Let’s play pretend for a minute.  Pretend you are me.  I know it’s a stretch; there’s no one like me.  Try anyway.

You’re five foot eleven inches, one hundred eighty pounds.  You arrive at work.  You pull your earphones out and stuff the cable into your backpack, then deposit said backpack in the back room, behind the kitchen.  You pull your Security shirt out and hang your bag on the hook.  As you make your way back toward the kitchen door, you pull your grey polo over your head.  It’s not quite armor, but it’s not without power.  You step out into the thunderous music and head to the server station.  You punch in your code and clock in.  You pop your co-worker’s back and tell her she should relax.  She’s like you, though.  She is incapable of relaxation.  You make small talk with some of the other staff, then begin your rounds.

You’ve been working for a little over an hour.  The zombie crawl is today.  You wish you’d gotten in on it, but it is fun to see all the zombie costumes anyway.  You’re dropping off a glass at the server station when your fellow bouncer tells you he’s got a puker.  This guy is about your height but looks bigger.  He’s wider than you, but softer too.  Still, you try not to underestimate people.  He’s got vomit on his face and shirt.  Someone doesn’t know his limits.  You follow the other bouncer to watch the train wreck and to provide support if necessary.  The other bouncer is talking the guy out.  “No, you can’t go to the bathroom.  You can wait for your friends outside.  Are you kidding me? Get the fuck out.”  All things you’ve heard every day from every drunken twit.  Asshole here is no different.

Asshole has stopped at the bottom of the stairs.  The other bouncer grabs him by the shirt and pushes him up the stairs.  “Get the fuck out.”  The guy goes up the stairs.  The stairway has its own railing, then a gap at the landing that is cordoned off by a pair of stanchions and retractable webbing, then a second railing that traces the ramp out to the street.  Asshole grabs that rail, turns, and latches onto it.  You’re hiding a smile.  It’s funny, but laughing would make things worse and it’s always best to let people walk out under their own power.  Of course, that only works when they DO walk out under their own power.  “Dude, I really don’t want to touch you because you’re covered in vomit, but I will drag your ass out if I have to.”  You’re standing at the gap, right by one of the stanchions.  Asshole speaks.

“You don’t stand a chance,” he says.  You are grinning on the inside now, so much so that you fairly glow.

After all, they’re playing your song.

You don’t know what the other bouncer is doing.  You don’t even look at Asshole.  You move the stanchion and step out.  You walk around to the opposite side of the railing, right behind the drunk.  The other bouncer doesn’t want to touch him.  Fine.  You don’t give one runny squirt of shit about vomit.  You whip your left arm around the drunk’s neck.  The first contact is the crook of your elbow against Asshole’s trachea.  He doesn’t even try to duck his head until it’s far too late.  You grab the inside of your right elbow with your left hand, then brace your right hand against the back of the drunk’s head.  You now own him.  He grabs at your arm.  Everyone always grabs for the arm.  It never helps.

The other bouncer picks up Asshole’s legs and together you lift him over the railing.  You walk toward the gate.  The guy can’t even dream of resisting at this point.  The other bouncer has him in a straight arm bar, and he’s tapping frantically at your arm with both hands.  You stop squeezing enough that maybe the guy won’t black out.  You yell ahead to clear the entryway of incoming patrons.  You don’t want to fight your way through a crowd with Asshole in tow.  They part obediently.  It’s not hard to figure out that you aren’t playing at the moment.  You’re at the gate when the Doorman peeps around the corner.  He hops to his feet and grabs Asshole by the other arm.  You let go of his neck as he is dragged out into the street.  He’s yelling something, but the Bodybuilder and the Ex-Cop are both working the door right now.  You’re the tiny one here.  Asshole is no threat to them.

You head back inside, all the while alternating between laughing and apologizing to the somewhat stunned crowd that’s trickling in.  Your hands tingle.  You ride out the high of the adrenaline bloom.  You love that feeling.



What you see here is the birth of a personal blog so that I can separate fact from fiction. Forgive the chaos as I hammer the dents out of these ideas of mine.