If you’re a customer, and we – you and me – have some kind of personal problem inside the club, our “relationship,” in whatever form it may have taken before you fucked up, is over. I couldn’t give a flying fuck what the genesis of said problem happens to be. We’re done. We’re done and there’s no going back, because I don’t accept apologies from customers.
See, some people view the club as a family. I do too, to some extent, but only in my dealings with other bouncers. Everyone and everything else is outside that sphere and therefore not worth my time. The people I’m referring to here are our regular customers. They think they’re our friends. They hug us and kiss us and ask us how we’re doing and how we’ve been. And then they dick us over.
I love it when one of my personal “clients” gets in a fight and turns on me when I step in and try to help him out. I love when that happens because it shows me what sort of person I’m dealing with. It reminds me not to ever trust these motherfuckers, because no matter how nice they are to us at the door, they’re still customers and they’re still shit.
I love it when one of my personal “clients” gets so drunk and so coked and needled up that he turns on me at the end of the night when I tell him it’s time to get out. It reminds me not to ever put any stock in the sanity of any of these people because they’re customers and they’re all dirty and “rotting from the inside out.”
I love it when one of my personal “clients” takes a swing at me outside and ends up facedown on the sidewalk when all the chemicals and the liquor cause him to make a brutally misguided miscalculation about our respective abilities to handle ourselves. When that happens, I love it even more when they call the police and attempt to press charges. That, my friends, is the good shit. That, above all, will show you what you’re up against.
I love it most of all when one of the aforementioned personal “clients” comes back to the club the following week and tries to apologize to me. I love this because it means so damned much to them. They’re so emotional about it. They’re on the verge of tears. They’re entirely too melodramatic about things. Maudlin, even. There’s a hurt in their heart, and they’ll very dramatically let you know all about it if you choose to stand outside and listen to it.
“Don’t fucking touch me.”
Point is, I don’t care. The club is not my family, nor will it ever be. Outside of a dozen or so bouncers in whose lives I’ve made something of an emotional investment, I have no interest in forming, maintaining or repairing relationships with anyone connected to that fucking place. Essentially, your apology means jack shit, and you’re only doing it because, like most jerkoffs who patronize nightclubs, you enjoy the sound of your own voice and crave attention - which, of course, is at the heart of everything because my biggest problem with life in general is having my attention demanded by stupid people making stupid noises and doing stupid things.
Your apology is simply noise pollution - the same way it’s also noise pollution when you walk into a quiet room and begin yelling, clapping, whistling or making sound effects. I won’t accept your apology because an acceptance grants you license to fuck with me again, and I’m not about to permit you to do that because I have neither the time nor the patience to be fucked with in this stupid, useless, penny-ante tit-fucker of a job.
What I do with people, when they screw me over, is turn myself off to them. I don’t wish them dead, nor do I hope they wrap their cars around trees on the way home, because that’s not my style. What I do instead is kill them off in my mind. I no longer acknowledge their existence. I don’t speak to them, make eye contact with them, or bring them up in conversation. When they approach me and try to speak to me, I’ll stare right through them. If they press the issue, I’ll quietly explain why it’s in their best interest to end the interaction immediately. If they continue to pursue things, another bouncer will inevitably come running and steer the offending party away. This happens because my coworkers, well, they know how I am.
Why am I right? I’m in the right because I’m not the one bothering them. They’re in my sphere, stirring up and shit and making me react. I’m not in theirs, nor would I ever want to be.
I’m not like this in the “real world.” This anti-apology policy of mine only holds for the magical land of enchantment in which I work. In my “regular” life, I’m prone to giving all kinds of dumb motherfuckers all kinds of second chances to twist the poker after they’ve shoved it up my ass. I’ve been pretty big, historically, on doling out yards and yards of rope, which is probably why I ended up getting stuck where I’ve been in the first place. I’m a successful bouncer. I’m an unsuccessful live-er. Go figure.
What you need to know here is that nobody who works in a club cares about you. Nobody who’s been working there for a while, anyway. We’re inured to your shit. We don’t feel you. We want to get paid and go the fuck home. We form friendships with each other, not with you. You’re obstacles, not allies. We interact with you because we’re getting paid for it, and not because we want to.
So go about your business and leave me the fuck out of it.