Parts of this story are NSFW. Well, “not safe for your work.” For my work, it’s just another weekend.

If those weekends are full of the batshit insane.

Read the Companion Piece — Small Potatoes: Part 1

These people didn’t even have the benefit of a full moon to mask their level of social ineptitude. What was on display was their unbridled selves — pure, unadulterated animosity for public decency.

I might miss these days when I’m gone.

Duke Over the Juke

Do you ever just want to punch someone in the face over the wrong song on the juke box?

Me, too.

But how many of us actually do it?

These guys.

There are two teams. Hockey bros and their Hinge hookups vs a menagerie of Mexican Americans. Just two groups fighting over music, like if West Side Story featured a bunch of guys in Van’s or Premier merch squaring off against people who have definitely said the n-word in their Snapchat.

What’s setting these people off so much? The hockey bros don’t like that Bad Bunny keeps playing and the Poser Posse just keeps loading money into the jukebox, taunting the bros as they do so.

Playground shit, basically.

And it’s not like the Hockey Bros thought to play something revolutionary. You could tell when their songs came on because it was tThe typical mix of “Tennessee Whiskey,” “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” and “Friends in Low Places.” Wow. So original. Totally worth fighting over.

I hear a commotion inside and see these two chirping. Lead Bro, Lemieux, has almost a foot on a young Michael Peña, and the pair won’t stop egging the other on until they almost come to blows inside.

I corral the two leads and bring them in close. I sternly tell each corner that if there’s any more talk between either member of either party, they all get kicked out. All 12 of them.

And you know what? They listened.

All parties involved didn’t come near each other for 45 minutes. The music played and nobody got into a fight.

Until…

Casanova Bossa Nova

Most people fall into two categories — lovers or fighters. What happens when you’re both? While our inside activity had reach a head, our outdoor activity was reaching its own … climax.

A friend of the bar was going through a difficult time. Needless to say he left in a state, came back in a worse state, and needed to get to somewhere warm as soon as fucking possible.

Just one problem with that, he didn’t have any money. No cash, no cards. Just a phone and his passport. I already know he’s not destitute, but he’s definitely a poor planner.

Oh, and he wanted to straight up murder anyone who was going to piss him off even more than he already was. Which, for a brief moment was me.

We tried to get Casanova an Uber or Lyft, which was already a task he lives far from downtown.

Having the apps help, too.

No Uber. No Lyft.

That’s fine. Everything’s fine.

He says a hotel will work. He’s done it before. Cool. Great. He gives me permission to look through his phone and order him a hotel. We have plenty of options. Embassy Suites? Too far to walk. Hyatt? Closer but up a moderate hill he wouldn’t be able to navigate. Hilton? Phew. This one is close.

One final step, what’s the back three numbers of his card? And yes, I already checked if there was auto-fill.

“I don’t have shit.”
”No, just the numbers. Do you remember the numbers?”
”I’m gonna murder them.”
”Can we solve one mystery at a time, please? What are the numbers on the back of literally any credit card you have?”
”I gotta get home. Give me my keys!”

Ahh, forgot to mention. He’s mad at me because I took his keys. And yes, I already checked if his money was in the car.

The phone isn’t much help without access to his cards. But wait, I’m sure someone will accept PayPayl, Venmo, or CashApp. Hell, I’ll settle for Apple Pay, Google Pay, or Zelle!

Casanova doesn’t have any of those.

What does he have? The fuckin’ Little Caesars App.

Shit.

Crash and I look at each other, helpless. Until Sunshine saves the day. He orders Casanova a decently expensive Uber ride out of the city. It just needs to hurry up and get here.

About ready to broke someone’s neck over … a grievance I will not share … Lemieux and Peña’s groups all spill out into the cold TWO MINUTES before Casanova’s Uber is set to arrive.

In those two minutes, Lemieux makes one final chirp at Peña that absolutely sets him off.

Just one issue. Lemieux didn’t have the rest of his lineup ready to pounce. Meanwhile, Peña had every able bodied man within 4 feet of him ready him to assemble like the goddamn Avengers in one of the quickest sidewalk attack teams I’ve ever seen.

Lemieux didn’t learn the lessons of street fighting outside the rink. You should only talk shit when you have A) the nerve to take it as strong as you give it, B) the fighting skills to back up any immediate repercussions, and C) knowledge that your friends will back you up.

Lemieux had none of these things.

When I say he got his ass kicked up and down the rail, I mean UP and DOWN the rail. North and South, East and West. Have you ever seen a man swarmed by other humans? It’s like World War Z. At one point Lemieux tripped and Peña’s Vengadores swiped his head along the fence like they were grating cheese.

