Saturday, May 29, 2021

5:46 p.m.

The weather report was misleading, nothing new, but I didn’t know that yet. It was getting colder deep into the night, but warmer during daylight. What did this mean? Well, with temperatures dropping to the low 40s by the time my shift would be over, that meant the whole gambit. Thick socks, long johns, long undershirt, over shirt, cargo pants, hoodie, winter beanie in the back pocket as an extra precaution.

Already hot because it was still 70 degrees, I contemplated discarding the hoodie. I rechecked the weather app on my phone. Higher winds and sundown would bring the temps down to 50 within three hours. The hoodie stayed on.

5:57 p.m.

I lean slightly over the passenger seat while getting into the exit lane. Just a little preview of what I can expect before looping back around and parking. No line yet? Check. Anyone to notice? A few people on the patio. No other activity. My mind’s at ease.

5:59 p.m.

I park my car across from the bar. It’s not hot. But it’s warm. Warmer than I feel it should be. The weather app says everything still as expected. I move the necessary items from my main wallet to my RFID protected wallet. ID, valet key, some loose cash if I have it, in case I get hungry later. I scan my car. What else do I need? Phone, obviously. Sunglasses — on my face. Gloves, back pocket. Time for work.

6:00 p.m.

Why was that walk across the street making me sweat? I shouldn’t be sweating now, it’s been 20 yards. What’s different? Laundry? Yep. Everything was just washed and dried — and snug.

I say hello to Newton, an early hour doorman (who has since no-call no-showed himself out of the job) and he said there might be something going on at the bar. OK. Not great, why wasn’t he handling it, but he’s new. I lend an ear.

There’s a man at the bar being cut off, looks drunk, but not totally sure. Damn, son. Getting wasted with 5 hours of bar time still left in the evening. Not the best scenario for a person who isn’t even clocked in yet.

I walk through the bar, ah, the air conditioning. We’re “dead.” A few people here, most by the windows, but very little activity that’s not near sunlight. I spot our intoxicated friend at the bar. Phew! He’s closing his tab, has water in hand, and MoHawk is cutting him off for posterity’s sake.

Code punched, clocked in. Time to walk back to the door.

I reach the door and speak to Newton, giving him the lowdown on what I saw. Cutting off, cashing out, and ending the day on a lower night than planned. It happens. Some people can’t hang.

6:01 p.m.

While taking to Newton, I scan the patio. Nobody to my right, three tables to my left, two conjoined. Two men, one in a dark clothes, one carrying a backpack, joined with two women, one in a long maroon dress and the other next to a stroller, baby in tow. I swivel my head back to the right and this is what I see at the top of the ramp:

• Florabama Shore is wounded-warrior walking her man down the ramp on his left side. Wearing skin tight denim jeans, an orange half-open sleeve blouse, heels to match, a fake tan 45 would think is “tremendous” and some tats, I almost thought Knicks-era Carmelo Anthony was undergoing a post-basketball renaissance. Besides her presumed boyfriend, she was also carrying a tall Vodka Red Bull (which is basically liquid cocaine).

• Jersey Shore was looking rough. Normally, leaving the bar with a woman under each arm is a great sign. All you have to do is remain level-headed and somewhat conscious. He was missing the mark on both accounts, but at least he had a nice grip on the water. He was wearing dark pants, a beige shirt, and a backwards cap.

• Baby Spice was a silent partner. Under the arm to the right of Jersey Shore, she was offering little physical support, instead caring more for the Green Tea shots, one in each hand. She was wearing a long sleeve white blouse and jeans. All three were roughly the same height in shoes and heels — 5-foot-7 to 5-9.

When the crew reached the bottom of the ramp and turned toward the group on the left, I suggested they set Jersey Shore on the bistro setup just outside our main patio. After all, in my head, and correct me if I’m wrong, but drunk guy and unaware-of-the-situation baby don’t mix well.

I wasn’t forcing either woman to sit outside, just suggesting that the clearly drunk man — who has already cashed out and cut off — wait out the rest of the afternoon at an adjacent patio setup, away from aforementioned kiddo.

6:02 p.m.

Fan, meet shit. Shit, meet fan. Oh, you don’t get along? Then by all means, Shit, hit Fan.

To her credit, Baby Spice actually seemed genuinely pleased to take her drinks outside to the bistro setting (which is allowed). That table was actually closer to the fivesome than the other patio table in the enclosure. She almost reached the table when Jersey Shore flipped the fuck out.

Few things I hate more in this life than name droppers and bullshit artists. People talking themselves up more than the facts already laid on the table is unbelievably tiring. Here’s what I was taunted with:

• “What the fuck, bro? I’m not even drunk. Nobody cut me off, I’m still fuckin’ drinkin’.”

I later found out from MoHawk that Florabama Shore requested Jersey Shore be cut off.

• “You’re going to lose your fuckin’ job, bro. I know [Owner No. 1 Name] and [Owner No. 2 Name, and [Owner No. 3 Name]. You’re fucked, bro.”

