Small Potatoes: Part 1
Last weekend was one for the books. To clarify for future readers: February 10 and 11, 2023 were complete and total shit shows. All without the usual suspects — full moons, big arena shows, bar holidays, and graduations.
Friday alone provided enough fodder for one big story. Then 5 minutes into Saturday … oh boy.
So, I’m breaking the weekend into two posts. But not one for each day. One for the “small potatoes” and the other for sheer catastrophe.
The saying goes, “don’t sweat the small stuff,” but I need to get these down to illustrate that everyone in this post, no matter how odd they behave, are amateurs compared to what’s coming.
One housekeeping item before we begin. A security colleague is making his blog debut. For the sake of expediency, his nickname is Crash.
Monica Be Lying
One-sided conversations are fun. What is the other person saying? Are they angry, too? Or happy? Or did they mute their phone so the one talking can air grievances while you fix yourself a cocktail?
Regardless of what the other person is doing, saying, or thinking, you always know what’s on the mind of the person right in front of you. You may think you’re “stepping outside for a personal call,” but that ends as soon as … you’re a white girl who calls someone the N-word (with the Hard R).
Someone is always listening.
Like yours truly.
A woman was inside with her two friends, twerking to Bad Bunny. She took a call from what was clearly a friend making some excuse to miss out on all the fun.
Here’s what we learned: there was a woman named Monica who said she’d come out. She was not. She said she would, or maybe she didn’t. But her absence was noticed by all.
“Monica be lying,” the woman relayed to her friends.
The friends go back to their table, Reggaeton continues in the background. The woman carries on her conversation.
“Monica, you be on some bullshit.”
Monica is pushing back.
“Monica,” she snapped back, “I’m fucked up but 9 times out of 10 I’m gonna remember that [you said you’d come out] like always!”
Where have I heard something like that before?
Heated, confused, distraught, the woman went back inside. As Bad Bunny stopped and Drake began, her friends looked to her for answers. All she could do was slap her hands on the table and proclaim, “Monica being a DUMB BITCH.”
A Little Off
When most people try to bring their way-too-drunk friend in, they often make the excuse that, yes they’re drunk, but the group will take care of them.
How noble. I’ll take care of them even better by not letting them into the place where all the alcohol is.
I will say the collection of men of a certain age that tried to pass off their wasted friend was more inventive, but for all the wrong reasons. First, always a bad sign when someone falls into another person unassisted.
On a windless night.
Second, the man was downright mute. Probably dragged along for the ride the last hour, completely unaware of the events from midnight to 1 am.
Third, the eyes. Half closed, afraid of the light. Dude is ready for bed, not another Jack and Coke.
After I turned him away, the group collectively read the writing on the wall — they’re all too old to be out this late. Side for one, who doubled back in a last-ditch attempt to sway my decision.
“Sorry about my friend,” he apologized. “He’s on the spectrum. We think it’s autism.”
Heavy. Could it explain it all? Was I being too hard on someone with a much rougher life, particularly an older gentleman?
Wait, what was that second part? Ah, yes. “We think.”
Complete bullshit, but what an effort.
You think it’s autism. Guy’s almost 50 years old and you couldn’t offer a definite. Just had to go full spectrum disorder to mask being drunk. Just admit to being drunk. It’s not that hard, and many people’s lives would be easier if you admit it.
Case in point…
Mistaken Identity Barbie
The interaction above was book ended by a woman’s journey into madness.
I’m sorry, that’s offensive.
Her journey into being really fucking pissed off at me for being a different person than who she thought I was.
Ever since a popular downtown hotspot started closing at 1 am instead of 2 the streets get weird for a half hour as the customers descend on other bars near close.
Personally, I like the decision. I love people giving me a set time to watch people who are clearly too drunk to function. Obviously, you can get drunk at all hours, but you never really know where someone is coming from before midnight unless a nearby concert or game ends.
Setting my clock to the 1 am trickle has been very helpful, turning away those looking for one or two final pours before making even more bad choices.
Three women walk up from said hotspot. One I vaguely recognize, but nothing of immediate familiarity. The other two are foreign to me, but one of them is happy to see me.
“It’s me!” she says, thinking I’m about to reciprocate.
“Uh huh.”
She looks confused. Not what she was expecting at all.
“You’re the bouncer,” she slurs matter-of-factly. “The Russian!”
Now, I guess some could confuse Polish for Russian, and I did take some Russian in college because I needed a lab credit, but she was adamant. Never in my life, however, have I ever told people I was Russian. Hell, my name and “The Polish Hammer” is literally written on the walls of the bar, this blog, and on video introductions during yearly Oktoberfest keg tosses.
I’m pretty damn Polish.
Back to Barbie. She’s drunk. She stumbled walking up. She fumbled the introduction, and her friends have that exasperated mood of, “not this bitch’s shit again.”
I deny that I’m Russian, then deny her entry.
They ask why and I go into the stumbles, the slurring, and one friend says, “she’s like that all the time. It’s just how she acts.”
Cool, it’s an act. Stop doing that.
“But you’re the Russian bouncer and I’ve been coming here FOR YEARS!”
Years beyond years, it turns out. More years than possible.
“I came here on my 21st birthday and you let me in,” she said. “I’m 33 now.”
No, I didn’t get timeline wrong. She’s known me as the Russian bouncer for 12 whole years.
A lot to unpack here.
The bar wasn’t open on her 21st birthday in 2011. It didn’t have its grand opening until New Year’s 2014/15.
I did not work from the get-go. I was a patron for quite some time, joining much later in August 2016. My “Polish Hammer” moniker precedes my employment.
I was a substitute teacher in 2011. Fun fact: I applied to work in several bars after college from 2011 to 2016. I was rejected by all of them.
I am often confused for two different tall bald men in this city. One works security and the other manages bars. Neither one is Russian.
The facts laid bare, Barbie left in a huff, screaming and cursing at me, down the block and toward their car (she wasn’t driving). Good news is, I’ll never forget her now.
Then the men’s group came and went.
As the girls were driving up to the light, Barbie stuck her head out the window like an over-excited Golden Retriever.
“Fuck you,” she screamed. “Fat piece of shit. Fucking 280 pound motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrr!”
I turned to Crash in glee.
“Holy shit! I just lost 25 pounds!”
I fist pumped as they drove off.
Geography Lessons
While Barbie was trying to give me a history lesson, a man walked out of the bar attempting to both sides her argument. In his mind, he was helping her case saying that I’ve been at the bar since 2009, but also on my side because I’m a good guy from way back then.
“Were you in Iowa?”
“Ionia?”
“You said we’ve known each other since 2009. I was in Iowa.”
“Yeah, the one with all the potatoes.”
Iowa. The one with all the potatoes.
