.

Indeed I was the third staff member she cried wolf to. Done with this part of the conversation, I walk up to the wolf cryer’s group and she tells me she feels unsafe.

“Understandable,” I said. “But you can’t just find everyone who works here to deal with a problem that’s already being solved.”
”You’re not making me feel safe! Why are you yelling at me!”

Huh?

”Not yelling. Just saying that the problem was being handled.”
”Then why am I being yelled at?”

Confused, I tried using the tact that saved me 45 minutes earlier in the night.

“Just don’t talk to each other. That group is paying their tab then leaving.”
”So, they get to stay and I’m being kicked out and yelled at because I feel UNSAFE?”
”Nobody is kicking you out, unless you confront them again or use one of my team to do it. They’re leaving, this is over.”

I went up to the birthday crew and went into the same spiel. Five women in total, two are still in the bathroom, three need to pay their tabs. This could take a few minutes. I bow my head in exhaustion when I notice a strange green light. At first my brain registers the lasers we use in the bar, but this is fixed.

It’s the microphone light. It’s clipped to her blouse, like a news anchor would have. It wasn’t put away or concealed like she told Marinara. It was still clipped and on during the entire course of the last few minutes.

SHE WAS RECORDING US THE WHOLE TIME.

Her response, “we’re not in the bathroom anymore.”

That’s not the point! You were asked to put it away, but you clearly didn’t. Now I’m on Cry Wolf’s side.

Except she’s a total Karen, so that feeling doesn’t last long. I’m hot, angry at humanity, and now I need some fresh air. I don’t care if it’s 22 degrees outside.

The birthday group leaves, followed immediately by Cry Wolf and her two friends, though she makes a beeline toward me.

“I need to speak to your manager, please.”
”About what?”
”About why I just got kicked out of your bar because I felt unsafe.”
”Nobody kicked you out,” I replied, looking around the patio in bewilderment.

Mr. Manager comes out, grumpy that this already long night is continuing to charm us, asks, “what do you want from this?”

As in, now that you’ve got my attention, what is it that the bar can do for you. People are seldom asked this, so we all wait on bated breath for Cry Wolf’s answer.

Cry Wolf started going into the whole deal from start to finish, but Mr. Manager cut her off.

“I’ve already heard that story four times now. I’m not hearing it again. What do you want?”
”I want to know why I got kicked out!”

BUT YOU WEREN’T.

“You just left on your own. Just now. That group (he points to women 30 feet away) got kicked out.”
”Then why was your man here yelling at me inside?”

She said that last part like she “got me,” and told her friend that we were in for a major lawsuit. After all, she had her “lawyer on speed dial.”

Yeah lady, they’re called smartphones. Everyone is on speed dial.

Mr. Manager and I threw our hands up and went back inside. That’s too many people being too fucking weird for their own good.

The Gentlemen

In true Pulp Fiction fashion, I saved the best for last, even though it happened near the start.

Three old men and two fresh-faced drinkers out on the town to celebrate a 21st birthday pile out of an Uber from a pizza-serving gastro-pub. They each crack a beer from said place’s to-go section and drink them on the sidewalk. Yeah. with a group like that you already know a woman was sexually harassed in the workplace.

And later, me.

Two of the three older men are shocked when they have to show IDs. They say they’re celebrating one of the kids’ 21st birthdays.

I feign interest as much as I can without displaying sarcasm and ask for the birthday boy’s ID.

You know, the thing that every fresh-faced 21-year-old patron proudly shows the bouncer to signify they can legally get shitfaced in a seemingly public forum.

Doesn’t have it.

Not the ID. Not the paper temp. Not even the futile birth certificate or drug screening receipt.

Just their word.

You know, if I went on everyone’s word I wouldn’t need to check anyone’s ID. It’s almost as if people literally don’t understand the concept of what IDs are. Do they just think people have them in case someone thinks you’re lying? Anyway, the three elders start barking that I’m a piece of shit and they were just at another bar.

Were they? Before the gastropub hard to tell. But I’ve been to that pizza joint and they almost certainly declined him. The beer he guzzled in the shrubs looked like the first one he had since leaving the house. A high ABV sour, he drank it fast without waiting for his neural network to properly gauge the acidity.

Without a paper, a passport, a license of any kind, or any other identifying document, the kid turned to his Instagram. Hey, I tell him, I’ve been in the same boat. I’ve lost or had my ID stolen twice. It’s difficult when you want to go out but need to wait until your new card shows up.

Will some places allow it? Sure. Will I? You already know the answer.

But the men kept trying.

First, they offered money.

“Ten bucks.”

Insulting.

“Fine, $20.”
”It’s not a money thing.”
”It’s always a money thing!”

Maybe I should look at his ID one more time. He sounds like a corrupt cop or politician on the take.

“He just needs the ID, or an old ID and the paper. Or the paper and literally any document or card with his name, face and date of birth on it.”
”What about a picture of his ID?”

This kills me. I see it way too often. People come up and say, “Yeah I just had my wallet stolen or my dog ate it but I conveniently took photos of every important government identifier yesterday.”

No. Just no. Just bring your stuff with you. Whatever age you are after you get your first ID is the multiplier from which I judge your stupidity at not having your ID on your person … while in an attempt to use it for an activity that requires it.

Walking the dog? Don’t need an ID.

Buying an ice cream cone? Don’t need an ID.

About to start drinking on your 21st birthday? Yes, for that you need your ID. I’m sorry, but that seems cut and dry.

Dad wasn’t having it.

“So a picture of his ID won’t do anything?”
”No, he’s got to have it with him.”
”Not even for $100?”
”No,” I said reading their hostility. “At this point I don’t think we’re the place for you.

I kept my hands in my pockets, showing great restraint as the dad kept inching closer. He wasn’t a small man, standing firm at 6-foot-3 and around 225 pounds.

He saw a group walk in, all show their IDs, claim a few were fakes.

I thought to myself, “we were taking everyone’s word for it, why should you care?”

Dad wanted one more chance to make his case.

“I’ll show you a picture of his ID and slip you some money, got it,” he said in a threatening tone.
”No. It’s time to go.”
”Well, what if …” he said before squaring up, puffing his chest out and getting uncomfortably close to my face, “…I show you a PICTURE OF MY COCK.”

My hands sprung from my hips so fast I thought I was back doing pass protection drills in Des Moines, Iowa circa fall 2006. Hands hit chest up close and extending to the perfect referee form for pass interference.

Kid’s dad flew back 12 feet and gravity did the rest, putting him on his ass near the rear wheel well of a parked truck. Damn, I haven’t worked out in months, guess you never lose that big boy strength.

As much as people want to fight after someone hits the deck, the fight is already over. The big action happened and now you’re angling for a cheap shot or a passerby to help.

Also, Sir, how dare you try and show me a picture of your Randy Johnson!

What will my girlfriend think?

I would have loved to see Casanova to kick your ass, the birthday girls to record it, and the Vengadores to destroy the rest of your Brooks Brothers loving kind. All for some woman to think everyone was yelling her while she called her lawyer, which was probably one of the dads in the first place.

This is the final story I’ll post while working for the bar that most of these stories derive.

But don’t worry! I have plenty of stories in the clip, I just need to write them. Maybe with my renewed free time they’ll actually get done. Plus, I have a whole St. Patrick’s Day weekend of tales to cultivate, and one killer mosh pit anecdote at the ready. Sláinte.

Friday alone provided enough fodder for one big story. Then 5 minutes into Saturday … oh boy.

So, I’m breaking the weekend into two posts. But not one for each day. One for the “small potatoes” and the other for sheer catastrophe.

The saying goes, “don’t sweat the small stuff,” but I need to get these down to illustrate that everyone in this post, no matter how odd they behave, are amateurs compared to what’s coming.

One housekeeping item before we begin. A security colleague is making his blog debut. For the sake of expediency, his nickname is Crash.

Monica Be Lying

One-sided conversations are fun. What is the other person saying? Are they angry, too? Or happy? Or did they mute their phone so the one talking can air grievances while you fix yourself a cocktail?

Regardless of what the other person is doing, saying, or thinking, you always know what’s on the mind of the person right in front of you. You may think you’re “stepping outside for a personal call,” but that ends as soon as … you’re a white girl who calls someone the N-word (with the Hard R).

Someone is always listening.

Like yours truly.

A woman was inside with her two friends, twerking to Bad Bunny. She took a call from what was clearly a friend making some excuse to miss out on all the fun.

Here’s what we learned: there was a woman named Monica who said she’d come out. She was not. She said she would, or maybe she didn’t. But her absence was noticed by all.

“Monica be lying,” the woman relayed to her friends.

The friends go back to their table, Reggaeton continues in the background. The woman carries on her conversation.

“Monica, you be on some bullshit.”

Monica is pushing back.

“Monica,” she snapped back, “I’m fucked up but 9 times out of 10 I’m gonna remember that [you said you’d come out] like always!”

Where have I heard something like that before?

Heated, confused, distraught, the woman went back inside. As Bad Bunny stopped and Drake began, her friends looked to her for answers. All she could do was slap her hands on the table and proclaim, “Monica being a DUMB BITCH.”

A Little Off

When most people try to bring their way-too-drunk friend in, they often make the excuse that, yes they’re drunk, but the group will take care of them.

How noble. I’ll take care of them even better by not letting them into the place where all the alcohol is.

I will say the collection of men of a certain age that tried to pass off their wasted friend was more inventive, but for all the wrong reasons. First, always a bad sign when someone falls into another person unassisted.

On a windless night.

Second, the man was downright mute. Probably dragged along for the ride the last hour, completely unaware of the events from midnight to 1 am.

Third, the eyes. Half closed, afraid of the light. Dude is ready for bed, not another Jack and Coke.

After I turned him away, the group collectively read the writing on the wall — they’re all too old to be out this late. Side for one, who doubled back in a last-ditch attempt to sway my decision.

“Sorry about my friend,” he apologized. “He’s on the spectrum. We think it’s autism.”

Heavy. Could it explain it all? Was I being too hard on someone with a much rougher life, particularly an older gentleman?

Wait, what was that second part? Ah, yes. “We think.”

Complete bullshit, but what an effort.

You think it’s autism. Guy’s almost 50 years old and you couldn’t offer a definite. Just had to go full spectrum disorder to mask being drunk. Just admit to being drunk. It’s not that hard, and many people’s lives would be easier if you admit it.