Name droppers are detestable for two main reasons — either I don’t care/know whose names you just said, or I also know the names you just said, but if I’m on the clock, my relationship with them is far greater than your relationship with them, guy who is now on the verge of being asked to leave permanently.

• Florabama interrupted with a classic mixture of “you’re crazy, power hungry, fucking nuts, gone psycho,” etc. She then said they were all fine, and that they were with the group with the kid.

That took me back a bit. That’s an odd group dynamic. Trashy and classy, basically. A look deeper why you’d bring a baby to a college dive bar and I guess the lines were blurred long before I arrived.

Is that a strike on me? I didn’t think so. I only clocked in two minutes ago.

This isn’t some Dhar Mann video where we all learn some valuable lesson about not judging books by their covers. I’m bar security. I absolutely judge books by their covers. Those books would be one page long and only have two sentences: Hey dumbass, please read the title of the book on the front cover again. Why did you even open me?

Jersey Shore’s cover? While I knew his face from experiences at the bar, no violence was ever directed at me. Until 6:02 p.m. on Saturday, May 29, 2021. That’s when she turned and walked toward the door.

I thought he was going to go inside and prove he could order another drink. He wouldn’t be served one, but a man in his state of mind wouldn’t know that.

So, I turned 90 degrees to my right and put an outstretched arm covering the open space of the door. Not on Jersey Shore, mind you. Just the doorway.

Little did I know that small turn prevented me from all legal action.

Why?

Even though I covered his re-entry, my bulky back, adorned by two layers of shirts and a hoodie, blocked the primary camera angle of Jersey Shore calling me a faggot and spitting on my chest.

6:03 p.m.

Jersey Shore weighed ~175 pounds. Being a foot shorter made escorting him out that much easier. My forward and downward momentum made him stumble to the ground. It wasn’t a hard push. If he was 25 pounds heavier or three inches taller, he wouldn’t have fallen. Or if he hadn’t been drunk.

Immediately, I threw my hand up in disgust.

Not that the spitting or the slur was unexpected, but it was unwarranted.

I’ve only been clocked in for 3 minutes and and I have God knows who’s pandemic petri dish on my hoodie. A blink of an eye later, Jersey Shore is upright and going for my face. He gets a soft swipe on one side while I feel Florabama grab some back material and put a hand on the other cheek. I stretch both arms out and find a source on each — her hand and his shoulder — and twist to throw them off me.

The maneuver works.

Sort of.

Newton is nowhere to be seen. It was one of his first few shifts, but this job is literally all about preventing or stopping these antics is the biggest part of the job.

Baby Spice came back into the frame, still holding the shots, but still not offering much in the way of support, physical, moral, or otherwise.

To the quintet’s credit (four adults, one baby), one man stepped up and prevented Jersey from committing more acts of hand-to-hand action, but nobody stopped Florabama from kicking me in the calf and punching me in the lower back.

I only found out about the kick and punch from the video. Though they doomed my legal pursuits in the end, the extra layers created a pain-proof buffer in the moment.

With Jersey being handled and Florabama yelling her lungs out about how psycho I was, I thought this would be the end. Stupid, I know.

I adjusted my hoodie and cleaned my sunglasses that became askew in the dustup. The dad, I assume, came up and asked what the situation was, oblivious* until that point.

*As the whole group was. I know a couple minutes isn’t long to most people, but if there are members of your group being stopped at the door and you make NO MENTION of familiarity, all I can do is go by my first instinct — get drunk guy away from unrelated baby area**.

**Get drunk guy away from unrelated baby area is how I imagine all women feel when approached by single men at the bar.

Now we’re in a screaming match. Well, they’re screaming and I’m cleaning my glasses.

“I don’t give a fuck about your glasses,” Florabama said just before she clawed at my face, knocking the glasses off and drawing blood.

The impact broke the nail from her finger, which I later spotted under some orange construction sandbags. I received a deep red scratch down the middle of my nose that lasted for five days. Sweet. Assault and Battery. I’m such a winner.

Still wrestling with a quintet member, Jersey calls me more names and slurs — yadda yadda yadda — and spits on me not once, but twice more!

A customer inside caught these two additional moist missiles on video. He was cool, understood the job, and tipped well. He let me record the footage from his phone as the minutes-long file was too large to send directly. Hit me up, I’ll show you sometime.

Being spat on isn’t fun. I can take the names, but the spitting? This is still a pandemic, bro! That’s just gross. Clawing and drawing blood is one thing, but all these guys who claim to be fighters always, always, always, resort to bush league tactics that never amount to proving any type of manhood***.

***Kicking someone in the junk is fair game in a fight, by the way. Spitting, slurs, racial or sexual, and throwing drinks or food, however, is just petty.

6:04 p.m.

Peanut arrives, clocks in, and get a breakdown of the situation from me, MoHawk, and Newton, who finally shows up to the front gate.

