Retrospect

“You want to know what’s funny about the whole experience?”

“What?” I replied, wondering what one thing could possibly be funnier than all the rest.

“I’d be standing there in my spot, and I’d see these two dudes get in a fight in front of me. I mean right in front of me, and these two idiots would be squared off all half-assed and kind of looking at me while they were doing it, and I’d just stand there and not do shit.”

“Why should you?”

“No,” he said. “I wouldn’t do shit because I wanted to see what they’d do. I wanted to see if they’d actually try to hurt each other.”

“Sometimes they did.”

“Yeah, sometimes. But other times you just know they wanted me to do something. They both wanted to just square off, have somebody jump in between them, yell at each other like a couple of pussies, then walk off and tell everyone they got into a fight at the club.”

“I did the same thing,” I said. “You think I actually cared about anyone’s safety in that fuckin’ place?”

“You cared about your own.”

“Oh, hell yeah.”

“If I ever go out looking for another club job,” he said, “I’ll just tell the guy who interviews me that I can work security. I’ll tell him I’ll stand in his club and keep myself secure.”

“Nice.”

“You remember that fat dumb fuck Cuban cigar guy who used to hang out down in Vince’s room?”

“Tony?” I asked.

“Yeah, Tony. I hated that motherfucker. This one night he gets into an argument with a bunch of guys down there, and Vince asks me to walk him down the block to his limo ‘cause the cops had the whole block barricaded and the limos and cabs had to pull up all the way down the end. Now, he knew I couldn’t stand him, so it was really awkward. I just told him flat-out, ‘If anything happens, or anyone comes after you, you know I’m not getting involved, right?’ And he says, ‘Yeah, I know, but thanks for walking me out.’”

“That’s the irony of it all when these idiots throw you a hundred bucks to walk them across the club. I’d take their money, but what the fuck did they think I was gonna do if someone came up and did something to them? Protect them? Get involved? Are you fucking kidding me?”

“The biggest idiot on the whole staff was Kevin,” he said. “If something started, he used to jump right into the shit without even calling anyone, like it actually fucking mattered. I remember one time somebody started yelling about there being a fight up by the steps, and I ran over and he was choking one guy, he had another guy pinned with his knee, and he had some asshole on his back. He ended up with his eye practically hanging out of the socket, and I was like, ‘Dude, what the fuck’s the point of that?’”

“Fuck that. I’d make the call then wait for everyone to show up. No fucking way I’m jumping in first.”

“Like I said, I used to stand there and wait to see what they’d do. See how far they’d take it when they realized I wasn’t gonna jump in.”

“Right,” I said. “See if they’ll fight to the fucking death, or something.”

“Exactly. Imagine if the club was like Gladiator? Every time you came down to drink, or dance, or whatever, there was a chance you’d get picked for a fucking death match with some other guy right there in the VIP.”

“Yeah, and they’d stop everything, and all the other Guidos would light torches, and the DJ would play that da da daa daa daa da da deee da theme they played on the old Star Trek whenever Captain Kirk got in a fight.”

“And,” he said, “if one Guido tried to pussy out and get away, the rest of the Guidos would throw his ass back onto the dance floor because it’s to the death and you can’t get away until somebody makes the kill.”

“That,” I said, “would make it worthwhile to bounce in one of those shitholes again. If we set something like that up, I’d work for free, man.”

“We could film it on our phones and put it on YouTube.”

“Fuck it. We could put the shit on pay-per-view and make a mint. Who wouldn’t shell out a few bucks to see it when the champion Guido gets sick of killing all the other Guidos and just flips out, puts his shirt back on and yells, ‘Are you not entertained?’”

“Then,” he said, “he’ll walk out in a blaze of glory with ‘You don’t need nuuuuuthin’ at all from me…’ playing in the background.”

“And we can show him walking away down Tenth Avenue with the song from the first Rambo movie playing. ‘It’s a loooooong road…when yer on yer own…’”

“Carrying a bucket of ice with his wife beater over his shoulder.”

“Then we fade to black,” I said. “That’s some good shit right there.”

“Yeah.”