Case in point…

Mistaken Identity Barbie

The interaction above was book ended by a woman’s journey into madness.

I’m sorry, that’s offensive.

Her journey into being really fucking pissed off at me for being a different person than who she thought I was.

Ever since a popular downtown hotspot started closing at 1 am instead of 2 the streets get weird for a half hour as the customers descend on other bars near close.

Personally, I like the decision. I love people giving me a set time to watch people who are clearly too drunk to function. Obviously, you can get drunk at all hours, but you never really know where someone is coming from before midnight unless a nearby concert or game ends.

Setting my clock to the 1 am trickle has been very helpful, turning away those looking for one or two final pours before making even more bad choices.

Three women walk up from said hotspot. One I vaguely recognize, but nothing of immediate familiarity. The other two are foreign to me, but one of them is happy to see me.

“It’s me!” she says, thinking I’m about to reciprocate.

“Uh huh.”

She looks confused. Not what she was expecting at all.

“You’re the bouncer,” she slurs matter-of-factly. “The Russian!”

Now, I guess some could confuse Polish for Russian, and I did take some Russian in college because I needed a lab credit, but she was adamant. Never in my life, however, have I ever told people I was Russian. Hell, my name and “The Polish Hammer” is literally written on the walls of the bar, this blog, and on video introductions during yearly Oktoberfest keg tosses.

I’m pretty damn Polish.

Back to Barbie. She’s drunk. She stumbled walking up. She fumbled the introduction, and her friends have that exasperated mood of, “not this bitch’s shit again.”

I deny that I’m Russian, then deny her entry.

They ask why and I go into the stumbles, the slurring, and one friend says, “she’s like that all the time. It’s just how she acts.”

Cool, it’s an act. Stop doing that.

“But you’re the Russian bouncer and I’ve been coming here FOR YEARS!”

Years beyond years, it turns out. More years than possible.

“I came here on my 21st birthday and you let me in,” she said. “I’m 33 now.”

No, I didn’t get timeline wrong. She’s known me as the Russian bouncer for 12 whole years.

A lot to unpack here.

1. The bar wasn’t open on her 21st birthday in 2011. It didn’t have its grand opening until New Year’s 2014/15.

2. I did not work from the get-go. I was a patron for quite some time, joining much later in August 2016. My “Polish Hammer” moniker precedes my employment.

3. I was a substitute teacher in 2011. Fun fact: I applied to work in several bars after college from 2011 to 2016. I was rejected by all of them.

4. I am often confused for two different tall bald men in this city. One works security and the other manages bars. Neither one is Russian.

The facts laid bare, Barbie left in a huff, screaming and cursing at me, down the block and toward their car (she wasn’t driving). Good news is, I’ll never forget her now.

Then the men’s group came and went.

As the girls were driving up to the light, Barbie stuck her head out the window like an over-excited Golden Retriever.

“Fuck you,” she screamed. “Fat piece of shit. Fucking 280 pound motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrr!”

I turned to Crash in glee.

“Holy shit! I just lost 25 pounds!”

I fist pumped as they drove off.

Geography Lessons

While Barbie was trying to give me a history lesson, a man walked out of the bar attempting to both sides her argument. In his mind, he was helping her case saying that I’ve been at the bar since 2009, but also on my side because I’m a good guy from way back then.

“Were you in Iowa?”
“Ionia?”
“You said we’ve known each other since 2009. I was in Iowa.”
“Yeah, the one with all the potatoes.”

Iowa. The one with all the potatoes.

Just kidding, I love to break it to people.

The most frequent one I hear is “My dad’s a lawyer.” It’s practically standard practice that one member of your group be related to a lawyer. Which practice? Doesn’t matter.

Estate Planning? Help me with my fake ID.

Family Law? Help me with my fake ID.

Medical Malpractice? Help me with my fake ID.

Personal Injury? Maybe. And I’d only let you drone on if you could set up a meeting with Joumana because I’m still not convinced that’s a real person and not a S1M0NE-esque Detroit deep fake.

It’s the be all end all, or is it? What happens when both parties in the squabble play the privileged card up their sleeve? And yes, this is absolutely white privilege. Why? Because other groups will say they know people who have helped them train for the fight itself. White people always brag about how they’ll escape the repercussions of a fight.

After my 1,000th fake ID, times have been slow. January was a slog, New Year’s Eve notwithstanding. A weekend of one, then none, then three again. But that second to last one put up a fight.

Literally.

Except…not with me. Or anyone else who worked at the bar.

No, she picked on someone her own size, and won. Sort of.

People get mad when I spot a fake right away. Like, less than a half second, corner of my eye deal. To them it means I barely looked at it and I’m dead wrong. To me, I am so sure about the horrible quality that I get a real nice dopamine rush signaling that I’m about to make some money and ruin someone’s night.

A taller girl walked up with her shorter friend. Neither one was simply average. One was about 5-foot-10 and the other about 5-2. Dressed like they just raided the vintage clothing tent at a summer street fair. The taller one had the fake still inside her wallet, so I waited patiently for her to remove it. In hindsight that probably set her off more than the actual confiscation — the effort it took to fidget with her wallet.

It went from wallet to my pocket in the blink of an eye.

And as much as she huffed and puffed, the card wasn’t going anywhere.

In a tag team that rivaled the Two Stupid Dogs, the small one (SO) ranted that what we were doing was illegal and we were in BIG trouble. The taller one (TO) echoed many of her friends points, but offered nothing of her own personality. SO had this figured out.

“My dad is an attorney and legally you can’t take her ID.”

Once I stopped laughing I replied.

“Oh, you’re serious.”
”What you’re doing is breaking the law.”
”Cool, call the cops.”
”No, I’m going to call my father!”

It’s just before midnight and I have no idea where these girls are even from, let alone what kind of law her father practices.

“You legally cannot take it,” TO said, on the brink of tears.
”Actually I legally can. It’s not even a gray area. I can just take it.”

Seriously, I can just take it. We have to give back real IDs no matter what, but to the real person (or a guardian). You’d be surprised how many “borrowed” IDs we have in a box that people just straight up abandoned. Passports, too. Whole purses. Social Security cards. A birth certificate. People love leaving important government documents in a dive bar.

TO kept repeating the same line over and over, thinking I was going to give in and change my mind. SO already dialed the phone and was on the line with … someone. It wasn’t the cops, and the speaker sounded like a younger person, so it wasn’t her father either.

In the corner, a pair of women stood eating popcorn waiting for their Uber. Both were about 5-9, 5-10, however, they were dressed for the weather. Clad in fluffy coats and jeans, the duo stood side-by-side giggling at their “dinner and a show.”

TO took offense.

“What are you laughing at,” said in the schoolyard taunting style.
”Oh, us? Nothing,” Fluffy 1 said.
”Well, why don’t you cross me, bitch!”

Thing is, F1 had to cross her to get to the car waiting, which arrived shortly after TO’s first snide remark.

You can’t predict crazy.

When the fluffy coat duo walked out of the gate, TO stepped up.

The popcorn bag.

Oooh, the popcorn bag.

That’s what really set her off. If F1 had just set it in the trash, or even crumpled it in her pocket, I don’t think there would’ve been an issue. But she fluttered it in TO’s direction. Not thrown, not tossed, not aimed. Just let it fall from face level to the ground. Except, it didn’t reach the ground, not right away.

The popcorn bag landed on a shoulder attached to right arm attached to a fist about to land a crushing right uppercut square on its intended target — F1’s lower left jaw.

F1 crumples onto the pavement, wet from a sanitized water cleanup post street-vomit extravaganza.

Before she could adjust to her new surroundings, TO was in the opening stages of her ground-and-pound attack. F1 held onto TO’s legs for dear life. Bold move.

Bad move.

Without leverage, F1 was helpless as TO put her body weight on the woman. Then came arms in movement. Right. Left. Right. Left.

SO got some licks in, too. She went around with kicks to F1’s head and legs.

Normally, if a fight happens outside the bar I do not get involved. Fights are crazy dangerous and unpredictable, even when you can see one forming right in front of you. Especially if they’re all women. I don’t need to get clawed in the face again.

Both parties outside? Yes.

Both parties fighting each other? Lopsided, but yes.

Both parties did some trigger action? Kind of. If someone is yelling at you to fight, then you let trash fall on them, it’s not overt but the intention is there.

I only stepped in once it was clear Fluffy 2 was absolutely frozen in place and not coming to the rescue.

Now, mind you all of this took place in about 10 seconds. TO had clearly won the fight, however she was going to lose so much more.

Because I had her fake ID. You know, with her name and stuff on it. And a fluttering popcorn bag isn’t nearly as incendiary as, say, a sucker punch to the lower jaw. Then there’s the attempted theft.

TO got up and took F1’s wallet and phone. After I helped F1 to a chair I stepped toward TO to retrieve the beaten woman’s things, at which point SO screamed that I was assaulting them as a way to get sympathy from onlookers. It was a far-fetched idea as Snapchat caught the fight in full detail not 25 seconds ago.

TO eventually relented as F1 blurted out, “my boyfriend’s a cop!”

Hoo-Boy! It’s a good ol’ fashioned 2-for-1 privilege special.

The four women were trading barbs back and forth.

SO: “My dad’s a lawyer!!”
F2: ”Well,” she said in tatters, “her boyfriend is a cop!”
TO: ”Whatever, bitch!”
F1: ”You don’t even know us!”

Marinara was outside with me for most of altercation, but had to run inside for a bit after the fight, presumably to let everyone know there was a fight. A few minutes go by and he confidently strolls out the front door and says, “hey, if we’re still dropping names I gotta cousin who’s a drug dealer.”

The Uber was now long gone, fleeing from a disastrous fare, and the cops were on their way.

Or so I thought.

F2, now sobbing more uncontrollably than Florence Pugh in Midsommar, was on the phone the entire time her friend sat in a chair checking her newly ripped jeans and fresh knee wound. I told her to call the cops. Shit, I told TO and SO to call the cops.

Did any three of them listen? NO.

Because F2 called a cop.

Singular.

She called F1’s boyfriend 75 MILES away!

I corralled her, showed her the fake ID, told her to take a photo of it and call the real police in the city in which she was actually standing. Still crying. So much crying.

