I've Been Bald This Whole Time

I wasn't quite sure what format I should write these "Canecdotes" from time to time. Should I use bullet points from each day? Go the news journalism route and do the inverted pyramid? Go chronologically or sensational? Factual or preserve anonymity? I guess I, along with all of you, will just have to wait and see how this page takes shape.

The above headline is in reference to a stunned bargoer on Saturday, February 25. Upon removing my hat inside to keep an eye on the crowd, a man walked up to me and said, "Wow, man. You've been bald this whole time?" Not much you can say after that. I gave a shoulder shrug and he went off to the back of the bar.

I started working the door at my bar during the second weekend of August 2016. I had a freelance assignment due at the end of the month and my former employment was no longer tenable. I wanted open space and freedom to move away from the drab, unhealthy surroundings of half a cubicle. My bar is the perfect fit for someone like me because I don't fit in the nine to five, despite often needing it more than I'd like to admit.

I do not have an effervescent or ebullient personality. I am tall. I am bigger than most. And yes, I am indeed bald.

I have never had to hit anyone and a vast majority of bad apples are removed using offensive linemen techniques rather than actual fighting skills. At the very worst I am severely apathetic working the door. I don't have to utter a single word before customers begin to unravel their life stories on a smoke break.

I may not learn your name, but I will remember your face and general appearance. I remember actions and am not swayed by how low cut your dress is or how much your bro needs his wingman. 

As of this posting I have confiscated 65 IDs from 63 people. My manager told me the bar usually caught two or three fakes per month in light months and four to six in the busy/summer months. I am on a 10 per month average. The bar is around 11 or 12.

Maybe it's my years of working at the newspaper, editing and proofreading the river. Maybe it's from my concert security days at Summerfest. Maybe it is my height and my perspective on how only someone of my stature sees the world.

I know how tall 5-foot-10 is because my dad comes up to my shoulder. I know how tall 5-5 is because my mom is chest level. I can see the top of someone's head if they are 6-3 and shorter, and I will know if you are trying to deceive me with an ID of 6-4 or taller if I have to lower my head to make eye contact with you.

I don't care if it's your birthday. Odds are I didn't even look. I can see you walking up to the bar. That's the first part. Hair style is of no importance, but eyebrows are. And eye color. And the structure of your jaw. The picture just has to match, and 99.5 percent of the time they do.

I can practically smell bad Photoshop. I can feel a bad sticker. I know if the ID is even supposed to have a sticker. I should be at 67 IDs but on two occasions people have taken the ID from my hands and ran away. 

I have taken IDs away from people older than 21. From more women than men. More in-state than out-of-state. More Illinois than any other out-of-state. More on Fridays than Saturdays, and more on Sundays than Wednesdays or Thursdays.

I will mock you into eternity "Meg Picture" and the repeat offender from New York with only half a shadow behind him. I don't feel bad for the real people who had to re-up at the DMV. I feel bad for your friends, who seem like nice people sometimes, who I decide to kick out into the cold. 

My bar is a fun place to work, meet new people, hang out and have a drink.

But don't lie to me.

I really, really don't like it.