I Got Punched By a Girl
Earth’s northern hemisphere shifted into its vernal equinoctial state, and the calendar reflects a burgeoning spring and approaching summer. But people still need to remember where they live.
This is the Midwest, where it’s still basically winter.
So, of course, the 60-degree Saturday afternoon turned frigid a few hours later. I, a forward thinker, wore my long johns and other layers to deal with the sudden temperature drop when the sun disappeared from the horizon.
After working venue and bar security since I was 17 years old, people wearing little to no cold-protective clothing shouldn’t amaze me as much as it does. But that’s just me. I’m an optimist.
Fast forward until an hour before closing.
While our capacity limitations put us in a minor money-making bind, I’m all for it. The more structure we can maintain with the least amount of people works wonders for my… work style.
Sit here, go there, wash this, wear that. These are the options available to you, like assigned seating in elementary school. Ahh, those were the days.
But those weren’t really the days because I also used to work as a substitute teacher and that even system was fraught with chaos. Turns out, we sugar-coat our earliest memories.
The sad reality now is, my sugar-coated memories don’t make for great blogs, unless you want to hear about that time I destroyed a Kindercare bathroom after my dad let me eat an entire bag of marshmallows on a 90-degree day.
So, there I was, in my long johns, a defense from the cold, seating a group of four girls to our only open table inside. Order, structure, assigned seating.
A false-sense of security.
It’s hot inside. Not just any hot — overreaction hot.
You ever feel a slight breeze then run to your thermostat to crank up the heat an extra 15 degrees? Or gather your spare blankets and wrap yourself like a bean burrito? The inside of the bar reached that end-result warmth. Why?
We had the windows and door open.
For extra ventilation. So everyone’s not being piled into an airtight room during the hopeful end of rona season (which we all know isn’t the case because cases are increasing, people still don’t know how to wear masks a year later, and I saw a guy in a news segment say that he won’t get the vaccine because he takes vitamins).
Four girls, one table, blocked from any wind, but still near the front of the building.
One hour until close. Thirty minutes until last call.
Seven minutes until I got punched by a girl.
A few minutes after I sat the last table, I went back inside to do another walkthrough. See what’s up. See if people are “behaving.” See what’s on TV.
The group of *girls flagged me down.
Three of the four had some sweet shot — nothing straight up — in front of them. Two had nearly full White Claws.
“Is it possible to get another table,” the nicest of the four asked.
I explained the tables were all full, and they got the first available table we had. It was this table or back in the line. But that I would close either the door or window at last call, which was in thirty minutes. Also, if a table further toward the back opened up, I would try to accommodate them. I warned them this is a big if, as the table they were sitting at was the first to open up in at least a half hour.
I was looking at the group the entire time. The first girl who asked was pleasant, polite, non-confrontational. Waited patiently outside, in line, with no fuss. One of the other three was fairly nondescript, quiet. A third was short in more ways than one, and the last, well. She said:
“Kay, thanks, asshole.”
Um, what?
Standing at least 6-feet tall in her black Doc Martens, the raven-haired Amazon just cut right to the heart of what she was trying to accomplish. Chaos.
“Excuse me,” I said.
“Oh, I was trying to remember your name,” she replied. “It was Peanut (the other bouncer), and Asshole. Or maybe it was Dickhead.”
Again, I just sat them and answered a question about tables. No swearing, no mocking tone, no misconstrued witty banter. Just table, question, answer. I stood there with my mouth open (behind the mask), staring.
The short friend tried to smooth it over, saying that the Amazon was calling her the asshole, like a cute joke.
She was not joking. Eye contact never broke with the group. Nor were they were engaging in small talk before I came by their table. All they were doing was setting up the perfect Boomerang angle for their shots.
“Why would you say that to me,” I said. “That’s very rude.”
“Because you look like an asshole, dickhead.”
I must admit, the triple down was a bold move. Most men don’t even attempt it. The Amazon chose violence at 10:07 p.m. on the third Saturday in March in the year of our Lord 2021.
OK. You want to play it that way.
“You’re done!” I said in my best Nicole Byer Nailed It voice.
Shorty said they weren’t leaving. I said you don’t get to treat people like that and stay in the bar. Her friend was done. And it was only the Amazon. Not Pleasantville, or Her?, or even Shorty.