“What kind of person am I,” she lamented, “to watch her friend get beaten up and do nothing?”

I did not rephrase that to make her sound more proper. While her tears were real, she articulated them as if she were a scenery-chewing period piece, like Florence Pugh in Little Women.

As F2 wept, TO laughed and laughed for 10 more minutes. Five minutes longer and the real police would’ve questioned her. Had F2 done what I told her to do, TO would more than likely have spent the night in jail. Instead they raced down the road, yelled at some oncoming traffic, then got in a car that ran a red light.

The cops took statements, saw the fake, wrote all the names down, gave me back the fake (fine, whatever) and asked F1 if she’d like to get a ride to the emergency room. F1 sat still in the chair while the 13-degree win swept around her pant and jacket tears, a definite bruise forming on her jawline, then pawed at the scratches to her face and throbbing knee, feeling each kick to her head and legs as each second passes, much like Florence Pugh at the climax of Black Widow.

F1 declined the hospital stay, opting to wait another half hour until her cop boyfriend reached downtown.

The moral of the story is: don’t eat popcorn, but if you really want to, stream some Florence Pugh movies, because they’re like, all online. And they’re somehow all the first options. Does her agent pay for those placements? Odd. Speaking of, The Wonder was an odd flick. Avoid Don’t Worry Darling, though, as it’s basically a Black Mirror ripoff.

I also enjoyed Hawkeye.

I heard she’s in the second part of Dune, too.

Every bachelorette party plays it at least twice. Every bachelor party at least once. Bachelor party during a football game on TV? Throw it on a couple more times.

Just a good ol’ classic story about your girlfriend cheating on you. Anyway, happy upcoming wedding.

There’s a time and place for “Mr. Brightside,” and that time should be before I clock in and the place should be your own home. Listen, I’m not dragging the song. My parents got me the album when it came out ahead of my sophomore year of high school. I listened to it back to front during two-a-days. That said, “Mr. Brightside” is not my favorite song on the album — that top spot belongs to … “On Top,” although “Believe Me Natalie” is a close second. There are other songs that exist. The band clearly has staying power, but alls y’all treat them like a one hit wonder.

Below is a list of crowd pleasers from The Killers that people could easily swap for their most overplayed hit.

Even The Killers reserve “When You Were Young” for their closer. It deserves more respect on the jukebox.

Here's the insider secret of how you can easily skip the line, with a few exceptions.

1. The Obvious

2. The New Year's Kiss

Admittedly, this is a 1-of-1 deal. Only one person can really claim this, and you can’t flake out. What happens if you don’t make it to midnight? Banned. Harsh, but we can’t start 2023 off with mendacious intent. Also, everyone in your group is kicked out. Scorched earth.

3. Kohl’s Cash

Your mom gave it to you just in case you need a nice shirt. Well, I need some new socks because my soles are wearing thin. Let’s dance, you and I.

4. Food

Snacks are a huge plus. It’s a long, cold night, and food is at least a heartfelt thought. Now, not all food is the same. Are you handing us leftovers? Hard pass. Fast Food? Someone might want it, but it’s not me. Gas station snacks? Also no. I’m driving a hard bargain here, so impress me, but if you’re already smacking your wallet on the table thinking of a nice entree, see No. 1 instead. Homemade treats? Now we’re talking.

5. Friendly Free Fare

How good of friends do you think we are? Now’s the time to test it. Sometimes the “VIP line” is free, you just have to be patient. But here’s a warning, my niceness has its limits and that is beyond your control. Your mere presence without options 1 - 4 might just piss me off.

Dishonorable Mentions

“What Shot Do You Want?”

I can’t drink on the job. and shots aren’t that expensive. On any other non-holiday I might accept that after-work treat. But on NYE? No thanks. It’s more of an insult than you realize.

Let’s Get Digital

It’s 30 degrees outside and you want me to operate my phone, with my exposed fingers?

“You Know Me”

If these words are coming out of your mouth, and you expect it to work, you clearly don’t know me.

Although, I don’t think Ol’ Ebenezer threatened to murder Bob Cratchit.

Deck the Halls

A big snowstorm can bring out the best of us, if you’re still of elementary school age and you get to sled on a big hill. When a snowstorm hits a group of drinking-age men who think their car fenders are carnival bumpers, well then things get more complicated.

What you think happened happened. One car full of people slammed into another in the parking lot. The colliding vehicle ran through like it was dry pavement in summer. The collided vehicle was full of a few guys warming up about to leave.

It became 3-on-3 hockey if the goal isn’t to score a goal but to pummel each other into the ground first.

Now, I was across the street and viewing with a few people who were outside smoking. It wasn’t unbearably cold in the mid 20s, but it was snowing heavily. One fighting duo was struggling to find footing, slipping on the snow and ice causing punches to land wildly. One guy got his opponent in a ground and pound by the front left wheel well, and the final pair was trading blows by the hood.

A woman standing next to me screamed, “Don’t fight! Stop it! You’re hurting each other!”

Yeah, duh. Fighting is stupid … when you’re doing it. It’s hilarious when others do it. Especially when they don’t have a lot of practice.

Another woman thought this was her moment to shine, so she raced over to break up the fighting. No, her car wasn’t over there, her group arrived in an Uber.

No, she didn’t know any of the people fighting, none of them had been inside yet.

And no, she wasn’t in fighting shape. She still had the blunt in her hand as she ran across the street.

As more people came rushing to the door to see the fight in progress, the woman’s friend came bursting out, screaming at the top of her lungs.

“DON’T DO IT.
COME BACK.
THAT’S SOME WHITE BITCH SHIT!”

The woman very much kept on doing her white bitch shit.

Her friend and the rest of the group corralled the woman by the fight and got everyone home. By the time the fighting had stopped, all parties had left and Marinara, who yearns to see a good fight happen. finally came back from the other end of the bar.

Missed the whole thing.

Sing for All to Hear

A gaggle of graduation revelers toasting their best friend came outside to all catch a smoke break. All of them. All 8 of them.

Eight women, all drinking, all smoking, and singing Mr. Brightside as loud as they could.

Well, at least until the next song came on the TouchTunes machine.

It was the original Law & Order theme song.

Didn’t even know that was an option.

One woman hears the tune and says to nobody (and also everybody), “I fucking love Dick Wolf.”

The graduating friend takes the Wolf stan’s cigarette so she could run back inside to hear the theme music. She was amazed at what she was hearing, and I was amazed that she was having this reaction for not being the one who played it.

She asked what radio station we had, I said it was a jukebox.

“Oh, like a TouchTunes?”
“Yes. it’s a TouchTunes.”

Elated, the woman runs back to her group and exclaims, “you guys, they have a TouchTunes JUICE box.”

None of them went back inside.

All I Want for Christmas Is You
To Leave

Two guys and a girl walk up, it’s late but not past last call. The snow has mostly stopped. The fight was so long ago nobody from outside is still in the bar. All the loud girls are gone, replaced with a quiet mix of people looking at their drinks more than consuming them.

Two guys and a girl walk up, an older man coming out from the bar to meet them at the door.

The lead guy is celebrating his 21st birthday. The girl behind him was very much not. I held onto her card while I checked the second guy. Unfortunately for me I would be just 1 for 1.

I did not think they would put up such a stink over it. It was printed on the wrong material thickness, had the wrong color hue, and the signature was font. As in, in lieu of a real signature scanned over, they just used a script font from MS Word.

Of all the things you could do, that’s as low tier of a try as you can attempt.

Birthday Boy raised his voice first. He went through the whole gamut from, “she’s 21” to “she’s way older than 21.”

Oh my. Of course, sir. I apologize for my mistake. I didn’t realize she was “way over 21.”

Then came the claim from this Real Genius.

“I was in this bar three days ago and you scanned my fake and it was fine.”

A few things to break down here:

1. Apparently, we scanned his ID, which we definitely don’t do.

2. He got past our scanners and came in with his fake on a Tuesday, despite not being from the area and only visiting the bar because he’s on break from school.

3. We let him in with the fake, which is why we should let his girlfriend (in the literal sense, I don’t think they were a couple) come in with her’s.

4. But it’s not fake.

I think the cold was getting to me, because usually have something quick and sharp in response but for the life of me all I came up with was , “nobody scanned your ID.”

He kept making his case to no avail, and I kept telling him he should just call the cops.

“What, you’ve never been wrong before?”

Yes, I have been wrong before. I told him my failure rate was 3 out of 1,009. And none in the last 500.

A man waiting for an Uber with his girlfriend did some math way quicker than I ever could.

“Damn. That’s like .29%. Nice job!”

The older man made a performative gesture by whipping out his phone to call the sheriff. Cool, I said, then the girl would just get a ticket.

At which point the girl said, “nobody’s calling the cops. We’re leaving.”

We’ll touch on this in a second. Because the man was clearly dialing a three-digit number and stopped when he realized something.

As the group was leaving, the Real Genius kept flipping me off, nothing new. But he said one extra phrase that could’ve led him into more trouble had I just remembered his dumbass name.

“That’s fine, I’ll go home and grab my 9. We’ll see who gets the ID then.”

The math wiz gave me another glance.

“Yo, did he just threaten to shoot you over a fake ID.”
”Yeah, it happens sometimes.”

He shouted one more time, so I shouted back, “Merry Christmas!”

And my new outdoor friend shouted, “and fuck off!”

The quad drove off, but snow obscured the license plate.

After closing, I found out why they stopped trying to call the police. The girl was on a student Visa from Vietnam. To dive a little deeper on this, a foreign … anyone shouldn’t have a US fake ID. Granted, I clearly I don’t think anyone should have a fake, but unlike the misdemeanor some random kid from Battle Creek would get, this girl would get deported. That’s a hell of a good reason to stop dialing that phone dude.

I’m also sure accessory to attempted murder would look bad to the State Department, but that’s my last hot take of 2022.

Because it’s fun?

Because it’s taunting?

Because why shouldn’t they join in?

All of the above, and maybe a few reasons in between.

I didn’t really give numbers 99-104 a chance as they were much closer to the voting age than the drinking age and that photo would really have been in poor taste. I don’t think 200, 300, or 400 got photos, but 500 did.

He was a great sport. Said (whether or not it came true) that he’d hang the certificate I gave him diploma style in his NMU dorm room.

