The Five Things That Piss Me Off The Most While Bouncing in Manhattan

To support my meager freelance earnings and non-existent literary earnings, I work at a bar where I mostly man the door. Said bar is one of downtown Manhattan’s swankiest neo-speakeasies, an underground mixology nerd’s wet dream, where bartenders slang $13 cocktails and the wait to get in is seldom less than 20 minutes on a weeknight. While “bouncer” is an accurate description of what I do, the bar’s clientele – off-duty bankers, successful creative types, NYU hipsters armed with Daddy’s PIN – aren’t usually in need of being bounced, and at a slightly out-of-shape and pasty 5’10”, I don’t cut anywhere near as intimidating a figure as my burly counterparts manning the gates of posh Meatpacking District clubs and frat-soaked yuppie-pits in Murray Hill. So I’ve tried to keep the following list of things patrons do that never fail to irk me as universal as possible, in the hopes that the city’s barflies might realize the mental anguish they enact on my brethren and me each long, tumultuous eve. Not that they’ll change, but I can still gripe. 

1. Guys Who Wait for Girls to Show Me Their IDs Before They Show Me Theirs

This may not seem like a big deal. What’s the problem with a guy trying to act courteous, it’s the same as holding a door or pulling out a chair, right? The problem is that when you see a social gesture as pointless this one again and again, it begins to gnaw at your soul in the worst way.

Real-life example:

Guy comes up to the bar with his female companion. Seeing that they are dressed business casual but are on the young side, I ask for identification. Of course the girl is the proud owner of a monstrous satchel whose ideal purpose seems to be transporting large human body parts. While she scours through the expanse of fabric, I am dutifully holding the door (a super heavy old-school metal door) open. The guy has his ID out but for some reason is declining to give it to me. After 45 seconds of me extending my hand to this character like a mongoloid and his girl still digging around, I say to him, “You know, I can see your ID now.”

“I’ll wait.”

Uh. More digging.

“So why don’t you just show me your ID now.” Still holding the door, arm getting sore.

He looks at me like I just crapped jelly beans out of my nose. “It’s called being a gentleman.”

“Oh?”

Girl: “Yeah! He’s a gentleman!” Makes loopy flutter-eyes that make me want to expell jelly beans out of multiple orifices.

Fast-forward through way too many seconds of my life and the girl finally finds her ah, NEW JERSEY driver’s license. The guy, who’s been grilling me like I’m some kind of ingrate for longer than I like, gracefully allows his stiletto-heeled plunder to saunter down the stairs. He nods at me grotesquely, follows. I finally close the door behind them, stretch my arm, and that’s it.

So a guy waited for his girlfriend so she could give me her ID first. It wouldn’t have been a big deal if his reasoning had been different. Because as I see it, part of what defines a gentleman is a combination of courtesy and tact, shown not only toward the objet d’heure (the insipid and unremarkable Jersey girl), but to all rational souls he encounters. Considering myself to be rational for the most part, I find it a little ungentlemanly that someone would want to make me hold a heavy door like an idiot for any unnecessary amount of time. It would seem more gentlemanly to make the process as efficient as possible for all parties involved (especially given the fact that it was cold and rainy on the night in question) and to escort his lady as quickly and as safely as possible. Unless you consider bouncers to be somewhat less than human, which seems to be a fairly common opinion.

2. Talking

The cold, misanthropic door guy is a pervasive stereotype, and a valid one. If every bouncer you encounter seems more content to keep his arms crossed and stare into space or constantly check fantasy football stats on his phone than strike up a conversation, it’s because of what those conversations will inevitably entail. 75 percent of the time when guys in line interrupt me from my mobile Drudge Report, it starts well enough: “Hey man, how’s your night going? What drinks do you recommend? You don’t look like a bouncer, what do you really want to do?” And that’s cool, until the real reason for bothering me rears its douchey head: “So, like, I’m trying to come here next week with a girl. Will we, you know, have to wait in line? I mean, we’re practically best friends, I know you’ll remember me. Just in case, give me your number and I’ll call you so you won’t forget. Thanks so much, bro!” Bouncers, and especially those who work at places where there’s a wait to get in, don’t want to make friends. We want to survive a drama-free shift, avoid tranny crackheads on the 4am subway and watch re-runs of Ancient Aliens until sunrise. Giving us a hefty bro-pat will not help to differentiate you from the hundreds of obnoxious faces we cringe at on a nightly basis. You won’t be receiving the James Franco treatment, or even the Paul Giamatti treatment.

