Racism and the Muscle Hamster
There are two wildly different stories to tell in this week's Canecdotes. The first is an overview of a record-setting weekend for confiscating fake IDs. The second details a mini-melee in the wee hours of Sunday morning.
As some of you noticed, quite verbally and physically I might add, I was not working at the bar on St. Paddy's Day weekend. After a weekend cavorting with friends in Des Moines, Iowa, for my best bud's wedding, it was time to get back in the swing of things.
Friday, March 24, was one hell of a night for collecting fake IDs. I think it's safe to say I have a keener eye for detail than most when it comes to spotting inconsistencies on a mass scale. And our bar, in particular, does a great job and almost all employees have added to their coffers with that sweet bonus cash. Simply put, I will only trust myself and our staff to point out a fake -- the rest of this city's bars be damned.
You could have all the wristbands from the downtown scene, but if you come at me with an ID eight inches taller and the wrong eye color, we're going to have problems. Five IDs was my previous nightly record.
I caught seven on Friday. With two more to boot on Saturday.
We will begin where the night ended and why "Racist Jon" is a moniker that is out in the world.
The seventh and final ID of my Friday shift was pretty straightforward. Gary, I'll call him, approaches with another guy and a girl, both carded at 21 and 22. Gary hands me an ID that I can only assume is a brother, or maybe a cousin of some sort. The differences between the photo and the man are obvious.
Gary stood about 5-foot-10, had thin, wispy eyebrows and did not look 26 years old. Much to his credit, Gary and his friends put up a fight, albeit for all the wrong reasons. The ID features a man who is 5-6 and has got some big eyebrows. I mean, we're talking Peter Gallagher caterpillars, here.
Gary did not like that I took the ID. His friends did not like it even more. And more than his friends, a man walking by with literally no knowledge of the situation started yelling at me, too. The trifecta. I've been called many things and names while working the door, but this was the first time racist entered the picture. Gary's guy friend kept shouting at me that I thought all Asians looked alike and he was going to sue me for everything I was worth because of my huge racist-ness.
First off, how can I believe all Asians look alike when this whole mess was created when I thought two Asians looked nothing alike?
The mind games start when one party says let's get the cops involved, clearly looking to intimidate me to giving up the card. I've already detailed how this doesn't work.
Getting the cops involved is not a threat to me. In fact, I will flag an officer to the bar myself. Worst case scenario — for the bar — is a returned ID. Worst case for the person is a fine and a possible court date. I'll call that bluff every time.
After it's clear I called their bluff, the bargaining stage began. Gary's female friend asked if I was compensated for doing this. I am, I said. Then she tried to tell me she was 5-6 and the same height. She then stood next to Gary and, as luck would have it, they were the same height.
She was wearing high heels.
"You must love your job," she said sarcastically. I replied that I did in my typical, apathetic bouncer voice. She did not speak to me again.
Gary's buddy then told me to just put the ID down and walk away. Why? I don't understand why I would do such a thing. If it's clearly a valid ID belonging to Gary, that he never changed the height on, and somehow learned to trim his eyebrows in a certain way, but you don't want the cops to verify it, then why would I ever give it back to you?
The six other IDs taken on Friday were more of the same -- but faster acceptances of failure. An Illinois ID with bad Photoshop kicked things off, followed by two girls who had the wrong eye color and two who couldn't spell their middle or last name. And one guy who thought he could pull a switcheroo after he came outside and gave his ID, warped enough to remember the card more than the name, to an underage friend 20 minutes after getting through the gate.
Saturday was about height, with two girls coming up thinking they could get away with being 5-0 to 5-3 passing for 5-11 and 6 feet. Not a chance. Seven for a night. Nine for the weekend. Easy money.
I'm glad the bar is one of the most diverse bars in the city, if not the entire state. We sport LGBT staff, enigmatic bartenders with stylish tattoos, my talented self, artistic barbacks, a surprisingly good Scrabble player and an adequate darts player, to name a few.
But on early Sunday morning, I am grateful one of our bartenders used to be in the military.
He's always up to provide for the common defense.
It's 1 am and we still have a line extending to the end of the block. Three men approach and congregate near the front of the line, one of them is hammered.
I see Blue-shirt drunk ass and tell his buddies he can't get into the bar. He's too far gone and nothing will change my mind. Dick, the taller but less physically fit friend, decides to be a smart ass.
"Hey, he said if you do 20 pushups you can get in," Dick said.
Oh, Dick. Stop while you're so, so far behind. I give him a flat denial. They're still in line.
"The bouncer wants 25 pushups and he'll let you in," Dick said.
One more denial. I told Dick he's not getting in and one more smart ass comment will get the whole group sent on their way.
"Well ... at least I don't part my hair on the left," Dick added.
I still have zero idea what this means. I was wearing my winter hat, so he couldn't see my hair or lack thereof. The Internet says parting one's hair to the right may be indicative of more feminine attitudes. Was I being mocked for not being effeminate? Who knows, but now the guys are not getting in and an unseen friend, the Muscle Hamster, is not having any part of it.
Muscle Hamster charges up beyond the gate. He's 5-8 maybe but strong as hell and determined to undermine authority. He gets through my attempt at a hand to the chest, then a clothesline. Soon my arm is wrapped around him and I'm pulling him back toward the gate entrance when I get yanked on the back collar of my winter coat. Dick wants to prove something.
Just as the other door guy steps in and stops Muscle Hamster from opening the door Face flies from his smoke break and is up to meet the challenge at hand. Face pulls Dick away from me and now it's a 3-on-2 tussle. Three sequences I am sure of happened.
One: Muscle Hamster is strong and holding his own. He's not going to be simply removed. It's going to take an extra effort.
Two: after some individual struggles, we all go flying toward the gate entrance and Muscle Hamster is able to hoist the other bouncer up in the air and onto the ground, with Dick tripping and falling down on both of them.
Three: I remove Dick from the patio, Face takes care of Muscle Hamster and we can all catch our breath. Fights are not worth it when there's no ring, mat and money on the line.
The sequence ended with the Muscle Hamster in handcuffs and the remaining friends banned.
I like the people of my city.
Just don't be a Dick.