Then there’s 555, who is sort of on video after I released his ID to the heavens via helium balloon.

No. 600 tried to hide her face behind the only XS tee we had leftover from some bygone shirt delivery. I took a Devil Filter Snapchat with No. 666, and alternatively added a halo to No. 700.

Nothing for 800.

The guy at 900 received a copy of Tony Hawk Pro Skater for the GameBoy Advance and a Tech Deck. He was very enthused about what was happening.

But 1,000?

She was a poor sport.

Presumably because I was the first person she ever met that told her no.

1,000

Her last name was unique, so it was easy to find her online, not that I needed to for extra verification. The creator of her California ID includes a weird feature where there’s a razor thin white line around the head. If you’ve never seen one like it before it might trip you up, but if you’ve even seen one like it before it stands out to the extreme.

While I’ve heard pregnant women can look like they’re glowing, I erred on the side of catching my 1,000th ID instead of stealing an expecting mother’s driver’s license.

She was Elle Woods before law school. Tall, thin, blonde, straight A’s one can easily assume. Athlete at a Federalist Era New England college. Built for runways and art galleries, high society and million dollar wardrobes.

But right now she’s outside with me and an amuse-bouche of random douche before I called for everyone I knew to come outside and join in the celebration.

All I wanted was a picture. I even told Elle that it’s not a big deal. It’s only a fake ID. She’ll remember this part far more than getting into some dive bar at 11:30 pm the Friday after Thanksgiving.

She stood, wafer thin, while her friend pulled on her black patent leather jacket to go to the night club down the road. Elle stared on, uttering only soft pleas to get the card back.

“I won’t go in.”

“Yes. But this is a big deal,” I said, attempting to give her the consolation gift bag prizes I handed out to the preceding 20 odd people I took fakes from the last few months.

Her friend, a hybrid feminine Tilda Swinton and masculine Timothy Chalamet amalgamation, swatted the bag from my hands as he kept pulling her farther away from the bar.

Yes, they thought, this will be the fierce drive they need to storm the casting director’s office of Zoolander 3.

“I…I…” she repeated before giving in and turning away.

The patio now full of friends, curious patrons and confused onlookers wanted the woman to come back and share in the revelry. We had giant numbers, noisemakers (that were absolute trash), small confetti poppers, push-pop sized poppers, and champagne bottle poppers that set off Mount St Helens eruptions of brightly hued tissue squares.

Upon seeing Elle’s retreat our bartender, Banshee, yelled out to her.

“Stop being being butthurt about your fake ID and come celebrate with us!”

It was a valiant, though ultimately fruitless attempt at getting a photo finish with No. 1,000.

An opportunity spoiled.

1,001

About 15 minutes later, a decent group came walking up. Streamers, confetti, and other strewn war-torn party materiel lined the sidewalks. A woman stood forth and asked what happened, I was about to make a Rip Taylor joke but knew nobody in the bar’s half-mile radius would even understand the reference. To the three of you reading this that get it, you’re welcome.

No, I said they were celebrating me, as I just got my 1,000th fake ID.

She looked puzzled, as did her friends. I heard one of them say something to the effect of, “you do that for all of them?” No. Just the big ones.

Anyway, they stepped over what confetti they could and came into the bar.

Except the woman who asked what the celebration was for, as she had a fake ID.

I mean, that’s a prime fumbling at the goal line play if I’ve ever seen one.

“Oh, what are you cheering about?” Irony.

A night out spoiled.

999

I almost let 999 get by me. Well, he did get by me and into the bar, but he wasn’t able to drink before I asked him to come back outside.

The woman he was with was a semi-regular. Twenty three or 24, past college. Though now I’m suspecting a Tinder huntress on the prowl. After all, she wore a leopard print jacket to a dive bar on the busiest bar night — and stayed after her date’s ID was taken.

I was alarmed by the ID for two reasons. One, it was a UK Driver’s License.

I don’t see these very often, so I looked it over and one thing stuck out, but the rest didn’t set off any red flags. And he was with someone a couple years past college age.

So, I let him pass.

But that one thing.

Which, admittedly I don’t think is a thing, Maybe.

But, don’t they all have like two middle names?

Not none, right?

He had no middle name, Jack Reacher style.

I googled him.

Phew, I saw. He really was English.

And a soccer player.

Oh, what team does he play for?

Huh, college team.

Well, not out of the ordinary. I used to report on high school, college, and minor league soccer. I’ve seen plenty of international names on rosters.

That’s weird. It says he’s a sophomore.

I run back into the bar, frantically looking for Tesco Jack Reacher. I find him and he follows me outside. I ask him for the ID and he willingly hands it over. At this point he’s trying to bring up the fact that’s he’s English, which again, I’m not disputing.

What I’m pulling up is his seldom used — and now protected — Twitter account where his dad posted a “Happy 18th Birthday” message to his son … last March.

He quickly ran off yelling, “You could sell that and make a bunch of money!”

A young mind, well truly spoiled.

Now, however, we have wave after wave of zombified husks from the de facto city center who will try anything to get one more Lemon Drop or Vodka Cranberry before last call.

Are they happy about it? No.

Are they of sound mind and body? At least one is.

And they are the problem.

Drunk people I can turn away. Like Play-Doh, they’re easy to manipulate (but not in a narcissistic way). Let’s just say their agreeableness is heightened, even if they’re arguing against you. Fatigue sets in, sleep is calling, the ground is moving faster than their feet are falling. Soon, they’ll be blackout enough to wake up in the morning and not remember a thing.

The drunk friend will stumble off in the background, losing control of their mind-mouth barrier, becoming quieter as each second passes. No matter, they wouldn’t be able to get a word in edge-wise, anyway.

Because their nosy, mostly-sober friend just has to give me a piece of their mind.

I abhor them.

One is too many. Two gets on my nerves. But to have three in 9 minutes. Well, that’s a story.

The ‘Influencer’

Common influencers are, of course, Instagram fitness models, celebrities, foodies, and YouTubers. Maybe throw in a DIYer and the occasional “business mogul.”

We all follow one. Some of us might even know one or two.

Little did we know we were in the presence of a TikTok star.

It’s hard to calculate what a group of women are celebrating at 1 am. It could be a birthday, a bachelorette party, a girls night, a divorce party, a work outing, a suffragette movement. Anything! It could be anything!

Regardless of what this was, one woman was clearly not going to make it. Not only was she the runt of the litter, she had a difficult time standing upright. The key moment for our dismissal was her stumbling to the front gate. Now, I have had my stumbles at front doors of establishments.

One happened in New Orleans when I missed the first step of a bar’s landing, overreached to grab the door handle, then got pushed back by a drag queen hauling DJ equipment through the door.

We were both surprised by it, though his stellar eyebrow work heightened the sense of alarm.

But that’s on me. I was, after all, half in the bag.

This woman didn’t have that kind of immediate history for me to inspect, so all I could judge was her inability to walk into the bar. Honestly, people, this is literally step one, and she failed.

I told her friends that she would not be allowed inside and we got the typical overreactions:

• “She’s fine.”

• “She’s with friends.”

• “We’ll take care of her.”

• “She’s not drinking anymore.”

• “We’ll just give her water.”

No.

Some friends.

You haven’t thus far.

Duh.

That’s fine. You can give it to her while she’s still outside the bar.

The team lead, who looked more like a soccer mom wrangling her kids at halftime for orange slices and Capri Suns, did not like this response.

“She stumbles all the time, even when she’s sober!”

“Yeah, when she’s sober. She’s clearly not now.”

“But she stumbles all the time!”

“Look, it’s 1:14 in the morning, it’s probably best to just pack it in for the night. Of all the places you can stumble, right in front of the bar is the worst.”

“You’re great at your job.,” she said, lacquering on the sarcasm with each passing word.

While this conversation was happening, the stumbling woman slunk back behind her wall of women, not raising her voice once in objection.

“I hope you know that I have 40,000 followers on TikTok and they’re ALL going to know about YOU!”

There’s that perfect moment of silence that hovers in the air before a big laugh. When everyone realizes that, yes, what they heard this person say might be the unintentionally funniest — and stupidest — thing for her to ever say for the rest of her life.

Once the tension broke, at least five people burst out laughing, at least three of which were employees, one off the clock and one more outside the gates.

Gut busting, back aching, breathtaking laughter.

TikTok? You’re going to come at us with TikTok?

We laughed. Hard. I laughed so much I forgot where they went. I just slowly spun around and she was gone.

Bait & Switch

While the Tokker was arguing with us, two f-boys walked up, one with it, one drunk.

The sober one tested the waters and approached me over the Tokker’s head (he was pretty tall, so it’s a thing that sometimes happens). I looked at his friend and made the call. Eyes glazed over, practically asleep standing up. He was not long for the land of the conscious.

The pair left for what I thought was the rest of the night.

Nope.

The duo came back three minutes after the Tokker left, leaving a sidewalk begging for some comedy to fill the vacuum. And boy, did they deliver.

The taller friend that approached me was about 6-foot-5, white, but “I just got back from Daytona Beach” white. Kinda tan with sand somehow still in his hair. Throw on a shell necklace and some frosted tips he’d be a great YMCA basketball all-star version of Justin Timberlake.

Instead, he was wearing a beige sweatshirt and black pants.

His friend was wearing a red sweatshirt and white pants.

Three minutes pass.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I said, bursting with more laughter than before.

In the space between leaving and returning, they switched shirts.

They were stone faced, trying to play it off.

Others didn’t know what was happening. A few thought I was just yelling at random people.

“You look ridiculous! Did you think that would work? You really just switched shirts?“

Now everyone was mostly on board. Granted, the shirt thing was funny. But it’s been done before.

No, I was more laughing about the audacity to think switching shirts would hide the fact the Pacific Islander with visible tattoos, curly hair, and white pants, still drunk on the sidewalk, could pass for the one I thought looked like Tall Timberlake.

I give that a 2/10 for ingenuity, and a 1/10 for execution.

Minority Report

Speaking of execution, that’s what several people wanted to do to me at 1:21 in the morning.

I will say this, for most of this last group, another drink wouldn’t have knocked them down. They were older than the typical post-midnight crowd, and many of them fashioned between business casual and cocktail hour dress.

