Disconnect

"Front door Rob, pick up. Front door Rob, pick up. You on the air?"

Fucking radio again. Fuck you, radio. "Go."

"Who's supposed to be working the west door?" asked JD, our fancy head bouncer.

"Miles."

"Where's he at?"

"I dunno," I responded truthfully. "Haven't seen him. Somethin' goin' on back there?"

"I got a bunch of people back there peein' and screamin'."

"Peein' and screamin'?"

"Yeah, dick," he replied. "Peein' and fuckin' screamin'."

Peein' and screamin'. I don't know about you, but I don't think a bouncer is the right man to call if you've caught a gaggle of Guidos "peein' and screamin'," especially when said Guidos are doing both simultaneously. I'm thinking what JD meant was that there was a crowd of people on the side of the club making a great deal of noise, and that some of them happened to be urinating against the wall. I was supposed to be taking offense at this. I'm also thinking that the ones who were "peein'" were not the same ones who were "screamin', because it's silly to do both.

I don't pee and scream at the same time. In fact, loud noises tend to staunch my flow -- stage fright and all -- so I tend to avoid this sort of self-sabotage whilst emptying the contents of mein bladder. I believe the same is true of most men. I suppose it's okay to scream on occasion while taking a dump, but I don't do this because I'm usually too busy reading and don't want to distract myself.

Now, if you take JD's description of the problem in the literal sense -- in other words, someone actually was "peein' and screamin'" at the same time -- you'd have to think Miles was hardly the ideal choice here. Miles, you see, is not a urologist. He doesn't specialize in treating the sort of thing that could potentially elicit "screamin'" during "peein'." Last I heard, Miles was a mortgage broker. He's the guy who calls you around dinnertime, asking about "points" and "fixed rates" and "variable rates" and all that other shit you don't want to talk about while you're trying to get the baby in his chair.

Miles cannot cure the microwave. When the microwave gets hold of "Clint," we call a physician.

I've never understood the point of people getting so bent out of shape about public urination anyway. You unzip, you whip it out -- what's there to whip, I suppose -- and you take care of business. What the fuck have I always been worried about? Sure, the stream can get a little loud if you're standing under somebody's window -- the key is to either wave it around vigorously or piss on sandstone brick, if you can find any in time -- but who cares? What's anyone planning on doing if they catch you?

I'll be damned if I'm actually touching the guy who just pissed in my alleyway. I'll be double-damned if I give a shit about someone pissing on the wall of the club. I suppose you could throw something at them midstream if you're really looking to stop things, or you could sneak up behind them and kick or shove them into the wall. Where I went to school, getting kicked front-first into urinals was commonplace. I only did it to one kid -- once, because he deserved it -- because I wasn't a bully in school. Nobody ever did it to me because I was big for my age, and because my family was crazy. Kids feared retribution. They had foresight. My brother was looming, and kids can't always travel in packs.

Most people who come to nightclubs have older brothers too, because people who come to nightclubs are stupid, and their parents probably didn't know much about contraception. Their parents relied on strange feelings in their loins to guide them. You can observe a group of animals and see the same sort of behavior. The male gets the urge, so he walks over, mounts a female, and begins humping. After he's done fighting with other males who are trying to do the same thing, he offers the impregnated female of the species $500 to "take care of the problem."

This is how club customers are produced. It's easy to mistake the aforementioned process with that of the conception and birth of whatever would result from this.

The point is that I don't fear the older brothers of the customers I've been enlisted to stop from pissing on the wall. The other point is that I have nothing to fear from these older brothers because I've never tried to stop anyone from pissing on any wall. Ever. This is because even though massive parts of my life have involved doing what you'd call "stupid shit," I still have standards. I consider myself above shouting at public urinators. For what I'm being paid, I won't degrade myself like that. If you're not pissing on me or my car, we're all square. Have at it, friend.

But what I like to do sometimes at work, out of sheer intellectual curiosity and to make JD think I'm doing what he's asking me to do, is to actually go investigate.

"Sure, man. I've got it. Let me walk around back and take a look, and I'll figure out who's "peein' and screamin'," and I'll put a stop to that shit toot sweet. Tout de suite. ASAP, before puddles can form."

Of course, I'm hardly ever to be believed anymore, now that my formerly puritan work ethic has gone the way of the leisure suit.

"You want me to take a run back there?" I asked.

"No," replied JD. "Stay up front, and stay off the fuckin' radio."

"Why?"

"Because I fuckin' said so, that's why."

"Jeez," I said. "What the fuck?"

"Listen, asshole, when I want you to do something, I'll let you know. Don't suggest things. You're suggesting shit to me like I didn't think of sending somebody back there to fix the problem. You think I'm a fuckin' moron or something?"

"But you said they were..."

"You wanna go home?" he asked.

"Actually, yeah."

"You wanna go home and only get paid half a night? Izzat what you want? 'Cause that's what I'll do if you don't shut the fuck up."

"Can I leave now?" I asked.

"No," he replied. "Fuck you. You're staying."

"Can you cover me while I go take a leak?"