All White Knights Are Assholes
White Knight /ˈˌ(h)wīt ˈnīt/: A person (usually male) who offers unsolicited help to a damsel in distress believing she will reward them with romantic gestures.
There’s a stark contrast between a White Knight and an actual Knight in Shining Armor, and the difference is in the beholder's eye. A White Knight, like most things men offer to women after they meet in a bar, is unsolicited. Knights in Shining Armor, well, that’s all about good timing, and accepting nothing in return.
I hate White Knights.
Nobody drinking inside a bar at 1 am is ever going to save your life. Some people could save you from a bad situation, but they’re usually bartenders, security, or designated drivers. Usually.
Let’s put it this way: how many honorable people do you think are still in a bar at 1 in the morning? Hint — it’s few, if at all.
Now, nobody deserves to have something bad happen to them when they’re expecting a fun night on the town. Everyone should show up, have fun, and leave when they wish, with the person they wish, so long as both parties believe that at the same time.
But just remember, not every asshole is trying to be a White Knight, but absolutely every White Knight is an asshole. Hitting on a girl that’s not feeling it? Not a White Knight. Tipping the bartender heavy to get her number? Not a White Knight. Buying shots for the table, but you’re really just trying to impress the one you want to take home? Not a White Knight.
Trying to use your station as an upper class white kid as intimidation and also enlist your friend to fight me because your girlfriend got her sister’s ID confiscated at the door? Yeah, that’s a White Knight. This is that story.
So, you might think, “Jon, if he already has a girlfriend, doesn’t that mean he’s just a kind-of-douche boyfriend?”
White Knights can be in relationships. After all, the person is putting on a performance to win favors from the girl. Does he need to do it? No, of course not. He already has the girl, so to speak. He wants to do it…
Armed with this presumed foreknowledge of … extracurricular activities … the man — who I have to call Allen even though his real name is perfect as he shares it with another person I loathe — starts down a dark path.
Some background. A girl came up and presented her sister’s ID as her own. It was a stark contrast. Like how Zooey and Emily Deschanel are sisters, but you still don’t believe it even after listening to She & Him and watching all of Bones, well, almost all of Bones until they killed Sweets. I digress.
Sister’s ID in hand, the girl pleads then walks off into the distance. One of the easier takes, I thought. Oof.
Twenty minutes later, a car pulls up a few spaces away from the bar entrance. Running.
A guy gets out, not the driver. He’s about 6-foot-2, lean, tennis player type. He’s wearing a blue Adidas track jacket, grey sweat shorts, and a pair of well-worn Nikes, although they were probably expensive when new. That will come back to haunt him later.
“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” Allen said, “You’re going to give me the ID back and then I’m going to leave.”
Admittedly, strong start. Bold right out of the gate. Direct unflinching eye contact. Great, I thought. He’s sober, so this is his everyday personality.
“Only her sister can get the ID back,” I reiterate. “Only Claire can pick it up.”
“But that is Claire,” Allen said. “She’s right in the car.”
Claire was not in the car. I doubled checked the ol’ Facebook after closing and, while her ID said she lived across the state, she was most definitely in Florida.
“Listen, I already told Lizzie that only her sister can get the ID back. That’s that.”
“Listen to me. I’m taking that ID back right now,” Allen replied, still staring unnervingly.
Allen then points to the car like it’s some sort of dead drop and the kidnapper is totally thinking the mark is falling for it. Later, he even says that I was just about to hand it over. Ridiculous, I know.
This back and forth goes on for 15 minutes. It’s more of the same. “Give me the ID.” “No, you’re not a 26-year-old woman in Florida.” “But she’s right in the car.” “Cool, let’s prove it.”
That’s when the lights on the car go dark. Whoever is driving got impatient, but not enough to get out of the car. I should note that we’re almost out of winter at this time of year. Cooler nights, warmer days ahead, still a faint snow and snowmelt slush lining the sidewalks. A slow bar inside means Allen has my full attention. We were at an entertainment drought all winter. This piqued my interest.
“Alright, I tell you what,” I said. “If Claire comes out of that car right now, I’ll give her the ID back and buy all her drinks for the entire night. Anything she wants.”
The back window rolls down, showing Lizzie half slumped in the backseat. The timing was sensational.
“You mean my girlfriend, Claire?”
“Whoah, does Lizzie know you’re sleeping with her sister?”
He stops staring at me.
“HEY LIZZIE! DID YOU KNOW ALLEN WAS FUCKING YOUR SISTER, TOO?”
The window rolls back up.
“Dude, way to go, really. That’s quite something.”
“Claire…Claire is my girlfriend. She’s in the car.”
“Wow, she looks a lot like Lizzie. Even wearing the same clothes. That’s a good relationship for not being twins.”
“They’re not twins!”
I’ve broken him now.
“I’m going to walk right in there and get the ID back myself.”
He motions toward the entrance, and I pop a hand out in front to block. He attempts to grab my hand, and I put him firmly back on the sidewalk. Our older door guy, who wishes to be referred to as Michael Weston, the actor. I only remember him from wearing argyle socks on House. I guess he sees a similarity. Personally, I don’t see it, but he’s stuck with it now.
Edit: He meant Michael Westen, the character from the USA spy dramedy Burn Notice.
