In the Mission Impossible series, that nifty little tape recorder — you know, the one that vaporized after the agent listened to it — used to amend its covert operation (like “capture a cell of terrorists protected by landmines and 900-pound tigers”) with the comforting words, “should you choose to accept this assignment… ” This gave the agent an out. Obviously, the agent never opted for the out or there’d be no story that week, but my own recent mission impossible — how hard could it be to work as a bar bouncer? — tempted me to opt out.
Yet, what’s the worst that could happen? I’d tell some sozzled dude who’d punched his friend that it was time to go home, and then he’d punch me? And what was so bad about that? Well, it would hurt like hell. A doc might want to sew my 66-year-old puss back to its pristine condition, whereupon I could cajole, “And how ‘bout a nip ‘n tuck to my jawline?”
It was hard to find a bar that would hire me for a night. I don’t have bouncer on my resume, just writer, book dealer, mom. There’s nothing in there about the ability to kick derriere. I’d dropped round the Lamppost several times, a busy pub with a dozen bouncers patrolling on any given weekend night. The owner wouldn’t say ‘yes’ to me, and he wouldn’t say ‘no’, which pretty much sums up my interaction with men.
I finally found a lovely bouncer to take me on as his sidekick at the Island Bar & Grille. I know the words ‘lovely’ and ‘bouncer’ go together about as organically as ‘pistol-packing’ and ‘librarian,’ but Lenny Clark, 47, with tattoos up and down his arms (and Lord knows where else) like flocked wallpaper, bald with a pointed grey beard, has an air of peace about him like Mahatma Gandhi’s right-hand man.
“I always use diplomacy,” he said in his soft voice. “I never want to get into it physically because bouncers have to pay their own hospital bills. If things get out of hand, we wrest the rowdies to the ground and call the cops. The O.B. cops are fantastic. They come immediately and take charge.”
When I arrived at the bar last Thursday around 9:45 pm, Lenny was not yet there, so I sat at a lonely table beside the wall and watched the scene at the U-shaped bar. I realized this was a wholesome place, with gaggles of girls — all of them blonde for some perverse reason, all of them laughing loudly as girls tend to do when they imbibe a glass of chardonnay. Guys swapped jokes, eyes darting to the obligatory flat screens flashing sports events, celebrity tweets, and subtitles of breaking news, none of which any of us cared to contemplate past sundown.
All the patrons, the three bartenders, and the male acoustic guitar player were under 30. This made me invisible, deliciously invisible, to tell you the truth, because as an earlier version of myself, I feared the bar scene and the constant irritant of young men pestering young women as if they cared deeply, whereas you knew their ulterior motives were salacious to a high degree.
I also had this exhilarating thought that once Lenny arrived and I was put to work as an enforcer, my age would be an asset. To these young people I was, undoubtedly, the vision of Eve “Our Miss Brooks” Arden in the movie “Grease.” I was the principal! If they didn’t do what I asked, I could send them to Saturday detention. I’d get full cooperation just by saying, “Now, children…”
Lenny walked in the door. We sat down so I could download all the scuttlebutt about his job. I learned from Lenny and the manager, 36-year-old Sonu Chhiber, that the only outbreaks of violence occurred at bachelor parties where young men knock back one too many shots and start rumbles with beloved college buddies.
And, yes, the heavy-hitting bars require bouncers with fists of fury. Lenny told me about a friend who worked the Lamppost who took a break one night to grab Thai food at The Ritz. He encountered a crunk customer (I found “crunk” in Urban Dictionary) in the doorway pounding the owner.
Here’s what I thought Lenny said: “So he gave the guy an apricot. It knocked him sideways.”
Me: “That’s so cool that an apricot could do that!” I was thinking of the old 60s Love-ins when we handed out fruit and flowers.
“No, not an apricot, an upper cut.”
At the mellower Island B&G, Lenny keeps customers on the safe side of their drink limit. Bartenders are the first line of defense. Lenny and his two deputies eye the crowd constantly for that flibberty-gibbety look of intoxication, or as those subjects themselves might say, “aniahalation,” They also block already-wasted peeps from entry.
And finally they check ID’s at the door to protect their liquor license from imbibing minors. (Just as a tiny aside, no one carded me; I could have been a 16-year-old with plenty of theater grease paint and a partially grey wig.)
Lenny gave me a task: Stand outside and check IDs. A young man, short, round, with a sweet face and glasses, approached.
“Can I see some ID?” I asked with my best Eve Arden impression.
He handed me his license. No matter how hard I squinted, I couldn’t read it. Shoot! If I remained in this job, I’d need reading glasses on a chain around my neck.
I explained I was a bouncer. He said, “Well, I’ve never seen such a pretty bouncer.”
I threw my arms around him. “Can I adopt you?!”
So that was my entry into the world of security detail. I told Lenny, “You can call me any time,” “Sure, I’ll call you, Holly,” he replied dryly.
So there you have it: Field notes from a hugging bouncer!
