Whether or not it’s good to be back is for another time. After all, this was just a Monday, at half capacity, while wearing a mask, hat, and sunglasses. I looked more like a Great Train Robber than a doorman, which is what this story is about.

Let's gloss over the other details of my first bar day since March 14: two fakes, one crying girl, almost no social distancing, a line to the corner, new hand sanitizer depots, a broken bathroom door frame, and sweaty bartenders. All could be a thing but we’re moving past them because of White Privilege.

The only nicknames that come to mind for these two men are Brittany and Tiffany Wilson, aka, the White Chicks played by the Wayans Brothers.

So, Tiffany came up in line with a print out of his missing ID (stolen), a debit card, and a picture of his birth certificate on his phone.

Good, you’re already ahead of me, no, that wasn’t acceptable.

At least his print out was in color. Also, now that I’m writing this, why do you have a scanned copy of your ID printer ready? You should absolutely not have that. That’s premeditatedly dumb.

Tiffany wasn’t having it, though, because it was his 23rd birthday and he waited in line.

And to prove that he was 23, he unbuttoned part of his shirt and lifted it up to show me and others outside his chest hair, which he though it was impossible for someone not of age to have. Wow, you really showed me you’re a mature 23, didn’t ya?

This is where Brittany strolls up and tries to give me the whole “I’m just showing him a good night on the town spiel.” First off, there is no good night on the town anymore. Not for a while, at least. Between rioting and COVID closures, there were maybe seven bars open for their wild night.

“Why don’t you just go buy booze for your friend and drink at home.”

“We already tried that.”

Then a girl walks out of the bar with a cocktail, so I give chase and tell Tiffany to stay put.

I come back and Tiffany said, “What if I just strolled right in?”

Yeah, because the 5-foot-7 man showing off his chest and belly hair is going to be real difficult to spot in a well-lit room of 80 people. It’s now clear that this situation needs to end, but I have to fix my mask to get the words out properly.

Talking in a mask is already a challenge. I’m sure the one I wear has an actual name, but it escapes me. My tube scarf covers my mouth before I fold it upward starting at my chin to the bridge of my nose. I got it as a free handout during the Toronto Argonauts pregame festivities last summer. The only drawback is that talking tends to make the outer rim curl and land in my mouth.

Luckily, this only happened after chasing the drink hider and at the very end of White Chicks Part Deux.

But getting from patiently wearing a mask during a busy, yet shortened, bar day and severe dry mouth caused by an improvised scarf gag, is as asinine as writing that sentence just now.

I moved Tiffany and Brittany out of the line so I could get the next handful of hard partiers inside. Things went smoothly for about five minutes.

Next I know, I’m being flagged down.

Brittany wants to negotiate.

“What if I gave you $100. Does that get him inside?”

“If you give me $100, I’ll just have $100 and he still won’t get in.”

I could not stress it enough to Brittany that his attempted bribe wouldn’t work. In fact, there is precedent for it not working in their favor. The Asshole Fee. And then it happened again.

Well, third time’s the charm.

“Come on man, it’s right here. A hundred dollars for us to get in.”

At this point I walked out from the gate and pointed at them for effect.

“If you (pointing at Brittany) give me $100, I will not let (pointing at Tiffany) in the bar tonight. I cannot be more clear on this.”

Apparently I needed to be clearer.

Brittany approached the gate, c-note in hand, again asking for his friend to come in. You know, with the print out and the debit card and photo of his birth certificate. And the chest hair. That class act. Him. Tiffany.

“I have the money.”

“Yeah, I can see that.”

“So, do we have a deal?”

“I already told you what’s going to happen.”

Brittany handed me the $100 bill like people do in the movies, folded in a handshake. Only difference from the movies is that I wasn’t going in for a handshake, and I really didn’t want people touching me regardless of if money was involved, so he made up his mind and placed the bill in the space between my thumb and index finger.

I put the very real Benjamin Franklin bill in my pocket.

And they stayed outside.

But Brittany was big mad so he called the cops.

How white do you have to be to call the cops because your attempted bribe didn’t work the way you wanted it to? It’s got to be somewhere between Jeremy Renner App white and Duck Dynasty before they had beards white.

So, on our first day back from about three months of pandemic inactivity, White Chicks called the cops on me because one of them couldn’t successfully bribe me to let his ID-less friend in the bar and I wouldn’t give him his money back.

Enter, the cops.

Two squad cars and four cops.

After getting Brittany and Tiffany’s stories, the primary officer came over and asked the usual — name, phone number, birthdate.

“It looks like there’s a simple solution here. Just give him the money back and they’ll be on their way.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Um … what?

“Why would I give him money back? He gave it to me.”

“That’s not how he put it.”

“I couldn’t have been more clear. (Story filler) And then he just handed it to me … and they’re still outside.”

The officer then just looks at me with a tilted head and walks back to the White Chicks, asks them a question, then walks back to me.

“So, it looks like the best way to resolve this, and they won’t come in, that’s pretty clear, is to give the money back.”

“Well, to me, it’s already resolved. They’re not inside because he couldn’t listen.”

And that cop was done with me. I thought they’d be on my side — not being coerced to abet a crime — but it was only in that moment that I didn’t think they were.

Next came a more straight-laced, yet bright-eyed, cop.

“You know, if you don’t give the money back, we can’t keep them from staying out here near you. The lights, the cars, they’ll be gone and you’ll be left here together.”

Now, this was just insulting. Like I can’t handle two 23-year-olds who I know are short on cash.

“That’s not a really a concern with you being here. The door behind me has been broken twice and each time the police had the name, photo, and video of it happening, and in one case, had the guy stopped with bloody knuckles, and let them both go.”

“Uh … well that’s just a … two different things.”

I have confused this man, now. He makes one more attempt.

“I’m pretty sure that if he gets $100, he’ll leave.”

“Oh, is the city going to pay him $100?”

“What? Why … why would we pay him?”

“Well, I’m not paying him $100 to leave.”

The cop also tilts his head, trying to wrap it around my argument.

“No, you’d be giving him $100 to leave.”

“That’s crazy,” I said. “Why would I give a stranger $100?”

I got a chuckle this time.

Oh, and $100.