Last week I swore up and down that I am not a bouncer. 

My have times changed in one weekend. 

Full moons possess mythical powers. I can guarantee you their transformative force on humans is real and you only have to walk into any gin joint, saloon and pub when the clouds wade away to see its full effect. A full moon brings out the animal inside. The alcohol probably aids in the transition, but from the vast amount of people using two hands on their phones Saturday, imbibing drinks was farthest from the main issue. So I shall blame the moon for the choppy tides inside the usually aged and experienced customers

My Saturday got off to a rough start as one guest, let's call her Alice as she was deep down the rabbit hole when I clocked in, was exiting the bar. As the main college bar in the downtown landscape with party games and dart boards, I see thousands of youngsters each month. What I don't see are septuagenarians getting blitzed to the point they fall backward and have their skull land on my foot.

Three things entered my mind when my foot broke Alice's fall.

One: Boy I was glad I wore two pairs of socks. It gets cold standing outside or holding the door open when the wind chill gets to 11 degrees. The extra padding softened the blow, but not that much.

Two: My toes are broken. The kid from Jerry Maguire said the human head weighs eight pounds. Adding gravitational acceleration and the angle of her downward trajectory, it felt like a lot more. I felt a similar sensation when a 45-pound weight plate fell on my foot my freshman year in college and bloodied my sock so much Curt Schilling would think it excessive.

Three: Relief and confusion. My toes weren't broken, but the shock stung for a bit. And Alice kept her lips on that cigarette. She fell ass over teakettle and was still smoking all the way down and all the way back up. The full moon was out in full force. It just took me five hours to realize it.

After Alice came one brawl in the back, thankfully taken care of by each party. Two projectile vomits later another donnybrook, a term appropriate due to the advanced ages of all parties involved, in the middle of the bar begins and ends without much fanfare. I'm not sure who pushed who, or who looked at who wrong as I was shutting down the pong table, another source of nightly arguments, but the full moon won again. At this point, it's helpful to know that I still thought of myself as the friendly door guy and not "big bad bouncer Jon." 

A few more scuffles break out in and outside, still nothing major as we approach 2 a.m. Sunday morning. Being the onset of Daylight Saving Time, however, 2 became 3 and I wanted to go home. The full moon is chuckling.

Tipping your bartender is customary. Tipping excessively is fantastic. But do not mistake flattery during service for access, and never mistake access for authority. At 2, or rather 3 a.m., the only authority in the bar is the staff who work there. If at 3:05 a.m. the highest authority says leave, please leave.

The full moon is up to a cackle.

It's late and there's one man left. Unbeknownst to us, Cubbie is covering up a mess at his feet. His mess, which one can assume is why he tipped so heavily. I give him time to finish his drink, ask the bartender if he's all paid up. Both are answered by affirmations of gulps and nods. It is now time to go.

The full moon is Hyenic and cannot be stopped until all animals reveal themselves and dominance observed and learned. Cubbie asks for three more drinks. Request denied. It's time to go. Cubbie tells me to fuck off. Wrong move, but the phrase is dispensed so freely at me I can let it go. One more time, Cubbie, it's time to go.

Cubbie tells my boss to fuck off. Behold the bouncer.

Cubbie brings the can of Budweiser to his lips but I get my left hand to it first. Go for the weapon first if you can see it. Disarm. Remove. Lock door. Simple rules to follow. The can tilts at a 45-degree angle but my hand squeezes it and pulls it away from Cubbie's body. Suds spray up and down at both us as we struggle but the can is free of his hand and my right arm is wrapping around his body underneath his right armpit, hand on chest, pulling him away from the bar. Left foot on the footrest pipe for extra leverage and he is now in the open. My left hand, free of the can but soaked in St. Louis lager, follows to his left armpit. Now I have control, but my footing is poor but good enough to drive to the exit. Most people give up at this point. Most.

Cubbie still wants something to hold onto so he grabs the small bungee cord at the end of my winter coat. We pass one pillar, then the next, one more to go. My footing is good but my hands are now concerned over his when one wrong pull could rip my jacket. I stop and wrestle for control. I win the bungee battle but fall behind in the war. Luckily my boss is following and has the temerity to take Cubbie the remaining three yards down the ramp.

Disarmed. Removed. Door locked. Fifteen seconds. The full moon is pleased.

"Why do people think they can mess with Jon," says a bartender.

I don't know why they think what they think. Act as they act.

But the bouncer will handle it.