Casanova, seeing the fight start, leaps out of his chair and gets an arm on Peña. I grab Casanova and throw him back down in the chair I put him in to wait for the car.

“Can you calm down for one fucking minute! You don’t even know them!”

He mumbles incoherently.

The Vengadores let up for a half second — because they ran out of rail — and Lemieux escapes across the street, but the Posse is hot on the trail. We hear two loud wallops from the parking lot followed by cars screeching out. Casanova’s Uber still hasn’t arrived.

A crying girl with a bloody plastic grocery bag pleads for help. We give her some towels and we send someone inside for water.

One of the Hockey Hinge girls asks me, “how could you let this happen?”

“They didn’t fight inside. The rest is street justice."

I wanted that to sound as cool as, “Forget it Jake, it’s Chinatown,” but it didn’t land.

And then everyone just … leaves. Like, all the people on the entire block. Casanova’s car arrives, the Vengadores rolled out. The Snapchat cinematographers either went to the next bar or back inside. Hockey Hinge squad picked up their boyfriends and are now nowhere to be found. It’s like everyone decided it was time for the next scene in the midnight special.

Midnight MeetCute

I think Crash and I got five minutes of relaxation before two women came up. One of them was in a black catsuit without pockets. Her friend had an oversized red hoodie, plenty of pockets, and was waging a contest against Post Malone to see who could tattoo their face faster.

It’s a toss up, frankly.

I should note that this evening happened on Valentine’s Day weekend. Turns out $80 worth of discount candy from the pharmacy can be split evenly between two nights, and people still aren’t happier.

A few even kept begging for candy in the weeks that followed. Candy for what, March 3rd?

The catsuit, Halle, so called because of her abysmal performance and not appearance, disrobed and left here friend in the weeds to see her other friends, who were inside already.

But were they her friends? Not really, no.

They were people she thought would come to her after party. Her birthday party. Her birthday party that doubled for the afterparty even though I would hardly call what was happening right now a party. The afterbirth party.

Wait….

Ew. No.

Apologies.

While Halle looked around for people she thought had money, drugs, connections, or a car, Crash and I were temporarily stuck with Malone, who had to stay there because even though she held all of Halle’s belonging’s, had none of her own. Like an ID.

Unless you’re Maori, I do think that if you’re old enough to tattoo your face you would also be old enough to have your ID. But I also think that if you tattooed your face, you should be doubly responsible for brining your ID so I can at the very least see the progress you’ve made between DMV photos.

This post isn’t to knock face tattoos. I know a few humans with visage visuals that I regard in high esteem, but this woman was not one of them.

Because she wouldn’t stop giving us shit for not letting her in.

In those first 15 minutes, both Crash and I were accused of:

• Having small dicks

• Having micro-penises

• Having no dicks

• Having no chicks (harsh but true)

• Being pedophiles

• Being date rapists

• Looking like Jeffrey Dahmer (Crash)

• Looking like Shrek (myself)

• Not being able to perform sexually

• Somehow being told the above was not in relation to insults one and two

Then Halle came back to try and get Malone to come inside. Turns out, she, too wanted to talk some major shit. Except here’s where it took a turn.

Not for the better. Just turning, like never leaving the roundabout once you enter.

To no avail, Halle tried everything to get Malone in, at one point snuggling up to Crash, even though he had a small dick. Which, at this point was a step up from his former eunuch self. I, on the otherhand, gave Malone a piece of chocolate to shut her up, thinking that if I was nice to my abuser things would stop.

But they don’t stop.

Instead they criss-crossed. Halle calling me names while Malone defended me as her boyfriend, and Malone negatively commentating on Crash’s anatomy while Halle invited him to her party.

This lasted for 20 more minutes.

And hardly anybody came into the goddamn bar. If it wasn’t the dead of winter I’m sure a tumbleweed would’ve rolled by. Those that did were greeted by the surliest woman they ever met and her noodley-dancing compatriot. In Malone’s eyes, every woman under 25 was a skank, ho, or minor, and all of the regulars we waved to were part of our Epstein-pedo ring.

Yet Crash was still invited to the party. I have to admit a touch of jealousy.

After 55 minutes of trying and failing to get into the bar, the dynamic duo left without so much as a word.

“Where’d my girlfriend go,” I asked Crash coming back from the bathroom.
”She left, finally.”
”So, you going to that party?”