But one of them. Whew, one of them was losing all control of his body above the waist. First we saw him doubled over, walking hand in hand with his significant other. Then, as he fumbled for his wallet, he almost fell backwards, but the wind assisted him back upright.

The wallet came out, then fell to the ground. Yeah, this guy was toast.

So, as I did with the first and second nos, I loaded up a third.

The group did not like this.

Much akin to Group 1, we heard all the excuses.

• “He’s fine.”

• “He’s always like this.”

• “He’ll only have water.”

No.

Dear God Why?

Right.

And then we heard some new ones.

• “He drove us here.”

• “He’s the DD.”

My colleague at the door, let’s call him Marinara, was shocked at this reveal.

“If he’s the DD you should call an Uber. For your safety.”

As per usual, the one in question was in the background, accepting his fate. He chirped up here and there, but it was his White Wife that treated me as Public Enemy No. 1.

Just as we thought they were about to leave, she darted over and stuck her finger in my chest.

“This is about RACISM! You don’t want him inside because he’s MEXICAN! Today, you chose to be racist!”

Most of the group was indeed, Mexican. She was white and there was another couple that was neither.

Insisting that something is racist as an excuse for being caught while drunk in public is old hat now.

Out of the five employees at or near the entrance at the time this White Wife chose to have her racial tirade, I was the only (mostly) white one. We’re a pretty multicultural bar, but this woman only had eyes for me. Aww.

The chorus joined White Wife, decrying my abject hatred for Mexicans. Ah, yes. Those damn Mexicans. Always bringing me excellent food when I invite them to my house. I have half a mind to tell them to stop doing that … when the mortgage is paid in full and I don’t live there anymore.

Clad in her Karen sheath of unaccountability, White Wife went up to the gate and gave us stern warnings, telling us we’d rue the day we every disgraced her husband (who was still trying to fold his wallet and put it back in his pants).

Marinara had enough.

“Stop it,” he brushed her off. “You’re just using your white privilege to try and shame us.”

White Wife when someone of her husband’s ilk finally called out her bullshit in real time:

Marinara saw posturing from the group when they crossed the street — puffing chests, yelling, begging for a fight they somehow didn’t threaten to make up close.

Marinara took off his jacket and laid it on a chair. Not because it was too warm, but to signal he, too, was ready, willing, and able to trade blows. He just needed to loosen up first.

Like all the groups that came before, they left in shame.

I don’t know if it took you 9 minutes to even read this, but this was a lot to experience in a short time.

In other words — Don’t Make the News.

That’s a wide berth. Now, we haven’t made the news, but I got called out recently for not going full tilt when I have for lighter offenses.

And he was right to call me out

Holy Shit, I should’ve decked this dude within the first 10 minutes. I don’t punch people, but there are other ways to deal with unruly people.

In Comes a Storm

He was 5-foot-7, black, well dressed in black denim jeans, a designer tee, real black leather jacket, and some jewelry. It was 1 am, and this was his Saturday Night Fever best. He was also in a screaming match with a taller white guy in a college windbreaker pullover, baseball cap, and shorts. The sun set from a hot day, but the intermittent rain cooled the sidewalk, and later, the early morning air.

The duo was advanced by a small, slender woman in similar gear as the man dressed for the weather, Gray pullover, hair tied under a gray baseball cap, tennis shoes. Dressed more for a quick jog and a dog walk than a party-filled Saturday night.

I let the woman in, but before she reached inside, she sent a stare back to the two men.

I called out to them, “If you don’t stop yelling at each other, I won’t let you in.”

Pullover listened. He stopped engaging threw his hands up, turned toward me and walked. Designer stands where the conversation ended, staring as his opponent walked away. The rain-geared out pair continued inside. Designer came up ready for battle.

Some people want to yell to be heard. Some to feel more powerful. And others yell to be an asshole.

I hate to play my race card here because I don’t have the body type to pull it off. Years ago I was called Mowgli from the Jungle Book by my mom. Why? I would tan easily, had a mop top of hair (though it was occasionally in a bowl cut) and somewhat skinny. Ahhh, to be 4 years old again.

My mom and her brothers and sisters, cousins, etc. are tribal members of the Oneida Nation of Wisconsin. A lot of them also happen to be half Irish and a mix of Polish.

My dad’s family is 100% Polish. My last name loosely translates to Male Turnip Farmer.

As I grew older, I’d still get dark instead of burn, but right around those pesky growth spurt years did that all go away. At 18, I tried to gain some of it back. I had long curly hair, well tanned and mostly toned from college football practice. By 24, I was balding to the point of no return. So, as one can imagine, trying to claim any kind of Indian/NA/Indigenous heritage while being 34 years old, 6-8, pretty damn white, 300+ pounds, and bald, is a hard pill to swallow for the specific angry populace now yelling in my face about the history of race relations in the United States.

For him, this is now black vs white. Not right vs wrong, as it should always be. Suddenly, I’m the sounding board for all of our country’s ill will toward minorities.

He yells about being black in America and how that’s a crime. And you know what, sometimes it is that simple. I agreed with a lot of his points. Just not his current actions.

After a few shouts and points and spittle directed my way, while he was beyond the front entrance, I thought he’d tire himself out an, give up and go home. A few minutes of commotion later and three guys walked out on the patio. Two younger, one older. One of the younger was very tall, 6-6, but lanky like Manute Bol, except with vaulted dreads that cleared 7 feet. The elder was dressed head to toe in a red velvet sweatsuit.

I let the guy yell, weaving in and out of the entryway. Too close for comfort? Yes. A danger? No. He had done nothing to the degree of the person the week before, who was also of similar diminutive stature.

The Spartan Kick

If I don’t write about this now, nobody will put the context clues together, and I hate editing old stories for links.

A week prior to the racial verbal onslaught, a similar-built man came up with his friend who really looked he didn’t want to be in public, and a family member. He was jovial at first. Acted like he knew me, but that doesn’t mean I recognize you (foreshadowing).

Jorge Salchichas, who still doesn’t understand why he chose that pseudonym for himself, said, “that guy’s gonna be a problem later.”

And he was right.

Because at 1:45 am, while everyone is filtering out from the bar, he tries to steal my phone from my hands.

Damn this was an escalation. Apparently, he tried to use the ID of someone years ago. 5 years ago, his cousin said. That’s a long time grudge. He was almost 26 now. Let shit go.

His eyes flew from playful to imminent danger real fuckin fast. That’s when he charged us at the gate. I pushed him back. But not far enough. Because he was so short.

There’s a lot I can do being this size, but sometimes leverage isn’t with me. Against a smaller person, I’m pushing down as much as I’m pushing away. What should be a chest press becomes an incline pushup. I unwittingly gave him time and distance to spring back up for another charge.

That’s when I kicked him.

But not like a punter. Like Gerard Butler from 300.

I wear a US Size 18. And I wear composite toe boots to work. That shoe itself measures 15-inches and weighs 2 pounds. That sent him back. He charged again.

I kicked him again.

He swung on me. I thought he wouldn’t because there were other bar staff crowding the entrance, but they looked at him and let him pass, arms swinging wildly toward me. *We had a sidebar about this after. I turned to the side because drunk punches are no match for back fat.

After he was fully out, he said, “I’m going to come back and shoot up this bar.”

I dialed 911 and explained the events to dispatch, but without a visible weapon, no car would be sent. Awesome.

Another threat of violence came shortly after.

This time it was personal.

And…funny?

“Yeah, next time I see you I’m gonna … throw an egg at your bald ass head!”

They all piled in to a dark blue SUV without plates and ran two red lights. My head has gone eggless since.

Back to the Other Guy

Red sweatsuit saw this short man continue his rant and said to his buddies, “Mans looks like Kevin Hart.”

Nobody could unsee it.

They couldn’t un-hear it either, because he SOUNDED like Kevin hart, too.

And now this man WAS Kevin Hart.

Kevin Hart was calling me a racist. Not simply any old fashioned racist. A Nazi. A skinhead. A Grand Wizard of the KKK. A “white fuck” which seems like a deceleration akin to the egg toss kid.

Kevin Hart is becoming impatient, and he also sees the girl that walked in ahead of him straight ahead, but further in the bar. He stops yelling and darts toward her. I grab him. He struggles, but I throw him back outside.

There, he takes a swing at Michael Westen who promptly restrains him against the patio gate and attempts to get him to calm his ass down. At this point, we call the police. The time is 1:10 a.m. He’d been constantly yelling for 10 solid minutes.

About what?

His Version

Saturday was date night. He got dressed up to go out, first time in a little while. He met this girl — he didn’t say where — and they set a date. Saturday. After midnight. At a bar of not-so-sudden ill repute.

He was single, though not always. He spent six months in a tropic paradise and returned to the Midwest. Interesting choice, if it was one.

He served in Afghanistan. USMC.

Only to come home and face a new level of vitriol from the White Man.

The White Woman, however, she was a different story. Any time someone other than me tried to talk to him, he would soften. He’d call them “MaMa” to the woman, and “my guy” to other non-me males. Clearly, there was something implicit I couldn’t control from my large white guy presentation. Which is fine. I had my hands in my pockets while he was froth-mouthed screaming at me.

On his date, the particular white woman showed up with her cousin. For a kind of protection.

Odd, he thought. Was it because he was black? Or was he stranger danger? He shrugged it off at first. He even bought them all a round of shots. He and the cousin talked at the bar while ordering them.

They were getting along great.

Until three men jumped him “from out of nowhere.”

Beat him so badly he was gushing blood from the head.

He rose, got in their faces and fought two off while the third backed off.

The girl and his cousin soon left, but he wanted to identify why they had the men attack him. Why this date night turned south because he was a black man in the city trying to enjoy a first date with a nice white girl on a Saturday after midnight in a bar of ill repute.

“You know me, man! I’ve been coming to this bar for 10 years! 10 YEARS AND YOU DON’T EVEN KNOW MY NAME?”

I have been at this bar for 6 of the almost 8 it’s been open.

“Ok, I’m sorry I don’t know you. You also just said you were 4,000 miles away from here.”

“I don’t give a FUCK about that.”

This would be a theme.

“Well, what’s my name then? If I should know yours, shouldn’t know mine?”

“I don’t give a FUCK what your name is. Your name is racist white man.”

