Old School

I was bouncing again on Saturday night. Bouncing is always a fucking disaster. As Big Red once said – while we were pulling up spooge-covered mats from behind the bars at a place we used to work – it’s a “loser’s game.”

But there I was, doing it again – standing at the front door like a schmuck trying to find a comfortable way to lean against the wall without letting my hands get too sweaty because I knew I’d have to shake hands with a lot of people I didn’t like.

Why, you ask? Because everything sucks right now and I need the money. That’s why. Welcome to 2003, only half the people I used to have fun with are married now, and the other half moved out of New York. It’s essentially five years ago without the payoff.

That’s okay, though, because I don’t like going out anymore. Most nights, I’d rather stay home and read. Or watch a game. Or dick around on the computer. Or do anything that doesn’t involve being anywhere near anyone who doesn’t know how to avoid being an irritating, noise-polluting dick.

Three guys came to the door on Saturday night in Guido garb. I’d really like to know why this is still going on. Someone should put a stop to it. When these three guys came to the door, I said, “Trick or treat?”

I couldn’t help myself. It just slipped out. They didn’t get it. They thought we were celebrating Halloween early, or that “Trick or treat?” was some stupid thing I was saying to everyone who came to the door. They didn’t know I said it because of them. They didn’t know they triggered it – that I took one look at them and blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

This happens sometimes. Once, a girl asked me where a bouncer named “Timmy” was. I said I didn’t know. She started spinning around in circles, saying, “Timm-ay? Timm-ay?”

I said, “Wow, you’re really stupid.”

Another time, a girl I’d caught giving blowjobs in a bathroom came up to say hello while I was at the door. This was on another night, when she hadn’t yet blown anyone. She was trying to be nice, I think. I responded by saying, “Wow, you’re not dead yet?”

Another time, a guy who normally had blond hair came in with his hair dyed jet black. I said, “Did you fall in an oil well or something?”

I stomped on a guy’s hand once and broke some of his fingers. He deserved this because he was threatening people with a weapon. I forgot I’d even done it until someone told me he was suing the club. That’s how much I cared.

I’ve told people they were “as entertaining as bone cancer.” I’ve made references to trailer parks and compared people to the size of my bowel movements. I’ve expressed these and many other constructive thoughts in the name of making a living wage.

This job has failed in its attempt to make me a better person.