I thought I saw Crash give it a nod, but that’s likely my eternal optimism clouding my memory. No, this wasn’t the fabled starstruck romance they talk about in movies. This was a prologue from a Rob Zombie flick we narrowly escaped.

Lavatory Story

Which leads us to these other fine, upstanding and dignified women.

The story goes, there’s a pervert recording someone in the women’s restroom.

Well, that’s the version I got, at least.

A distressed woman frantically searching for the door finds me outside. She says that someone is harassing her and recording her without permission. That’s serious, I say. Please tell me where they are.

We walk into the middle of a half-full bar and the aggrieved woman coyly hides behind her girlfriends.

“If you don’t tell me who it is, I can’t help you,” I said as I scanned the room.

Because I’m looking for a creepy guy who just stalked a woman in the bathroom.

Not a group of five women celebrating a birthday.

I motion the woman who came up to me to point out exactly who I should be looking for. While I’m doing this, the Birthday Girl BFF — the recordist — spots what’s going unfolding.

“Not this bitch again,” she says. “This woman keeps harassing us!”

Well, that flipped, didn’t it.

“You were recording me in the bathroom without my permission!”
”No,” the recordist said the other woman. “You wanted to be interviewed!”
”Play the tape, then!”

As they continued to shout over one another, Marinara runs up to me and informs me of the other side of the situation.

Was someone recording in the bathroom? Yes. They should be kicked out then, that’s weird. He says they’re already in the process of cashing out.

I go up to the recordist and ask her for her side. Yes, she is recording their group outing. Why? Still not sure. I asked if it was a TikTok thing because I’m down with the youth like that.

The Recordist gave me a non-answer and said a bartender already went into the bathroom and quashed it. Then the interviewee went up to Marinara to complain.

Indeed I was the third staff member she cried wolf to. Done with this part of the conversation, I walk up to the wolf cryer’s group and she tells me she feels unsafe.

“Understandable,” I said. “But you can’t just find everyone who works here to deal with a problem that’s already being solved.”
”You’re not making me feel safe! Why are you yelling at me!”

Huh?

”Not yelling. Just saying that the problem was being handled.”
”Then why am I being yelled at?”

Confused, I tried using the tact that saved me 45 minutes earlier in the night.

“Just don’t talk to each other. That group is paying their tab then leaving.”
”So, they get to stay and I’m being kicked out and yelled at because I feel UNSAFE?”
”Nobody is kicking you out, unless you confront them again or use one of my team to do it. They’re leaving, this is over.”

I went up to the birthday crew and went into the same spiel. Five women in total, two are still in the bathroom, three need to pay their tabs. This could take a few minutes. I bow my head in exhaustion when I notice a strange green light. At first my brain registers the lasers we use in the bar, but this is fixed.

It’s the microphone light. It’s clipped to her blouse, like a news anchor would have. It wasn’t put away or concealed like she told Marinara. It was still clipped and on during the entire course of the last few minutes.

SHE WAS RECORDING US THE WHOLE TIME.

Her response, “we’re not in the bathroom anymore.”

That’s not the point! You were asked to put it away, but you clearly didn’t. Now I’m on Cry Wolf’s side.

Except she’s a total Karen, so that feeling doesn’t last long. I’m hot, angry at humanity, and now I need some fresh air. I don’t care if it’s 22 degrees outside.

The birthday group leaves, followed immediately by Cry Wolf and her two friends, though she makes a beeline toward me.

“I need to speak to your manager, please.”
”About what?”
”About why I just got kicked out of your bar because I felt unsafe.”
”Nobody kicked you out,” I replied, looking around the patio in bewilderment.

Mr. Manager comes out, grumpy that this already long night is continuing to charm us, asks, “what do you want from this?”

As in, now that you’ve got my attention, what is it that the bar can do for you. People are seldom asked this, so we all wait on bated breath for Cry Wolf’s answer.

Cry Wolf started going into the whole deal from start to finish, but Mr. Manager cut her off.

“I’ve already heard that story four times now. I’m not hearing it again. What do you want?”
”I want to know why I got kicked out!”

BUT YOU WEREN’T.

“You just left on your own. Just now. That group (he points to women 30 feet away) got kicked out.”
”Then why was your man here yelling at me inside?”

She said that last part like she “got me,” and told her friend that we were in for a major lawsuit. After all, she had her “lawyer on speed dial.”

Yeah lady, they’re called smartphones. Everyone is on speed dial.

Mr. Manager and I threw our hands up and went back inside. That’s too many people being too fucking weird for their own good.

The Gentlemen

In true Pulp Fiction fashion, I saved the best for last, even though it happened near the start.

