Innuendo

I've never been much of what you'd call a shit talker. Most of any kind of rough-and-tumble, self-aggrandizing tough guy swagger-mouth that I do tends to be accomplished right here on the blog. And even that's not all that bad compared to some. In person, at work, I'll usually leave the yapping to others. In fact, I don't even go in for the typical "Who can kick whose ass?" nonsense that invariably ensues when large groups of alpha males conglomerate with an excess of time on their hands.

Why? Because it's hard for me to care anymore. I'd just as soon tell someone, "Sure, sure...you'd knock me out," than get into a pissing contest with someone to whom such things carry weight. To me, it's simply another aspect of the job about which I no longer give a shit, which is why I now leave all that internecine bullshit to the younger and more eager amongst us. In any event, I'm too busy acting "sketchy" to spend any time worrying about such matters.

Still, though, it comes as something of a surprise that anyone would lodge a complaint about my willingness -- or lack thereof -- to get involved on the job, which, evidently, is what happened last Friday night.

"I don't like that kid," said the Bouncer of Telephone Harassment.

"Nah, me neither. He just gets on my nerves."

"He's talking shit about people now. You heard about that?"

"Talking shit," I ask, "about who?"

"You, for one."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," he replies. "I shouldn't even be telling you about this shit."

"It's a little late for that, asshole, seeing that the can of worms is already open. Tell me what he said."

"He was just sayin' that you never show up to calls anymore, and that when you do, he never sees you doin' anything."

"That fat fuck said that?" I ask. "Dude, the guy's only been workin' here for six months. What the fuck? Is this about last week?"

"I think his exact words were, 'What good is having Rob here if he never leaves the door?'"

"Okay, first off, I'm not allowed to leave the door. And second of all, what the fuck does he think happens when people get thrown out? Do they just magically decide to go home and disappear? Or is someone, namely me, out front with them for the next twenny minutes making sure they don't come back in?"

"Hey, I didn't..."

"And another thing," I said. "Who the fuck is he to be talking shit about another bouncer? I mean, I can see if it's a new guy, and the guy sucks or something, but is he fuckin' kidding me talking shit about one of the guys who's been here for a couple of years?"

"Dude..."

"Lemme tell you something. You don't fuckin' do that. He's in there rollin' around on the floor and he's mouthin' off to you about me, and he's gonna expect me to get his back? I'll tell you what, man, he's lucky it's me."

"Yeah," he says.

"But you better fuckin' have a talk with this guy, 'cause I don't like that shit, and I don't think it has a place on a bouncing staff."

"Hey, I agree with you, but if I talk to him, I'm just gonna get mad."

"Well," I said, "you shoulda shut him up before he even started sayin' that shit. Of all the guys here he coulda pissed off, why's he pickin' me? Strange fuckin' choice dont'cha think?"

"Yeah, it seemed..."

"You know what? Fuck it. I'm gonna straighten this asshole out myself. I'll see ya Friday."

And so it goes.