The bar seems to be a beacon for abhorrent behavior.
If you’re mentally unstable, I’m quite sure you’ve found your way into my establishment. I don’t mean those that are actually emotionally impaired. I’m talking about those people who become slower and embrace poor judgment when drinking as if they were an airline pilot on layover.
I can envision your type walking down the street; arms flailing, speaking in tongues to whatever poor sap is nearby. My first reaction is to not let you in the door or serve you anything that might lubricate your insanity any further.
Then I think, “What if this is just the first stage of our next evolutionary process? This person may be so far advanced that he/she can’t communicate on the same level as the common man. I may be witnessing the next step to a greater human form.”
Then I see you stoop over and pick up a piece of gum off the sidewalk or stumble, bumble, then vomit on yourself.
Oh sweet vindication, you are my friend.
I make a true effort to be courteous and fair to the people that come into the bar — big, little, stinky, clean, sane, nutty. I may not be skilled in being politically correct and always saying the right thing, but I think I pick up bonus points for being honest and direct.
This can best be documented with true stories.
Incident No. 918A: Obvious mental deficient Lizzy (names have been changed to protect the intellectually shallow) strolls up to me. She seems harmless enough, so I let her stay in the bar. Without warning, following the first few notes of “Thriller,” she starts to twist and contort her body in a way I didn’t think was possible by vertebrate animals. I thought she was having a seizure, until I watched a little longer and noticed that she was actually attempting to dance. Something like that.
Before I could have the dancing queen escorted out, she’d migrated to another group and her cavorting had taken on a whole new level with “Pour Some Sugar On Me” came chugging from the jukebox. Now she was gyrating on chairs, tables, near the bar, all the while groping guys as they walked by. Thank Jeebus we didn’t have any brass poles nearby.
Entertaining as she was, and with stifled giggles, I relayed to Mrs. Swayze that it was time she went home. Surprisingly enough, she was upset with my suggestion. So, in my nicest principal voice, I told her that I would call her a cab but she couldn’t stay. She responded by lifting up her tie-dye Charger’s hoodie and exposing her twin orange-in-a-tube-sock gratuities to the entire bar.
Fortunately, very little shocks me anymore. I just walked her out and tried desperately to burn those images from my retina. Alas, some things will never go away.
My therapist says my nightmares should fade soon, though the twitching and nausea might be around for a while.
Filed Under: Doorman Diaries