The quintet gathers their belongings, baby included, and starts walking out. Newton lets Florabama back inside to get her VRB. I try not to speak ill of people I work with, but this is an exception. Newton was hilariously bad at his job. Reaction time notwithstanding, I can’t abide by ineptitude. You saw an actual assault happen. That person doesn’t get to go back inside to grab her drink.

Why?

Because a few seconds later it was on me. Then one of the Green Teas.

Jersey Shore flipped the fuck out, thinking I might retaliate, but I know better.

I moved toward the front gate, blocking everyone’s access from entering again.

Baby Spice still had her shot for a half second before Florabama grabbed it and heaved it my way.

Overheating, sweating, doused in energy drinks, sour mixer, vodka, whiskey, and schnapps, bleeding, dirty, angry, over it.

Florabama, maybe sensing my discomfort and her own guilt in going overboard, found Jersey’s water and was kind enough to rinse me off. How thoughtful.

I soon spotted Maroon dress to my left, holding her phone in classic Karen mode, already narrating a false dialogue of how I punched Florabama and violently threw her to the ground. I motioned to our cameras, thinking they would save me.

Anecdotally, they do. Legally, they didn’t.

I was going to be sued; they told me. No longer working, they added. A monster. Psycho. Power mad.

Yes, all this power.

All this power for someone who — until that point in the evening — made 66 cents.

6:08 p.m.

Peanut hands me a towel so I can wipe the blood from the bridge of my nose. I haven’t from there since football. I take a time-stamped photo of my face. The red mark won’t get worse until the next morning, but the scratch is apparent. I also take a photo of my broken glasses.

It’s the shift change of the local police department. We try to flag down any cruiser.

One cop slows down, rolls his window down, and gives us a friendly wave.

Outstanding.

7:38 p.m.

We get a lull and a break in the case. Combined search efforts give us the names of Jersey and Florabama Shore. Jersey was an ex-employee from a different owned venue (hence the name drops) and his girlfriend was a proximal hairstylist. Beaten up in our own backyard. Damn.

I memorize the names and spelling and call the non-emergency line.

7:49 p.m.

I hang up on the non-emergency line after I cannot get through. Normally I could leave a message, but the option wasn’t available to me. Little else happens that night.

Sunday, May 30, 2021

11:26 a.m.

I arrive at the local police station. I called earlier in the morning to file the report, but once I mentioned the scratch, it was something I needed to make in person.

For the next 20 minutes, I make my statement. Give the facts as they happened, and give the contact information of all those who had video. I told the desk officer that I also had second-hand video. He said I’d give that to the detective when they followed up with me in a day or two.

I went over what happened two more times.

I made a mistake. One a journalist seldom makes. And one my government-wary counterparts would make either.

I should have recorded my statement inside the precinct.

Tuesday, June 1, 2021

2:36 p.m.

I receive my first call with whom I thought was the detective. Turns out it’s just another junior officer. Not a detective, like the desk officer said, but at least it was someone. I go through my statement a few times.

She provides me with an email address to send the spellings of Jersey and Florabama Shore. I ask her if she needs the footage. She says she has yet to reach (to my boss), but will get it tomorrow.

Wednesday, June 2, 2021

12:40 p.m.

I receive a call from the same police officer on the case.

False hopes risen too soon.

She said the footage my boss gave them contradicted my statement. Gut-punched, I asked in which way.

She said I told the first officer I was spat on two times, not three(1), that kicking someone out of the bar differs from throwing someone down(2), and that I didn’t provide proof that I was injured(3).

1. I told the desk officer I was spat on two additional times when he was outside the gate. But I also said it was three times during our first call, and when and where they happened. And that the first time led him to being

2. Kicked out. He was shorter and smaller. But was very clear that even though he went to the pavement, he sprang back up and hit me in the face.

3. I told the officer on the call that the desk officer said I could give what I had to them when they contact me. Clearly that wasn’t an issue with getting the footage from my boss. And I asked her the day before if she needed the footage and she told me to wait.

On the call, I could send the photos of the scratch, the broken glasses, and the customer’s video.

Thursday, June 3, 2021

3:30 p.m.

“Hi, Mr. Rzepecki, from the attorney’s perspective everything started when you threw him on the ground so they have decided not to bring charges.”

“What about all the other assaults after that, and the clawing? She wasn’t even the one I kicked out.”

“I think your story changed too many times and the camera angle only caught you throwing him to the ground and that’s what caused everything after. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“No.”

Because you didn’t help me at all.

Moral of the story: always check your camera angles, record conversations with the police, and try really hard not to be spat on three times, punched three times, kicked once, clawed in the face, get your glasses broken, and have four drinks thrown on your person in a four-minute window.

Saturday Shift Shitshow, Part III (Preview)

Girl trying to get into the bar at 11 p.m. claims she can make a 20-hour Florida drive in 12 hours, and also has to arrive by the next afternoon.