Michael Westen walked up behind him, arm raised in case anything happened, or for a first volley. In hindsight, I should’ve let him loose. Kevin Hart was looking for a fight. But he recognized enough about the situation to manipulate it. That’s why I pulled my would-be punches.

Even though this was after the rush in, and after Mr. Manager told him we called the police, Kevin Hart gained an acolyte.

In between diatribes, he, calm and collected, politely asked a girl to film the interaction. A minute or two later, around 1:13 am, I saw the camera flash in the doorway.

But the focus wasn’t on him.

It was on me.

Don’t make the news

Don’t make Facebook Live, Instagram Live, or WorldStar either.

The time to act, even though I threw him out and Westen pinned him to control the fists of rage, we didn’t tamp down the fire. We only made it larger.

This is where I really have to sound like an asshole. You have to go big enough to make them want to go home right there.

There doesn’t need to be blood. Or even bruises. But the message has to be clear. And on that night, I didn’t make it clear enough.

He got kicked out of another bar, but he was acting like my refusal was the worst act of malice ever befallen to him. I hadn’t ironed out my version of events until much later, after the cops finally showed up (more foreshadowing). Once I gathered all the source data, that’s when I realized I missed my chance to lay him out like he should have been.

My Version

Kevin Hart dressed up to go out on a Saturday night. Sure, it was raining, and the weather was rough but if you’re not driving, drinking isn’t a gave concern.

Kevin Hart sees the club is kinda dead. So he goes to another. It’s getting late and the designer tee and leather jacket aren’t working on anyone he wants it to work well on.

He sees a table with a woman, alone. She’s his type. He’s well dressed, plain spoken, had a drink in hand but not over-served. He makes his move. He noticed the woman isn’t particularly dressed like him. But it had been raining.

Sure, she had the raincoat on indoors, her hair was tied under a cap, and she didn’t have the same demeanor as the other people partying inside. But that’s because of the rain. It’s because of the weather. It’s because she knows what she wants and doesn’t need to dress up for it. She wants to be presented with an attractive offer. To be wooed.

Kevin Hart walk up, but before he gets the word out, she says the seat is taken. He offers to get her a shot. She declines. She’s waiting for someone at the bar. She doesn’t point, so there’s nobody to compare himself to. He thinks it’s a brush off, but again, she’s his type. So, he walks up to the bar and orders two shots. He noticed a guy wearing similar clothes already there. A rain cover, tennis shoes, workout shorts.

Oh, this must be the guy the girl is waiting for, must be family. Her cousin. This isn’t what you wear to bar on a Saturday night to pick up women, after all.

Kevin Hart offers to buy him a shot. They talk.

The “cousin” sees that he already bought the shots and accepts. They walk over to the table and the girl is not pleased. The “cousin” thinks he’s won a free shot. Kevin Hart thinks he has an in with a woman exactly his type. The woman wants to leave, but doesn’t convey that yet.

They all drink the shots.

The woman says thank you. The man says thank you. Kevin Hart wants to stay and chat. The woman wants to leave with her boyfriend to the next place, or better yet, home. Whichever is faster, yet safer than this table.

The man already settled the tab. Kevin Hart was looking to impress. He spent $20+ on these shots and he wanted to keep the party atmosphere alive, even if the party died out hours ago.

Kevin Hart wasn’t leaving.

The woman and man stood up to go.

Kevin Hart took this as an aggressive action and responded in kind. The argument started. The screaming started.

And Kevin Hart was bounced by the bar’s door staff who had nothing better to do because the big bar was almost empty and, like any over-zealous security staff, some action is better than no action.

Kevin Hart gets his ass thrown to the curb. The woman sees her chance and starts a brisk walk down the street. The man follows. Kevin Hart gets wind. The woman sees our bar as the place of refuge, but she wants the night to be over. At the gate she turns back and stares and says something I couldn’t hear before, “Just leave him alone and get inside, now.” But not shouting the now, pursing her lips like a woman who doesn’t want to make any more of a scene than there already is.

I thought Kevin Hart rushed in for the woman. No, he saw the root of his problems tonight, the taller white man accompanying the woman at the bar who couldn’t possibly be in a relationship with anyone.

He was well dressed for a night out.

It wasn’t working.

He is educated and plain spoken.

It wasn’t working.

He bought drinks for everyone.

It wasn’t working.

He just wanted to talk.

It wasn’t working.

It was 12:57 am, and he was about to go home alone.

Nothing was working for him.

They must be racist.

I worked on this theory a bit in the waning minutes between 1:13 am and 1:20 am and I got pretty far on it. Sure, he was still out there and yelling at anyone who’d listen. Yes, I was still being recorded. Yes, my boss was driving up watching the security footage thinking to himself why his big large security man was taking it on the chin.

I planned not to make it worse. The cops would be on their way, maybe, and he’d leave at the sight of them. He’d leave because the fight he wanted already happened even though he didn’t realize it yet. I thought he would go away because he did nothing other than throw a raging, yet mild tantrum.

I was wrong. But not because of anything I did.

I was wrong because

Alexis Bledel Said Some Racist Shit

After recently celebrating a birthday but not having the time to properly revel in it, Alexis Bledel was having a nice night on the town. She hopped from bar to bar until she landed at my doorstep.

Was Alexis Bledel drunk as a skunk? No. She walked fine. Talked fine. Looked as presentable as ever.

Once inside, that’s where things took a turn. Her friends plied her with shots and drinks, not once going to the bar herself. An hour later and she was removing herself from the bar, an act of unconscious self-preservation.

Almost.

While walking out, Alexis Bledel could sense that Kevin Hart was being too aggressive with me. And as a recent acquaintance, should have someone to stick up for (me).

I saw the gears turn in her head and quickly stepped up to her.

I told Alexis Bledel to leave it alone. We had it under control mostly and the cops would be on their way (hopefully). Her presence wasn’t needed.

She chirped to Kevin Hart. His ears perked up. That’s when I physically moved Alexis Bledel to the corner, a full 15 feet from where she was standing, turned her around so her back would be toward the bar, and told her to catch a ride home. She did not heed my warnings.

Kevin Hart moved off of me and the girl at the door stopped recording. It looked as if things were cooling down. Temperatures were still high, but maybe this would resolve itself.

Until Kevin Hart said something to the effect of, “that’s why I hate all white people.”

To which American Sweetheart Alexis Bledel said back to him, “yeah, I hate all black people, too.” In jest? Sounded like it. An overly blanketed statement borne from parroting the other outspoken drunk person on the sidewalk. What could be taken out of context from this?

Upon hearing this statement, Red Sweatsuit asked her to repeat.

That’s when Alexis Bledel turned, looked Red Sweatsuit in the eyes, and said stone-faced, “I hate all black people.”

Red Sweatsuit promptly threw a glancing blow to Alexis’ chin. Not strong enough to do any real damage, but necessary to shut her mouth that spoke it.

Kevin Hart, seeing this interaction, now has the fight he was looking for. No more Dwayne Johnson to hold him back, he used alcohol’s impact on motor function, gravity, and two firm hands on the chest to send Alexis Bledel flying down on the ground ass over teakettle.

Red Sweatsuit backed off, satisfied she learned her lesson.

She did not.

She rose to meet her pusher, only to stare at him, turn three steps to the right, and charge the old man in the sweatsuit, sending him into a car’s front bumper and next to the ground. I guess the old man was an easier target? Manute smokin’ a Bol saw this and defended his elder. Hart joined again and by god did Alexis Bledel deservedly get her ass kicked by a menagerie of characters from Foster’s Home for Imaginary Friends.

More calls to the police. Calls for the ambulance. An EMT inside drinking ran out to help bandage Alexis with someone else’s plaid flannel shirt. A semi-literate and coherent group of friends and passersby picked her off the pavement. She was bleeding, eyes blacked, head gashed, dribbling drunk, and ineffectively bandaged like Robert DeNiro in The Deer Hunter. Russian Roulette may have been kinder.

The police finally showed up at 1:50 am. 40 minutes after the first call, 20 minutes after the calls for the fight. We cleared the bar. Sent the rainwear covered couple from before out the back and gave our statements.

Great response times, as usual.

Everyone gets their statement in. I go over all that happened before. Not what I thought happened. But what I heard and saw. Kevin Hart gave his account, but for the life of me can’t understand why he was still hanging outside. Alexis, bledeeling in the backseat of some SUV on the way to the emergency room, had been gone for at least 20 minutes by the time the ambulance came around 2 am.

I called over to the EMTs to explain the situation, that the person they’re on call for was no longer present, but they stood where they were, like I had the audacity to speak to them.

Kevin Hart said to them they should check his head for the injury he sustained while being jumped. Expect he wouldn’t stop moving his head for the EMT to get a good look (there was nothing there, he showed me earlier), so they left as quietly as they entered this story.

While small talking to the other staff, I caught wind of this juicy interaction:

“What’s your badge number?

Waits for answer

Gets answer

“THAT AIN’T A REAL NUMBER!”

One minute later, the cops are walking to me and the boss. They ask if we want him arrested if he steps on the property again. I say yes. We’ve had to do this before, with some threats to staff, it’s difficult to get everyone — cops, staff, offender — to be involved in the same location to have it stick.

The cops walk a few steps to see the video footage of the fight from the boss. The door open and Kevin Hart shouts back to them.

Walking to them. Ready for an argument. The same argument he had with me an hour prior.

It was 2:15 am, and I was done with this shit.

I’m not even sure all the toes inside his tiny ass shoes made it past the gate, but as soon as I saw it, all I could think was game over. I pointed down at the ground and said toward the officers at the door, “that’s our property line.”

And they paused, turned, and picked Kevin Hart up so fast his feet didn’t touch the ground until he was at the squad car door.

The next morning, Kevin Hart, the girl from the door, and a few others gathered outside the bar before we opened and tried to stage a Black Lives Matter rally against us.

Keep in mind, all of this because of a bad experience he suffered AT A DIFFERENT BAR and he would NOT shut up about it. I write a lot, but he said more words out loud in that one hour than I have in the last six months. He talked too much and he got arrested for it.

A few days later I stepped out of the shower and noticed two large bruises against my lower ribcage, In all the excitement I didn’t think his rush to the bar mattered much, and I wasn’t in pain the next morning. But he got an elbow in the right place at the right time and I responded by putting my hands in my pockets.

