Double Take
Like Deja Vu, you can’t fake a good double take. There’s just no substitute for an internal shock with an external awe that warps your mind for less than a second.
How can events play out perfectly, yet so eloquently confounding?
I had three instances on Saturday where I had to double take a situation, one of which I was more than a witness. They will be as follows: innocuous, sanctimonious, and finally, hilarious.
Innocuous Moments in Time
When you work so many jobs as I do, seeing three or more lives intersect is par for the course. The bar and the venue overlap quite often. The day job? Not so much.
As the night stretches, so does the line outside the bar. I allow a select few to bypass this archaic system. Are they more regular than others? Not particularly. I only know they don’t cause any problems. And they are usually my venue friends.
Well, most of the time.
Regardless of who I let slide, I also know who I don’t. Simply put, you can’t just walk right in. This may not be Studio 54, but the local Sonnys and Chers still have to wait. That said, at least 95 percent of our regulars know this rule.
Anyone who doesn’t gets a look. More often than not, a stern one. And in this case on Saturday, two. But of surprise.
Because for all of my professional lives, my daytime and my moonlighting hardly cross over. In fact, it’s happened fewer than 10 times in three years.
Naturally, I saw this person walk up and stand near the front of the line. I was shocked! This person was one of the last I thought I’d see on an already long Saturday. But what makes this one more newsworthy than the others?
One of my daytime colleagues has a twin.
And that’s when I pointed, stared, and told a woman that her name wasn’t her name.
Which is both correct, funny because both parties were in on what was happening, and also downright Looney Tunes to anyone in line. One person in line asked what made her so special and I said that she looked like someone I work with. That did not help the situation, as naturally the follow up question was, “If I look like one of your friends, do I get to go in, too?”
For which, there is no good answer. And no good way to transition into the next story.
Holy Sanctimony Matrimony
Less exposition needed than the first tale, this is about one woman’s quest to find the perfect mate.
She has two quick questions:
Are you allowed within 500 yards of a school?
Have you listened to The Killers’ debut album Hot Fuss in its entirety?
What?
You’re just casually trying to find a husband outside a dive bar on a Saturday night during a smoke break. Obviously you want to weed out a potential pedophile, which, you know, generally a good idea. But what gets me is that she asked both questions at the same time. Like, what if someone says no to No. 1, but yes to No. 2? Which question is the dealbreaker?
Hilarity Ensues
We had an issue last weekend with someone bailing on us when things got busy. Honestly, it’s fine. If you’re not up to work long hours on your feet, a busy weekend bar isn’t your thing. I’m still not entirely sure how it became my thing, but that’s for a much later time.
Before he gave us the slip, however, he did kick out one interesting specimen. Let’s call him Olie.
Olie gets kicked out for the usual. Too much of the drink and not enough food or water. After refusing water and attempting to repeatedly come back inside, claiming he wasn’t kicked out, I thought he got the picture and left.
He was hiding behind the outer door, waiting for me to turn around. Not at all sneaky when he still has to cross my face to get inside.
After a few more attempts at moving himself into the paths of guests leaving, I finally give him the brushback. He staggers a few steps and moves off a few yards out of the way where he talks to the smokers.
Thirty-five minutes pass and he still hasn’t left the sidewalk. He’s still claiming he didn’t get kicked out, that it was his choice to be outside. What gets me is that Olie wasn’t overly aggressive or flamboyant. Was he irritating? Yes. Was he a threat? Probably not.
After 10 more minutes fly by, Olie figuratively dusts himself off and heads down the road.
Only to come back around 10 minutes later.
We’re now almost a full hour after he was escorted out and by golly gee whiz, he found himself a beer.
A street beer. An already opened, partially consumed, 12-ounce Bud Light he found near a parked party bus.
I know who was on that bus. Screw Coronavirus, he needs the Hep C antivirals. All of them.
Olie walks up to Peanut and starts shooting the shit like he’s never been inside before. Like nothing ever happened and he’s now Joe Schmo from down the road. From some other bar where he was allowed to leave with a half-full can of Bud Light.
Can a known commodity be worthy of a double take? We’ve dealt with Olie for an hour now. It’s getting late and the line is only growing. Olie is out here claiming the night’s still young and he’s worthy of a shot. Before everyone else.
Until he drops his newfound beer.
Any beer can, no matter how full, makes a distinct sound when it hits the pavement. You’re going to hear a thud. Metal. Foam. Spray.
This can was no different. I went over and picked up the can from beside Olie’s feet and placed into our recycling bin. Dude can’t even hold onto his street beer and he thinks a second chance is deserved? No chance, Olie. Time to go home.
But Olie’s still thirsty.
He reaches down for his beer.
You know, the one that’s not there. The one that the man twice his size went up to him and retrieved by his feet. That beer.
He swipes for it like he’s shooting dice against a cardboard box.
But it’s not there.
Because I took it away.
SO HE DOES IT AGAIN.
And falls face first into my groin.
…
Peanut then rushes inside.
Something must be up. Is there a fight? A bird? A plane?
He runs back out.
And then i see it.
Pink chalk.
Peanut outlines the Bud Light spill like a forensic unit on the scene of a major crime.
And it’s the funniest thing I’ve witnessed and been victimized by all year.
