Pocket dispatch from host stand (bouncer diary)
Party of six. Pre-gamers at their final stop. Two of the girls drop their IDs when I card them. They’re carrying snacks and open containers, which I confiscate.
They’re celebrating a birthday, the answer to a question I didn’t ask. One of the boys, probably late 20’s, sizes me up. I pretend not to notice and say have a nice night as I click my counter six times, turn to the next group, and hold up my hand.
A lot of the art of my job is how you stop people. The nuances of that initial interaction set the tone for the whole exchange.
First I make the traditional stop sign, then I twist it in a sort of half queen’s wave as I make a little smile with one corner of my mouth. “How we doing tonight?” It tells people I’m in charge but makes them feel like maybe I’m happy to see them.
If the guest feels any sting of rejection, a fight’s begun whether or not either of you was looking for one. I can usually feel that heat radiating off them before they do, right when they step up to my stand. But I take the temperature of the situation again as I check each ID. I look them in the eye after looking over the card. They think I’m checking they match the card, but I’ve already done that. I’m looking them in the eye for a flash of indignation, or worse, a cold, dead stare and a clenched jaw. Those are the boys to look out for: more liquid confidence than sense, and plenty to prove. Usually there’s nothing more on board than a pocket knife and twitchy hands, but now and then there’s a gun in the waistband. Those types like clubs, so I see more guns at work than on the street.
The next group is a foursome. Some kind of double date, but casual. Too casual. The guys have ill-fitting jeans and their untucked button shirts are ten years late. At my last job, the crowd was more curated and I could turn people away for bad style. But I got the ax when new owners took over, and I didn’t have the kind of savings that would have allowed me to be choosy.
I card then and wave them in, soul patches and all. …
The truth is some people are already looking for a fight when they get up in the morning, it just doesn’t come out of them until they’re drunk and standing in line to get into my club. They swallow the feeling all day, go to work, fight traffic, take shit from their bosses and co-workers, then come home tired and try to shake it off for a night out so they can let loose. What exactly they’re letting loose is a surprise sometimes.
Pocket Dispatch from “Flying to America” by Marco Parisi
Was the soft pounding sound coming from the music, or the apartment above? Or was it inside my head? It was gentle enough, not unpleasant, but persistent and mysterious. My suspicion aroused, I strained obsessively to hear it.
The strings washed over the pounding sound, and over me. They could have been acoustic or synthetic. The slid up and down in a bath of reverb, making small waves, evoking an emotional response that surprised me. It was sad—I realized I was mourning something—but I welcomed it as the first strong feeling I’d had in days.
I closed my eyes and imagined the landscape this music evoked. I imagined the environment that inspired it, and the artist in the space where he created it. The title describes an international flight, and the artwork looks like a view of clouds from above, or maybe a view of sand in soft focus, rippled by yesterday’s high tide.
These images gave way to a montage of my own memories, real and imagined, of making art. Strong emotions giving way to dramatic expression. I remember it in colors and slices of moments, silenced and flitting by so quickly that some are indecipherable.
My life had recently stopped feeling like my own; my memory no longer autobiographical.
Pocket Dispatch from “Flying to America” by Marco Parisi
Was the soft pounding sound coming from the music, or the apartment above? Or was it inside my head? It was gentle enough, not unpleasant, but persistent and mysterious. My suspicion aroused, I strained obsessively to hear it.
The strings washed over the pounding sound, and over me. They could have been acoustic or synthetic. The slid up and down in a bath of reverb, making small waves, evoking an emotional response that surprised me. It was sad—I realized I was mourning something—but I welcomed it as the first strong feeling I’d had in days.
I closed my eyes and imagined the landscape this music evoked. I imagined the environment that inspired it, and the artist in the space where he created it. The title describes an international flight, and the artwork looks like a view of clouds from above, or maybe a view of sand in soft focus, rippled by yesterday’s high tide.
These images gave way to a montage of my own memories, real and imagined, of making art. Strong emotions giving way to dramatic expression. I remember it in colors and slices of moments, silenced and flitting by so quickly that some are indecipherable.
My life had recently stopped feeling like my own; my memory no longer autobiographical.
Pocket Dispatch From A Light Stroll
It’s a late spring day. The sun is shining and hot, and I am trying to incorporate more exercise into my life, so I will go for a walk outside.
The less I take, the better. I don’t want to be weighed down by heavy things, and it will be easier to clear my mind if my hands and pockets are empty, too. So I will only take my wallet.
And my phone. My responsibilities require me to be reachable most of the time in case something happens with the kids at school, plus I might forget something that’s on the calendar or need to answer a text message. But at least I’ll only have my phone and wallet.
A notebook would be good. What better way to enjoy being out in the neighborhood than by sitting down at a cafe and writing down some thoughts? I love to write in notebooks, especially with a simple ball point pen. Sometimes pencil is best, but if I take both, I’ll be set. Maybe a few colors of felt tip marker in case I need to emphasize something.
Actually, if I write something good, it would be great to be able to draft a text file in my writing app for revisions and maybe even posting later. The iPad is usually my favorite for that, but the keyboard case is in the office where my wife is taking a meeting, and I don’t like typing on the screen, so I’ll just take my laptop.
This is more than I originally meant to take, but it will all fit in my shoulder bag. Wallet, phone, laptop, notebook, pen, pencil, flair pens. This is fine.
I turn to the door and notice the book I’m supposed to drop off at a friend’s house a few streets over. This walk is the perfect occasion to take care of that.
Next to the book is my camera, which I’m trying to get better about carrying on me at all times now that the weather is good for street photography and people are out in interesting dress. I grab it.
My shoulder bag is overstuffed now and I’m a little worried about the camera falling out, so I clip its strap to the bag with a D hook.
I grab my pocket knife—you never know—as I turn back to the door, the bag’s strap digging into my shoulder. I slip into a pair of sneakers and start down the stairs, slightly unsteady under the weight.