I finally got cut. Pretty badly. There was blood everywhere. I went down. Despite the many attempts and close encounters with blades big and small, it was a surgical knife that finally got me. Not during work mind you, but on the sterility of an operating table. I did see bright lights before I left this world (or consciousness) but they were those of an operating room, and the masked men that waved at me were not little green men, but extremely skilled surgeons. A piece of me was removed that day. A piece that twisted and turned inside of me, an adversary that tormented me, every day, and every night, forcing me to work in pain. As I lay imprisoned in my bed, watching episode 6, season 3 of The Mentalist, my phone buzzed…another invite to some lame spot that champions avoid and losers go to be cool. Ya, sure, ill hobble over there, pain and all, ready to knock back cocktails of dilaudid and peach schnapps. Great idea. Listen buddy, don’t call me, I’ll call you. How the hell do you spell schnapps anyway?? Anyway, it was then that I realized that I never finished my second blog on my experiences in the dark, devious and sinfully pleasurable nights of the nightlife. Here she is. Read her, beat her, treat her as you see fit...
Weeks before…I was walking out the door to buy dish soap when I received a text message from one of my favorite past clients, asking me if she fell into the group of douchebag-ettes that I claimed exist in the nightlife industry. People actually read my blog, and I was doomed to harsh criticisms, you go girls, threats and creepy “oh you’ll sees”. I received a lot of messages. Some filled with love, some hate, okay, lots of hate, a few solicitations, job offers and the good kind, and where my next spot would be; and yes, if I could reserve them a table or two. Christ on a sidecar. As I walked out the door with my cell phone in hand, the age of my crusty dishes perforating my nose and the odor of my cat’s package filling up the box (very sobering) especially after late night cereal sharing, it dawned on me. It is really hard to pour a decade of experience into one page of blog storytelling. It was my first blog after all, so I must be forgiven for those I’ve offended. After all, I have already forgiven myself. I need to make one thing clear: almost everything I did in this business was for the clients and for the simple pleasure of working. The latter because I could, and the first because, after all, it was thanks to the client that I earned my twilight living all those years.
We must remember that it was thanks to the clients that security and doormen could feed their families AND buy their girlfriend's fake Gucci 1973 Edition handbag. It was thanks to them that bartenders could drive little hot sports cars and claim that they are working to put themselves through school. At 29? Really? How striper-esque. It was thanks to them that the Oopa Loompas aka Busboys, usually the hardest workers and lowest paid, could buy their way into cool with fists full of dirty money stuffed into their pockets to purchase the next great deodorant. It was thanks to them that dish pits even exist (note: the urban dictionary defines the dish pit as a ‘noun, a place in which you clean dishes, pots and pans. You slave and sweat over the steam of the dishwater. Contains the bottom of the nightlife food chain.) It is thanks to the client that managers can abuse and bang their staff. It is thanks to the client that bathroom attendants can buy the latest ergonomic handled bowel pick-me-upper that can hold even the heaviest of barfs and back-ends. It is especially thankful to the clients that owners could rein over their kingdom. After all, in the valley of nightlife, the halfhearted half brained owner is king. Ouch. If you’re upset about my thoughtless comments, I’m speaking about you. If you are snapping your fingers going ‘oh noooo he di’nt, I’m probably not referencing you. Remember folks; I am only writing about the dirty, sticky, and the bad because it’s more interesting. TMZ beats CPAC any day. Back to the client. We were all clients at some point. Difference is, I have never forgotten, and I always remembered to thank my clients. More often than not, they thanked me too. So much so that when I fell into my home, stoically ripped, staggering into my bathroom, I would wash my hands, stained the sink black washing the hundreds of wassups. I would loofa my face hard to scrub off the deviant female scent of yore, the ghosts of Mediterranean lips of man, and the blood (literally) and sweat that was born on my brow, partied on my nose, and died on my nape and chest. I could bottle it. “Wow” by Rob Roy. I was on the other side of that velvet rope once, where clients now stand. It wasn’t so much my charm or handsome good looks (barf in mouth) that got me into this business. It was like most things in life; right place/right time, balls, the drive to work because I could, my smarts, my wit, my attitude and a great haircut. All of it is true, especially that last part. Note: those that don't care about history; skip the rest of this blog. In fact, click the X and kick yourself in the head. History and remembering where you came from is everything.