So, Michael Westen sees this push and shove and gives Allen a warning. One more time and his ass is on the pavement. Allen disregards this warning and puts his hands on MW, who is smaller in stature but feisty like a skateboarder who had to run from the cops because it was illegal and he hates ‘the man.’ MW responds by spinning to Allen’s backside, yanking the hoodie underneath the Blue Adidas jacket and following through on a full downward motion like he’s spinning the wheel on The Price Is Right. Allen goes ass over teakettle as if he’s just stepped on marbles in Home Alone.
“Told ya,” Michael Weston said.
Allen was unfazed. Remarkable. He brushed it off as if it didn’t happen.
“I’m going to get my girlfriend, CLAIRE’S, ID back.”
Damn. Did that fall give him amnesia. Did I fall down, too? Are we living in a glitching simulation?
No. No. Maybe?
No.
We restart the whole process. Allen still thinks we stashed the ID somewhere in the bar (it was in my pocket), and the car still hasn’t turned back on.
“That ID is coming home with me.”
“So you can sleep with your girlfriend’s sister. Got it.”
“Li — CLAIRE is my girlfriend.”
“I know, I know, it’s hard to keep the lie up,” I said. “As Shaggy said, you just have to say it wasn’t you.”
He tried to come in once again. Michael Westen was so nice, he had to teach him the same lesson twice. On the ground goes Allen.
Mercifully, I had a break as Maui showed up. Finally, someone to break up the one-on-one. Give me a break and let some of the professional shit-talkers take over.
Maui comes out on the patio with a sugar free Red Bull, fresh off a nice steak dinner date with his significant other, who looked colder than absolutely everyone outside.
He asks me what we’ve got. Inside is still dead, but outside has all the action. I recap: Allen here is sleeping with his girlfriend’s sister who may or may be in the car. A real Schrodinger’s sidepiece situation going on. Meanwhile, Michael Westen already knocked him down twice. We’re going on an hour now.
“An HOUR, Jon?”
“Yep,” I said. “He’s still trying to think he’s going to get the ID back.”
Maui laughs. Allen chimes in, which was ill-advised.
“Shut up, you …Puerto Rican.”
WOW. We went from a White Knight scenario to death wish real fast.
Maui is a king shit-talker. He’s also a massive individual who almost bit someone’s finger off right in front of me (the guy deserved it). He takes two steps toward Allen and already they’re nose to nose.
“What’d you say to me, BOY?”
“My … I’m not … I didn’t mea-…I wasn’t talking about you.”
He was.
“You wanna go right now? I’ll take you out right here.”
While he is my friend and taking some heat off me at the moment, I remind him that isn’t in anyone’s best interest. Again.
“Back off. My da-”
“Your what, your DADDY? Did you just pull a daddy card?”
Allen indeed pulled the daddy card. AKA the preppy white kid’s attempt at a get-out-of-jail-free card.
“Why don’t you get your daddy to buy you a new pair of shoes? Why doesn’t daddy pay for some actual pants? Look at these shoes, they’re worth at least twice, no, three times those brand new.”
Allen tries to come back with the actual MSRP of his shoes but gets rightfully interrupted.
“You know what, actually this can of Red Bull cost more than those shoes, and it was FREE.”
I know this may seem like a petty line, but this legitimately hurt Allen. You could see it on his face. He may still believe he is winning the ID battle, but he knows he lost the white privilege battle, and when that card is removed from the deck, you don’t have a lot of options remaining.
Maui had to leave after this excitement. Allen, hurting — inside — showed signs of doubt, but decided to come back for more. He stepped back to the gate, Michael Westen took a step toward him, and Allen back off, just enough.
Almost 120 minutes after Lizzie walked away from me, the driver stepped out to car. Now he was no slouch. He stood 6-5, a good 230, and clearly the cold wasn’t affecting him inside a turned-off a car in late winter. Allen looked pleased. he had another card to play.
“If you don’t give me the ID,” he said coyly, “my friend here is going to beat you up and take it.”
I looked at Allen, looked at the driver, looked back at Allen, then right back to the driver.
“No, he’s not.”
The driver turned toward Allen and asked if they could go home. Lizzie was already asleep in the back. Yes, he mentioned her by name. Couldn’t play the name card, the race card, the daddy card, the beefy friend card. Fold and go home.
“Fine,” Allen said.
What? It’s over? It’s finally over?
“I’ll just follow you home when you get out of work and take it from you myself.”
Fuck you, calling the cops.
I get on with dispatch. Allen is unfazed. Still at the gate. I walk over to the car. Give dispatch Allen’s general description. Still nothing. Start reading out the license number. The driver is getting tense, tells Allen to get in the car.
Start describing the driver’s build and specific tattoo design.
The driver runs around the front of the car and picks up Allen, opens the rear passenger door, and throws him inside. Dispatch asked if I wanted a unit to roll by, I declined and said they left on their own. The call did its job, even though you could tell Allen, still smiling as the car drove on, thought he won.
I wonder how his girlfriend thanked him. I wonder what lie he told her.
I wonder if she thought he was her Knight in Shining Armor.
But to me, Maui, Michael Westen, the driver, dispatch, and the public. He was an asshole.
Because White Knights always are.
