Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Good for the Bad


Bad behavior is endemic in bars and nightclubs. Drinking tends to assholize many people, myself included, and drugs exacerbate the dilemma. The problem covers all stations of life from the very rich to the very poor. My years of working security at Hurrah, the Jefferson, Bains-Douches, Milk Bar et al have cursed me a deep insight into how one person's fun becomes another person's nightmare.

One spring night at the Milk Bar I heard that a thief was stealing from the clientele. I spotted the pickpocket on the stairs. He tried to escape, but I was quick back in the 80s. I knocked him to the floor and searched him for the purloined possessions. Five wallets and a wad of money.

"That's mine." He reached for the cash.

"You have nothing." I slapped his hand and frogmarched him into the street, kicking him in the ass as a farewell gesture. I was wearing army boots and the pickpocket protested my violence.

"You're lucky I didn't call the police."

That last word sent him muttering into the night and I returned inside to distribute the wallets to their owners. Each was grateful to be reunite with valuables, except for one man, who asked where was the thief.

"He ran off."

"That's not good enough, I want you to call the police." He was about 25 and his face was red. Bigger than me by a few inches. His suit was tailor-made. His Ivy league accent nailed him as Wall Street and I figured that my partner had let him into the club after a bribe. The standard for boxhead bankers was $20.

"What for? You got back your wallet." For me it was case closed and for the most part the police turned a blind eye to any crimes at the Milk Bar, since most were of choice. I climbed up the stairs to the front door.

"I want to make a complaint about the thief and about this place." The man was a banker. His girlfriend followed him with an embarrassed expression. He was a loudmouth.

"Well, you can call from outside. There's a telephone booth across the street." I held up a dime.

"I don't need your money." He slapped the coin from my fingers. His girlfriend pulled at his arm. She had seen this act before.

"Calm down, let me buy you and your girlfriend a drink." My bouncer sized up the stranger with regret. Big Bernard was 6-5. He didn't like trouble.

"I don't need your drinks." He took a step closer. His muscles tensed under his jacket. Gym muscles spoiling for a fight.

"Please calm down." I was giving him one last chance to save his night.

"Calm down. I am calm." His breath smelled of steroids. His girlfriend cowered as if she had been beaten more than once at the end of an evening. He lifted his hand to poke me in the chest. "You fucking____"

I didn't let him finish the epithet. My foot swept under his loafer to knock him off-balance. Big Bernard pushed him into the street.

"You are officially uninvited from the Milk Bar." I moved aside for his girlfriend. She joined him on the sidewalk, once more tugging at his arm. "Let's go."

"Go. I'm not letting these assholes treat me like this. I went to Harvard. I make big money. I could buy and sell you."

"Sorry, but you couldn't even rent me." I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was an anti-capitalist by nature. "So fuck off."

"C'mon let's go." His girlfriend pleaded with the young banker. She seemed too nice for him, but also very Upper East Side. The night was still young. They could have a good time somewhere else. New York was a big city.

"Don't tell me what to do." The banker openpalmed his date and grabbed her by the hair.

I had hit two women in my life and regretted each incident, so I had no qualms about coldcocking the banker with an overhead right. He dropped to his knees and I caught him with a left under the chin. Big Bernard pulled me off him before any real damage was done. The girlfriend helped her date to his feet, as a patrol car inched around the corner. The driver came here after hours and didn't want to get involved in a public scuffle. His partner was also a patron of the Milk Bar. He waved to me and they cruised over to Hudson Street. The couple departed from the corner. I could only wish the girl would leave him before he hurt her, but that was hoping for too much.

"Thanks for the help." I had been planning to kick the banker in the head.

"You know I don't want no trouble." Big Bernard was Haitian. The NYPD didn't mind white people hitting white people, but black on white was another story to be heard at 101 Centre Street or the Tombs.

"I know and there'll be no more trouble tonight." My right hand was sore. I might have dislocated a knuckle. Squeezing the thief's wad of cash made it feel better. Money always had that effect on me and everyone else too. We were all just human.

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