The year was 1998. The 49-cent pizza wars were coming to an end, K-mart became Zellers and the baby girls of Air Canada were gearing up for their first strike in history. Summer’s hot was upon us; I was graduating, fit, excited and single. The night was upon us and I was showered, smelled great, hair slicked, cowlick tamed, secured my father's black on tan Buick and was ready for a night on the town in a city where my future was unwritten. Money, Power & Respect blasted from my speakers when I picked up Tony. Tony was my best friend. Every decision I would make had to meet his approval, and it always did. On our way to Epoca in Little Italy (our Friday night tradition where I would bring my own tea and have to pay for it; well worth it though since my usual waitress just had her breasts done. Remember, this was the 90s!) Tony motioned for me to stop on Crescent Street. He wanted to say hello to a newly acquired friend of his; a friend that would later turn out to be my second best mate, my roommate and the bastard who pulled me into this dirty business of nightlife. John worked the door at the hottest spot on Friday nights, home to a crowd that raised their arms to Habibi, Habibi; a crowd that would eventually outnumber the pigeons and squirrels of downtown; usurping it and calling it their own. Little Beirut was born. Sessions was hard to get into, it was popular, and is probably reminisced today in the UAE. Of course it was special on Tuesdays as well, where it was home to the ill reputes, the rippers, the damned, the ugly and the dead. In fact, I encountered my first murder (execution) that night; 500 people, no witnesses. Note to popo, sharks and ‘ohhs’: I DIDN'T SEE ANYTHING EITHER. In fact it was on a Tuesday night at Sessions where I once saw a douchebag stand on the bar, urinate onto the head of client, and later shit himself whilst overdosing on the sidewalk. Weird. A real and rare triple threat. Good times though. Maybe not for that guy, but I am sure Sessions Tuesdays is still talked about by all the tough guys inside... Come to think of it, even the manager fled the country. Something about borrowed/stolen money something something, kick to the head, something, something, something, never mind. My cat dropped a nuclear waste payload, please standby while I burn some incense and exorcise that demon.
I waited on the curb while Tony said hello. I wasn't interested in meeting another douchebag doorman. They're all the same after all, right? Leaning against the Le Sable all black on black on black on black on tan (wearing black was always so cool and slimming, right ladies?,) I noticed that everyone wanted John's attention. He was tall, handsome, chiseled, and had great hair. The line-up was 80 people thick, and the cool and hopefuls stood in front, arms up, buying stock, the traders that they were. John couldn't be bought for less than forty per. That's how cool he was. He would lean against the wall, his finger on his lips as if trying to solve a crime, observing. Always observing. The crime, my friends, was poor fashion, and almost always male. John was apologetic though; the occasional "hmmm, no, sorry, um, ya, no" could be heard. Tony approached. Unlike the modern doorman, John could see beyond the length of his nose. He had a way to part the sea of beggars. No eye contact, never respond to your name and never ever hesitate; golden rules for decent doormen. I will go into this on another day. They shook hands, spoke, audience hanging on every word trying to be part of the conversation. Nothing is more self-degrading than wanting to act like the third wheel when you aren’t. Tony signaled me over. I looked over my shoulder. Cracker mistake. He was talking to me. Quietly embarrassed, I sighed, waited for Rive-Sud to drive by with his neoned civic for the 9th time, and walked onto the red carpet, passed the fish; sea parted, and looked into John's face and shook his hand. His first words were unique, and this is what he said: "You're in my Sustainable Development Class at Concordia. I remember you because when you walked into class fashionably late, suited up, grabbing everyone's attention; hmmm, I noticed you had great hair. I too have great hair." Trust me, John was as straight as they come. No hint of pixie in this guy. Although he did play a great lisp when he wanted to. Um, an awkward thanks was all I could retort. John was unique. I was intrigued. He insisted we go up. Tony pulled out 2 cigars as Habibi Habibi pierced my ears. Sessions was jammed, and we walked through the crowd like a celebrities, John and Tony leading the way. No Epoca for me tonight. The side-glance of spectacular would have to wait. The prequel to my being Doorman had begun.