Oh fuck. Maybe that little shit who tried to steal my phone orchestrated the whole damn thing.

How much ‘game’ do you have?

How much do I have?

Almost none.

But this isn’t about me.

No, this is about taking things just a little too far with someone who hasn’t set the boundaries yet. The PG boundaries. The ‘get-to-know-you’ rules stages. The moments when flirtation can turn to frustration. A pretty face masks simple pettiness. When small gestures of favor can unwittingly lead to furious rage.

This story is, of course, about fries.

Whether it’s wrapped in wax paper, plastic trays, or in this case, a styrofoam clamshell, drunk food hits the spot like no other fine dining experience can. Despite what actually calls for a Gatorade and maybe a banana, our lizard brain screams for fried food to soak up the alcohol we willingly drank mere minutes or hours ago.

Fried food more than anything. A burger, too, perhaps. That hangover in the morning? Hair of the Dog and eggs. Lots of eggs. And bacon and sausage. Some toast, too.

Finding a bar that serves breakfast more conveniently than McDonald’s is exceedingly rare, however. What most have are French fries.

Glorious, crispy, warm to the touch, aromatic of salt and fat. Fries are the perfect drunk food for that place in our mind that calls for it, even though we may be constantly lying to ourselves.

But what happens when someone, some man, intrudes on that French fried delight?

Nothing if he’s careful.

The Woman leaned against the brick wall, tenderly picking up each individual French fry and placing it on the tip of her tongue, gauging the heat. Delicate hands on each French fry. The red and white checkered wax paper lining the clamshell fluttered each time the door opened and closed. It’s cold, but not too cold. Not quite transitioning from Spring to Summer. The Woman is balancing the heat of her french fries with the intermittent breeze.

The Man has made eyes at here for the past 30 minutes.

Without words of her own, The Woman responds in kind.

The Man approaches, inching closer. The Woman offers a french fry. They lock eyes here and there. Exchange smiles. The Woman even stops a fry before her mouth to introduce herself. The Man. The Woman. Game, equal on each side.

The clamshell is now open. The Woman picks up a few french fries and places them on the upturned lid. A sign of goodwill. An offering. This could go somewhere, she thinks. A dollop of ketchup. coats the edge of checkered paper. A dip. A plunge.

A grab.

The Woman saw it coming, but couldn’t react quite enough in time. Playful, sure, but one side was hers. One side his. The boundaries were set, and he shouldn’t interfere.

One issue.

The Man’s friends were calling, rather, sounding the rally cry for retreat to the next bar. They were not as lucky as The Man. The group decided it was better off as a whole to leave, even though one integral member was about to negotiate further terms.

The Woman sent a playful slap to The Man’s hand. These are mine, Those are yours. Stay a while and you can have more.

The Man told her to look at something in the distance. A ruse as old as time.

The Woman fell for it. The Man reached to her side, snatched a handful all for himself.

French fries. One tender and serene, delicate to the touch, now ran afoul by just another boy from the bar.

Punishment was harsh. And severe.

The Man didn’t get two steps away from The Woman without a left hook coming straight for his right temple. Contact. The tray of fries in her right hand was moving fast, upward, and angled to The Man’s head.

Two more steps each outside. The clamshell in disarray. Salt, grease, condiment juice. Anger, rage, fury.

Two more steps and they were fully on the sidewalk, one running from the other. The Woman brought another closed fist, this time right haymaker that narrowly missed The Man. She squares up, reloads, then takes two more steps while The Man is attempting to laugh it off.

POW

Right cross.

SWACK

Left kick.

WHOOSH

Another missed punch, but the effort still present.

The Man took too many steps away to involve himself any longer.

What of his group?

They couldn’t believe it. She really did just beat his ass over some damn french fries. And they loved it.

“That’s Jackie Chan’s daughter, right there!”

“Nah, man, that’s that Chun Li.”

“On God,” one said in agreement.

“Street Fighter shit!”

The aftermath was clear. Every onlooker was the winner. Hands down.

The Man had to come back to now beg his friends to leave the bar they were all trying to escape not five minutes ago. A loss all around. From getting lucky to getting seasoning deep in his waves.

The Woman, a TKO for sure, but not without its penalty.

“There’s ketchup in MY HAIR,” she cried out.

Flirtation is a slippery slope. One moment you're sending a peace offering. Fries for affection.

And the next one of your girlfriends is using bar napkins and hand sanitizer to squeeze and clean thick clumps of ketchup from your hair after you punched a man twice in the head for stealing your french fries.

Now That’s Amore.

There’s a stark contrast between a White Knight and an actual Knight in Shining Armor, and the difference is in the beholder's eye. A White Knight, like most things men offer to women after they meet in a bar, is unsolicited. Knights in Shining Armor, well, that’s all about good timing, and accepting nothing in return.

I hate White Knights.

Nobody drinking inside a bar at 1 am is ever going to save your life. Some people could save you from a bad situation, but they’re usually bartenders, security, or designated drivers. Usually.

Let’s put it this way: how many honorable people do you think are still in a bar at 1 in the morning? Hint — it’s few, if at all.

Now, nobody deserves to have something bad happen to them when they’re expecting a fun night on the town. Everyone should show up, have fun, and leave when they wish, with the person they wish, so long as both parties believe that at the same time.

But just remember, not every asshole is trying to be a White Knight, but absolutely every White Knight is an asshole. Hitting on a girl that’s not feeling it? Not a White Knight. Tipping the bartender heavy to get her number? Not a White Knight. Buying shots for the table, but you’re really just trying to impress the one you want to take home? Not a White Knight.

Trying to use your station as an upper class white kid as intimidation and also enlist your friend to fight me because your girlfriend got her sister’s ID confiscated at the door? Yeah, that’s a White Knight. This is that story.

So, you might think, “Jon, if he already has a girlfriend, doesn’t that mean he’s just a kind-of-douche boyfriend?”

White Knights can be in relationships. After all, the person is putting on a performance to win favors from the girl. Does he need to do it? No, of course not. He already has the girl, so to speak. He wants to do it…

Armed with this presumed foreknowledge of … extracurricular activities … the man — who I have to call Allen even though his real name is perfect as he shares it with another person I loathe — starts down a dark path.

Some background. A girl came up and presented her sister’s ID as her own. It was a stark contrast. Like how Zooey and Emily Deschanel are sisters, but you still don’t believe it even after listening to She & Him and watching all of Bones, well, almost all of Bones until they killed Sweets. I digress.

Sister’s ID in hand, the girl pleads then walks off into the distance. One of the easier takes, I thought. Oof.

Twenty minutes later, a car pulls up a few spaces away from the bar entrance. Running.

A guy gets out, not the driver. He’s about 6-foot-2, lean, tennis player type. He’s wearing a blue Adidas track jacket, grey sweat shorts, and a pair of well-worn Nikes, although they were probably expensive when new. That will come back to haunt him later.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Allen said, “You’re going to give me the ID back and then I’m going to leave.”

Admittedly, strong start. Bold right out of the gate. Direct unflinching eye contact. Great, I thought. He’s sober, so this is his everyday personality.

“Only her sister can get the ID back,” I reiterate. “Only Claire can pick it up.”

“But that is Claire,” Allen said. “She’s right in the car.”

Claire was not in the car. I doubled checked the ol’ Facebook after closing and, while her ID said she lived across the state, she was most definitely in Florida.

“Listen, I already told Lizzie that only her sister can get the ID back. That’s that.”

“Listen to me. I’m taking that ID back right now,” Allen replied, still staring unnervingly.

Allen then points to the car like it’s some sort of dead drop and the kidnapper is totally thinking the mark is falling for it. Later, he even says that I was just about to hand it over. Ridiculous, I know.

This back and forth goes on for 15 minutes. It’s more of the same. “Give me the ID.” “No, you’re not a 26-year-old woman in Florida.” “But she’s right in the car.” “Cool, let’s prove it.”

That’s when the lights on the car go dark. Whoever is driving got impatient, but not enough to get out of the car. I should note that we’re almost out of winter at this time of year. Cooler nights, warmer days ahead, still a faint snow and snowmelt slush lining the sidewalks. A slow bar inside means Allen has my full attention. We were at an entertainment drought all winter. This piqued my interest.

“Alright, I tell you what,” I said. “If Claire comes out of that car right now, I’ll give her the ID back and buy all her drinks for the entire night. Anything she wants.”

The back window rolls down, showing Lizzie half slumped in the backseat. The timing was sensational.

“You mean my girlfriend, Claire?”

“Whoah, does Lizzie know you’re sleeping with her sister?”

He stops staring at me.

“HEY LIZZIE! DID YOU KNOW ALLEN WAS FUCKING YOUR SISTER, TOO?”

The window rolls back up.

“Dude, way to go, really. That’s quite something.”

“Claire…Claire is my girlfriend. She’s in the car.”

“Wow, she looks a lot like Lizzie. Even wearing the same clothes. That’s a good relationship for not being twins.”

“They’re not twins!”

I’ve broken him now.

“I’m going to walk right in there and get the ID back myself.”

He motions toward the entrance, and I pop a hand out in front to block. He attempts to grab my hand, and I put him firmly back on the sidewalk. Our older door guy, who wishes to be referred to as Michael Weston, the actor. I only remember him from wearing argyle socks on House. I guess he sees a similarity. Personally, I don’t see it, but he’s stuck with it now.

Edit: He meant Michael Westen, the character from the USA spy dramedy Burn Notice.

So, Michael Westen sees this push and shove and gives Allen a warning. One more time and his ass is on the pavement. Allen disregards this warning and puts his hands on MW, who is smaller in stature but feisty like a skateboarder who had to run from the cops because it was illegal and he hates ‘the man.’ MW responds by spinning to Allen’s backside, yanking the hoodie underneath the Blue Adidas jacket and following through on a full downward motion like he’s spinning the wheel on The Price Is Right. Allen goes ass over teakettle as if he’s just stepped on marbles in Home Alone.

“Told ya,” Michael Weston said.

Allen was unfazed. Remarkable. He brushed it off as if it didn’t happen.

“I’m going to get my girlfriend, CLAIRE’S, ID back.”

Damn. Did that fall give him amnesia. Did I fall down, too? Are we living in a glitching simulation?

No. No. Maybe?

No.

