(no subject)
New Year's Eve at the club, and everyone's dressed up--or down-- more than usual tonight. Even security is wearing ties. Lucky looks handsome in his trench coat.
The line is two blocks down Woodward, and things are getting crazy when Lucky pokes his head in the door. "I got some punk outside who says he knows you," he says. "Says he needs to get something from you. You know a Derek? Want me to get rid of him?"
"No, no! Can you send him in here for just a minute, so I can say hello?"
"Naw," he says.
I throw him Derek's wallet. Lucky hands it over, and through the window I can faintly see the poor guy being shoved, roughly, out of the line.
But security is tight for a reason. That's why you have to get frisked and check your coat. Some nights, the racial tension is so thick you could cut it with a knife. "Fucking honky bitch," says a young gentleman as I hand him his coat, right on cue. Later, I hear the same epithet from inside the bar. A fight breaks out.
I can tell from the tone and duration of this fight that it is For Real. I can't escape, either---the fight is right in front of my coat-check counter, in the lobby. I duck down under the counter and crouch. Standing up to bolt, I see a gun, and decide to resume my position on the floor. I can see my cash register being thrown across the room. Then the tip jar.
I'm staying calm, but my hands are suddenly red, itchy. Hives? Fifteen minutes later, I can hear that someone has locked someone else out of the building, and they're pounding on the door furiously. I am hoping that it's the bad guys that are locked out, and not the other way around. I hear two gunshots, glass breaking, and then silence. We're all OK, but our door is all.... shot.
One of the waitresses in on the phone, calling the club owner at his home at 3 a.m. "Don't ever call me if you want me to work again," she is saying. "Bitch." I've never heard a black woman call a white man a bitch before. I smile.
I emerge from my hiding place, and we stand around, on top of the broken glass. I resume sweeping, this time picking up casings off the floor.
Lucky, who was never really shaken in the first place, is now philosophizing:
"You see, those guys didn't really want to fight," he is saying. "They just wanted to act real silly. Actually," he amends, "all they really wanted was to shoot this boy here," meaning M, the head of security. "Cause he punked them out, and because they know that he could beat they ass if he wanted to, and because he white. That's why I sent him to the basement, and he didn't even argue with me." In fact, he had locked himself in.
"Now, we was outnumbered. But I figured, if I just removed him from the equation, we could settle the situation."
"I can talk to anyone, and I can defuse any situation. I can also whoop anybody's ass. Our whole crew was ready to rock. So it don't really matter to me. Just another week with a pistol in my face."
"Come Saturday night, though, I can tell you that our guys will be wearing they vests and carrying they guns. Keep it right where they can see it, too, cause I don't give a fuck."
Saturday night comes around, and we're bolstered with extra security, several of their large neighborhood friends, and two off-duty cops. The night starts and ends without incident. I can't tell if it's because we're smart, or tough, or just lucky.