Three old men and two fresh-faced drinkers out on the town to celebrate a 21st birthday pile out of an Uber from a pizza-serving gastro-pub. They each crack a beer from said place’s to-go section and drink them on the sidewalk. Yeah. with a group like that you already know a woman was sexually harassed in the workplace.

And later, me.

Two of the three older men are shocked when they have to show IDs. They say they’re celebrating one of the kids’ 21st birthdays.

I feign interest as much as I can without displaying sarcasm and ask for the birthday boy’s ID.

You know, the thing that every fresh-faced 21-year-old patron proudly shows the bouncer to signify they can legally get shitfaced in a seemingly public forum.

Doesn’t have it.

Not the ID. Not the paper temp. Not even the futile birth certificate or drug screening receipt.

Just their word.

You know, if I went on everyone’s word I wouldn’t need to check anyone’s ID. It’s almost as if people literally don’t understand the concept of what IDs are. Do they just think people have them in case someone thinks you’re lying? Anyway, the three elders start barking that I’m a piece of shit and they were just at another bar.

Were they? Before the gastropub hard to tell. But I’ve been to that pizza joint and they almost certainly declined him. The beer he guzzled in the shrubs looked like the first one he had since leaving the house. A high ABV sour, he drank it fast without waiting for his neural network to properly gauge the acidity.

Without a paper, a passport, a license of any kind, or any other identifying document, the kid turned to his Instagram. Hey, I tell him, I’ve been in the same boat. I’ve lost or had my ID stolen twice. It’s difficult when you want to go out but need to wait until your new card shows up.

Will some places allow it? Sure. Will I? You already know the answer.

But the men kept trying.

First, they offered money.

“Ten bucks.”

Insulting.

“Fine, $20.”
”It’s not a money thing.”
”It’s always a money thing!”

Maybe I should look at his ID one more time. He sounds like a corrupt cop or politician on the take.

“He just needs the ID, or an old ID and the paper. Or the paper and literally any document or card with his name, face and date of birth on it.”
”What about a picture of his ID?”

This kills me. I see it way too often. People come up and say, “Yeah I just had my wallet stolen or my dog ate it but I conveniently took photos of every important government identifier yesterday.”

No. Just no. Just bring your stuff with you. Whatever age you are after you get your first ID is the multiplier from which I judge your stupidity at not having your ID on your person … while in an attempt to use it for an activity that requires it.

Walking the dog? Don’t need an ID.

Buying an ice cream cone? Don’t need an ID.

About to start drinking on your 21st birthday? Yes, for that you need your ID. I’m sorry, but that seems cut and dry.

Dad wasn’t having it.

“So a picture of his ID won’t do anything?”
”No, he’s got to have it with him.”
”Not even for $100?”
”No,” I said reading their hostility. “At this point I don’t think we’re the place for you.

I kept my hands in my pockets, showing great restraint as the dad kept inching closer. He wasn’t a small man, standing firm at 6-foot-3 and around 225 pounds.

He saw a group walk in, all show their IDs, claim a few were fakes.

I thought to myself, “we were taking everyone’s word for it, why should you care?”

Dad wanted one more chance to make his case.

“I’ll show you a picture of his ID and slip you some money, got it,” he said in a threatening tone.
”No. It’s time to go.”
”Well, what if …” he said before squaring up, puffing his chest out and getting uncomfortably close to my face, “…I show you a PICTURE OF MY COCK.”

My hands sprung from my hips so fast I thought I was back doing pass protection drills in Des Moines, Iowa circa fall 2006. Hands hit chest up close and extending to the perfect referee form for pass interference.

Kid’s dad flew back 12 feet and gravity did the rest, putting him on his ass near the rear wheel well of a parked truck. Damn, I haven’t worked out in months, guess you never lose that big boy strength.

As much as people want to fight after someone hits the deck, the fight is already over. The big action happened and now you’re angling for a cheap shot or a passerby to help.

Also, Sir, how dare you try and show me a picture of your Randy Johnson!

What will my girlfriend think?

I would have loved to see Casanova to kick your ass, the birthday girls to record it, and the Vengadores to destroy the rest of your Brooks Brothers loving kind. All for some woman to think everyone was yelling her while she called her lawyer, which was probably one of the dads in the first place.

This is the final story I’ll post while working for the bar that most of these stories derive.

But don’t worry! I have plenty of stories in the clip, I just need to write them. Maybe with my renewed free time they’ll actually get done. Plus, I have a whole St. Patrick’s Day weekend of tales to cultivate, and one killer mosh pit anecdote at the ready. Sláinte.