We restart the whole process. Allen still thinks we stashed the ID somewhere in the bar (it was in my pocket), and the car still hasn’t turned back on.

“That ID is coming home with me.”

“So you can sleep with your girlfriend’s sister. Got it.”

“Li — CLAIRE is my girlfriend.”

“I know, I know, it’s hard to keep the lie up,” I said. “As Shaggy said, you just have to say it wasn’t you.”

He tried to come in once again. Michael Westen was so nice, he had to teach him the same lesson twice. On the ground goes Allen.

Mercifully, I had a break as Maui showed up. Finally, someone to break up the one-on-one. Give me a break and let some of the professional shit-talkers take over.

Maui comes out on the patio with a sugar free Red Bull, fresh off a nice steak dinner date with his significant other, who looked colder than absolutely everyone outside.

He asks me what we’ve got. Inside is still dead, but outside has all the action. I recap: Allen here is sleeping with his girlfriend’s sister who may or may be in the car. A real Schrodinger’s sidepiece situation going on. Meanwhile, Michael Westen already knocked him down twice. We’re going on an hour now.

“An HOUR, Jon?”

“Yep,” I said. “He’s still trying to think he’s going to get the ID back.”

Maui laughs. Allen chimes in, which was ill-advised.

“Shut up, you …Puerto Rican.”

WOW. We went from a White Knight scenario to death wish real fast.

Maui is a king shit-talker. He’s also a massive individual who almost bit someone’s finger off right in front of me (the guy deserved it). He takes two steps toward Allen and already they’re nose to nose.

“What’d you say to me, BOY?”

“My … I’m not … I didn’t mea-…I wasn’t talking about you.”

He was.

“You wanna go right now? I’ll take you out right here.”

While he is my friend and taking some heat off me at the moment, I remind him that isn’t in anyone’s best interest. Again.

“Back off. My da-”

“Your what, your DADDY? Did you just pull a daddy card?”

Allen indeed pulled the daddy card. AKA the preppy white kid’s attempt at a get-out-of-jail-free card.

“Why don’t you get your daddy to buy you a new pair of shoes? Why doesn’t daddy pay for some actual pants? Look at these shoes, they’re worth at least twice, no, three times those brand new.”

Allen tries to come back with the actual MSRP of his shoes but gets rightfully interrupted.

“You know what, actually this can of Red Bull cost more than those shoes, and it was FREE.”

I know this may seem like a petty line, but this legitimately hurt Allen. You could see it on his face. He may still believe he is winning the ID battle, but he knows he lost the white privilege battle, and when that card is removed from the deck, you don’t have a lot of options remaining.

Maui had to leave after this excitement. Allen, hurting — inside — showed signs of doubt, but decided to come back for more. He stepped back to the gate, Michael Westen took a step toward him, and Allen back off, just enough.

Almost 120 minutes after Lizzie walked away from me, the driver stepped out to car. Now he was no slouch. He stood 6-5, a good 230, and clearly the cold wasn’t affecting him inside a turned-off a car in late winter. Allen looked pleased. he had another card to play.

“If you don’t give me the ID,” he said coyly, “my friend here is going to beat you up and take it.”

I looked at Allen, looked at the driver, looked back at Allen, then right back to the driver.

“No, he’s not.”

The driver turned toward Allen and asked if they could go home. Lizzie was already asleep in the back. Yes, he mentioned her by name. Couldn’t play the name card, the race card, the daddy card, the beefy friend card. Fold and go home.

“Fine,” Allen said.

What? It’s over? It’s finally over?

“I’ll just follow you home when you get out of work and take it from you myself.”

Fuck you, calling the cops.

I get on with dispatch. Allen is unfazed. Still at the gate. I walk over to the car. Give dispatch Allen’s general description. Still nothing. Start reading out the license number. The driver is getting tense, tells Allen to get in the car.

Start describing the driver’s build and specific tattoo design.

The driver runs around the front of the car and picks up Allen, opens the rear passenger door, and throws him inside. Dispatch asked if I wanted a unit to roll by, I declined and said they left on their own. The call did its job, even though you could tell Allen, still smiling as the car drove on, thought he won.

I wonder how his girlfriend thanked him. I wonder what lie he told her.

I wonder if she thought he was her Knight in Shining Armor.

But to me, Maui, Michael Westen, the driver, dispatch, and the public. He was an asshole.

Because White Knights always are.

You ever come across someone just completely dead behind the eyes? No thoughts of the universe, contemplations of cosmic energy, fond memories of bygone youth. No sense of wonder, or confusion, or intrigue. No worry, or sadness, or joy. Nothing that screams out in the tiniest way that there’s a human being in front of you. Just a mindless husk of a thing, staring at you, making you doubt if you’re awake or dreaming in a Matrix-like simulation.

I don’t think he was on drugs. Or under the influence. I’m not sure he could be influenced. If you’re not aware of your surroundings, how can you be sure you exist?

Man, fuck that kid. That’s too much introspection to waste on a guy who got his ass beat by one of the most tenacious fighters I’ve ever seen.

And I once saw a man split his hand open before fighting six cops and an ambulance full of EMTs.

Dead Behind the Eyes (DBE, or Debbie) was a young kid of maybe 23. He was tall and lanky, wearing a black long sleeve shirt and jeans neither of which were for the cold, only for the style. I almost didn’t let Debbie in because he was just so damn unnerving. I asked for his ID and he just stared at me, then tilted his head ever so slightly before tilting it back straight again.

Didn’t speak.

I literally had to point to his friend’s wallet for him to make the connection.

I don’t want to say that I felt dumber for having occupied the same space, because I’m not sure he was lacking in any intelligence. I offer this possibility — his body and his mind were disjointed from this plane of reality. Wherever he astral projected too, I hope his personality was having fun, because his body soon would not.

Because even though he gave me the heebie jeebies, he wasn’t the asshole.

Debbie was inside a full bar, loosely holding some mixed drink, probably a vodka Red Bull. Well, I wanted it to be a VRB because maybe the liquid cocaine concoction would spark a modicum of personality.

It did not.

Debbie got bumped before the liquid bump could take effect.

That jostle caused his cup to spill onto the woman next to him, and unleashing hell. After entering a wet tee shirt contest without her consent, the woman’s brother became so irate that he launched into Debbie, verbally and physically, until they had to be separated. What did Debbie do next?

He moved down to the landing area by the door, and just stared back at O Brother, Where Art Thou, who was revving himself up for the next attack.

It took three people to restrain Ulysses, though none put any pressure on the muscle hamster. Once Ulysses locked onto Debbie, he charged down the ramp like a bull in Pamplona, with red in his eyes and hate in his heart.

To say Ulysses was roided isn’t a copout. I’ve been around the strength game for decades and there’s just no way to get this big at his age without a little extra secret stuff. Certainly not illegal by any means, but definitely unnatural.

Ulysses gained speed down the ramp, but instead of form tackling Debbie, he simply raised his right hand and mushed it into Debbie’s dumb little face, palming it like Boban Marjanovic holds Keanu Reeves’ skull in John Wick 3. Debbie does … nothing. He stands there and takes it. Until he takes flight. Ulysses grabbed his face so violently that he forced Debbie through the doorway and into the patio tables stacked for winter storage. Debbie careened off two tables and a stack of chairs while we, the bar staff, wrangled the wild boar away from a third assault.

Little Debbie dumb motherfucker just stands back up and keeps fucking looking at everyone with a, “hey what’s all this fuss about” look.

I grab him and remove him from the bar for his own safety. Better to be thrown out by me gently than bouncing off the pavement for a second time in 20 seconds.

Meanwhile, Ulysses thinks he can still get away with it and heads back inside the bar. Seeing this is not in anyone’s best interest, I put a hand on his shoulder.

Silly me. You can’t arm tackle Marshawn Lynch. I couldn’t stop this beast mode with an arm bar.

Now facing the door, his mitts on the handle, pulling it open, I wrap my right arm over his right shoulder, grab hold of my left wrist, and squat.

Combining bodyweight and my full winter gear — snow boots, long johns, hiking pants, long undershirt, work shirt, work hoodie, double layer Columbia jacket, hand warmer, thin gloves, winter gloved left hand, Carhartt neck warmer, and winter hat — I’m a formidable opponent.

One thing I lack, however, is proper leverage. My makeshift bearhug would not do it this time. Ulysses was too strong and too stout for the ol’ Vaudeville hook. That’s where the deadweight squat came into play. Let me tell you, my full winter weight of ~315 pounds was just barely enough to keep Ulysses at bay.

The tide turned as Ulysses’ friends realized he would not win the round against our staff, so they ushered him out, but also pointing out Debbie, who was just standing on the sidewalk staring back at the bar like a forlorn homeowner wondering why the birds haven’t come to the feeder yet.

I tell Travis Chorly to call the cops. Clearly this group is looking for a fight and will endanger anyone who gets in their way. After all, they’re trying to defend a woman’s honor, right?

She’s the victim here, right?

Chorly takes out the phone, but before the numbers could populate the screen, we hear, “don’t call the cops you fucking pussy!”

From the sister.

Sweet. I can now wash my hands of all of you. Get the fuck out.

Really?

You’ve got to be kidding me.

Guess who’s back?

Waiting to get into the bar.

Debbie.

I’m not a spiritual man, but even I looked up to the sky and asked, “why me?” when Debbie returned.

For a man who got absolutely wrecked into iron tables and chairs, wet wood and cold concrete, Debbie looked as crisp as when we first met. He even offered up his ID this time.

“That’s not the issue. You got into a fight. Go home.”

Now, I know he didn’t actually fight anyone, but his absentmindedness caused a chain reaction so great it turned this blog into a two-parter.

“Do you want to see my ID?”

Maybe the blows to his face and body knocked something loose, because these were the first words I heard him speak. Still, not great words. His two friends then came outside and attempted to get him back inside. Not a great attempt, they just looked at me, I shook my head, and they turned to Debbie and offered him a warm up session in the car.

Debbie took the offer.

For 15 minutes.

He returned, blank as before, waiting outside the gate with his hands in his armpits Mary Katherine Gallagher-style, albeit without the sniffing. He said nothing this time. Just stood outside, in the cold, looking on, waiting for his soul to return from the astral plane to take him home or freeze to death like Jack Nicholson at the end of The Shining.