Welcome to the Shiftshow: Part I
I thought about separating these stories into three different blogs, one of which I could write while on the stationary bike at the Y.
Turns out, besides being shit on an actual bicycle, I’m also not that balanced on bikes without wheels. Full disclosure: I haven’t been on a real bike in 17 years. If anyone wants to test the “as easy as riding a bike theory,” I’ll take my money up front, please and thank you.
Many of you already know a little of what I’m going to write about. I teased a bachelorette party and something with the police. My assault and battery is in Part II. For now, I offer June’s first Saturday.
That Escalated Quickly
Three young guns walked up from the apartments at the other end of the block. The first one came closer, checked everything, and he went inside. The second one was wearing a plain white shirt with “The New York Ass Times” written in Chomsky typeface. I laughed harder than I think I should’ve, but I couldn’t resist.
He made a fatal flaw, though. He said he lost his ID and credit card at the beach. Not the wallet, which he had, just the two most important cards.
Dejected, he went back to his third yet unidentified friend. The first kid walked out to see what the holdup was, and I explained the situation.
“He’s 23, don’t you believe him!”
Wow, a whole 23. Both Blink-182 and Jimmy Eat World think he shouldn’t be breathing the same air as us normal folk. My answers weren’t good enough for the third friend, who went all in.
Normally, people bribe me to let their ID-less friend inside. It never works and sometimes has unforeseen consequences. So, I was fully expecting a dollar amount. Ten is too low, 20 is about the average ask. One hundred isn’t being serious, they’re just flexing.
The third friend had something different on his mind.
“I WILL SUCK YOUR DICK RIGHT NOW TO GET HIM IN.”
For a split second I was like, “well, it is pride month,” but I didn’t have a witty comeback. All I heard was Peanut say “damn, son, right to the point.”
The point indeed. He was so convicted, too.
Never broke eye contact. And this would not be some back alley deal.
He wanted Ass Times at Ridgemont High in so badly that only some sidewalk Sunny D was the answer.
13 Angry Women
COVID deniers notwithstanding, these last few months have truly been awful for those in the customer service arena. People straight up don’t know how to act in public anymore.
So, I’m going to break one of my rules, naming someone.
But I have context.
A few years ago, while walking with my family in the streets of Milwaukee, our group was near another, and they were having a heated argument. Just as we were within earshot we heard a guy shout, “shut up Megan, you ruin everything!”
Now, apologies to my many Megan (or Megan adjacent) friends, but every time I hear that name, I want to tell them to shut up, regardless if they’ve done something wrong.
Megan is also a great name for mid-20s girls going out. We already have Brads & Chads, but my mom coined Megans in Leggins’ and I think it fits perfectly.
Not two minutes after clocking in at 6 pm on Saturday, June 4, 10 women sprung upon me with hate in their hearts, but that’s probably because they were from Ohio.
Our elder doorman let mom in with two others before my shift started. The advance team laying in wait.
Of the 10 new women, most were 23 to 27. Clearly either a birthday party or a bachelorette party. I didn’t know for sure until I saw the dress theme — black blouses set against denim. Women rarely dress the same for a birthday, yet they want the stark contrast if one of them is getting married.
I thought the bride-to-be was already inside — in a black and white polka dot dress, late 20s, and carrying a sign. A big white poster with something written on it in bold, black ink — a Venmo name perhaps?
I informed mom and the group that one of their clan was underage. A Pennsylvania ID in a sea of Ohio was one dead giveaway. Unnecessary lamination, another. Glue around the sticker, the third. Some creasing was the final nail. A surefire fake. Nothing too terrible, though. Most of the party could stay. I told them they could still order some shots or drinks and have a good time.
Not exactly.
Because I never read what was on the sign.
Or the name they drew on the wall.
Or the mom’s surname.
I just saw a fake. That was it.
Because it would be silly for a group of 12 women to split into two groups, create signs, plan party favors, dress alike, and carve out an interstate road trip for a teen bride, right. Right?
RIGHT?
Fuckin’ Megan. Ruins everything.
She was the instrument of her own bachelorette party’s demise.
This party didn’t just leave. They made plans, after all. They drove here from Ohio, still don’t know why.
Pushing, pulling, bartering, name calling, swearing. Only Polka Dots actually asked for the ID back. The rest just yelled at me for five minutes. Two women had to close tabs before regrouping with the rest of the squad.
That’s where shit must have really hit the fan. After walking down the block, Peanut and I saw one girl end up on the ground. Not in a “I got in a fight sense,” but more like a “my life is over why do I exist” sense. Deliberations must’ve ended soon after because five took off for the next bar, Megan included. But that left 8 more roaming the street back in our direction. Two claimed an Uber, furious they had to return to the scene of the great injustice.
An older sister, I discovered, was in a huff but also led the charge back inside.
“You want to check mine again,” she said frantically. “Am I 21 or 24? Who Knows!”
Uh, what? She was 26. Frankly, I’m still confused by what she was trying to say. Soon, the rest of the crew wanted more of us. Why?
SHOTS!
Yep. After the first schism that took mom and teen bride out of the picture, the Darty crowd wasn’t done drinking. And complaining.
“Your bouncer wouldn’t accept an Ohio ID and won’t give it back,” Electro later reported.
You know, if you’re taking a teenager out to the bars to celebrate an impending wedding, at least know the correct state of her fake. That’s little league shit right there.
Polka Dot Dress came back out once more.
“You could have handled that better, ya know,” she said.
“Well, don’t bring a teenager into a bar.”
“She’s of age,” she said, not knowing which age, exactly.
I calmly brought up my phone. I like to do a simple Google search of the first middle and last names. Why? If they’re an athlete, the roster will show some relevant information. If they’re a voter, the registration.
If they’re from Ohio, however, an entry in the Ohio Resident Database will pop up. Usually the first result, too. Yep, undone by the internet once again.
Two women found rental scooters after yelling at an upcoming group that we didn’t accept people from Ohio. The rest stuck around for a the saddest Saturday evening Uber you ever did see.
Thirteen women entered, all left in shambles.
Megans, man. They really ruin everything.
Saturday Shift Shitshow, Part II (Preview)
Always learn your camera angles, folks. It can mean the difference between a clear assault & battery and the cops calling you a liar.