But like the Musketeers, it was all for one, and one for all.
Cool, the entire table can leave. It doesn’t make that much of a difference at that point.
Realizing that too much time was passing without my presence at the door, Peanut came to the table and get a lowdown. We presented the group with carry-out cups for their Claws and allowed them to finish their shots. All were paid up minutes before the name calling, which we were all thankful for.
But Shorty wasn’t having it.
“My boyfriend is a state trooper,” she said like it meant something.
Peanut gave her at least three loud verbal warnings to remove herself, or be removed.
Three steps outside the door escorting Shorty out the front, Peanut suffered the first of two abuses by our Amazon — a swift kick to the chest.
A hard kick, too. He still has a bruise. Peanut had to let Shorty go, but I was right behind him, blocking her path back to the bar. It was stay and fight, or exit now. Shorty escaped out the front, but not before the Amazon took her nearly full cup of Claw and threw it at Peanut. That’s tantamount to spitting on someone. And seeing a clear path with her enemy dazed by her spit shelling, the Amazon rushed up close and popped Peanut across the jaw.
Sidelined with multiple injuries, I stepped up to the main gate to block any clear path for the Amazon to do more damage.
Or so I thought.
To keep our incoming crowds at bay, we have a 30-pound metal stanchion equipped with a black rope that attaches to our front gate. A vestige of the VIP lifestyle our establishment has long since forsaken.
Our foe was not yet through with her assault. Like a battlefield scavenger, our Amazon took two hands to grasp the stanchion and hoist it above her waist. As she swung back, the rope held strong and prevented her from a full backswing. It also left me with two undeniable choices.
Do I get hit with a 30-pound, blunt metal object below the waist, or risk hand-to-hand combat by charging the assailant head on?
Unwilling to sacrifice life, limb, and loin, I closed in on the stanchion, bent down to grab the top knob and shoved it back to cement level.
As soon as metal hit pavement, I felt it.
The closed-fisted, knuckle-to-knuckle pattern of four fingers striking my left temple. I met little resistance when I grabbed the top handle, now I know why. By the time I grabbed the stanchion, the Amazon was halfway through her mean right hook. Hard enough to stun, powerful enough to prove she’s done this before, but weak enough to keep my balance and spring upright.
Did I just get punched by a girl?
I just got punched by a girl.
I collected myself, checked with Peanut, and watched as Pleasantville, and Her? walked down the sidewalk. The Amazon was taunting the crowd who, thankfully, didn’t have a **White Knight in sight. Everyone outside knew the situation, the details, the lead-up. They were in line together. And whether they knew all that would unfold, none were all too surprised.
“That’s what you get!” Shorty screamed. “It’s your job.”
“I don’t get paid to get punched in the head,” I snapped back.
Boos rained down on the two before finally giving up and going home. Driving down the street without lights on and running a Yellow/Red.
A week afterward, Pleasantville was in line sticking to her version. Amazon and Shorty were work associates, and the Amazon was their ride downtown. If snitches get stitches, Pleasantville needs to watch her back.
*Yes, I know they are technically women. They were all in their mid-to-late 20s and probably had bank statements and auto payments and rent and fully fledged lives outside of bar hopping on a Saturday night. If you act like a spoiled brat, I’m going to use a child’s vernacular to describe you.
**A White Knight is a Fast Action Bro who runs to the rescue if they see any girl in a fight, regardless of the situation. A White Knight complicates everything. Dark alley assault? Yes, stop that shit. Bar fight? Please stay out of it.
The last person I want to get close to in a bar during COVID is a girl already angry at me for answering a question about table arrangements. Or a sweaty man mass like the Thundering Nerd. Our responsibility is to stand someone up and escort them outside. Simple enough.
Plus, I learned a long time ago that it’s better to stop a fight from happening instead of breaking up a fight in progress. Girl fights are the worst. Clawing, hair pulling, eye gouging — and that’s people they like. As you know, we didn’t stop shit. Luckily, almost everyone within earshot of the situation knew these girls were acting a damn fool and had no business in semi-civilized society. They let us do our jobs and take the blows, even if we don’t get paid to do it.