And ladies, I’m not stupid. I know what you’re trying to do every time you gush about how crazy it is that we both went to boarding school in Connecticut (OMFG!), how I could be a stand-in for Pick-Any-Conventionally-White-Movie-Star-of-the-Past-Decade, how you think it’s so noble that I freeze and/or sweat my ass off outside a bar for seven hours at a time to support my, like, TOT-ALLLLLY interesting artistic endeavors. Not to say that I don’t find the cleavage-pops, the pouty faces and the inappropriate touching at least a little amusing, but it still won’t help you get in.

Advice to both genders: Save your vocal chords for your actual friends. Quiet and respectful always trumps faux-friendly douchebaggery. Unless you’re familiar with the Ben Franklin Handshake. Provide one of these and not only will you get in immediately, but we can also discuss the latest advances in biomedical engineering or how much you hate the new Facebook for as long as you want.

3. Checking Women’s IDs

This is your classic no-win situation. If I ask a group of women for proof of age, they will most always roll their eyes while digging through their heinously large bags and mutter something about how they haven’t been carded in, like, for-EV-errrrrrr! If, however, I decide to be generous and save these same women the trouble of rummaging through godknowswhat and let them in sans IDs, I’ll get the same eye roll tinged with more than a hint of utter desperation: “But, but…I feel so old! Do I really look that old?? I’ve never not been carded, wah, wah, wah…” It’s not flattering for anyone involved. Also, failing to acknowledge that it’s a woman’s birthday (And why anyone would want to celebrate any birthday after age 21 is beyond me) is apparently equivalent to hoarding child porn. Hint: We only look at the year on your ID, as in, we don’t care.

On a side note, my friends always ask me how I fail to pick up more women at work. Valid question. I let any number of gorgeous girls pass me by with nary a nod. I’ve already explained why I avoid talking to women. Seriously, if a young lady wearing shoes that cost more than my monthly salary and wielding a monstrous piece of stow-away luggage also known as a “purse” rolls up with older dudes, suited or otherwise, who are all clearly balling, I doubt she’s on the prowl for some side bouncer action. That may sound defeatist, but what else do I really have to offer? My MFA degree? Ooooh, those are really sexy, and profitable! If a woman is genuinely interested in me she should probably stop drinking outrageously expensive vodka tonics because she’s going to have to support my writing struggles for the next, well, until I stop writing.

4. Europeans

The bar where I work gets a lot of tourists. The majority of these are from Western Europe. I don’t know what they write in NYC guidebooks, but I do know that these books are in desperate need of some editing. To my friends from across the sea (especially the French, Italians, Germans, hell, everyone), let me simplify things. 1. In America, we card. I don’t care if you just got off a plane, if you left your passport in the hotel, if “In my country we do not do this,” if your accent is in fact pretty sexy, I still need to see your ID or you’re not getting in. 2. “But what is this line you speak of? In my country we do not…” Stop right there. You understand the concept of a line. Tribesmen in Indonesia who have never had the pleasure of going through airport customs understand the concept of a line. You should be so lucky. 3. Loud soccer chants are unacceptable. Chanting of any kind is generally discouraged. 4. I know the Euro has taken a hit recently, but if you leave less than $5 on a $91 tab, the bartender will send me pissed off texts with frowny faces and chances are you won’t be receiving the same quality of service upon your next visit, because if I recognize you, we’re going to magically be at capacity the rest of the night. 5. Not all Americans, especially New Yorkers, are monolingual heathens. If you’re two feet away talking shit about me in French or relatively coherent Spanish, you’re going to be sober for a long time. ¿Comprende?

5. “Is this a line, or are these people just…”

I know we’re all oblivious to what’s going on around us most of the time. You’re cruising down 7th Avenue, earbuds blasting Katy Perry just loud enough for no one else to hear, hoping your boss doesn’t email you with any extra work, wondering whether the Gchat your OkCupid date sent you an hour ago contains kinky undertones (why all the barfing emoticons??), hoping your date loves swigging Old Fashioneds as much as you do, I get it. There’s a lot going on up there to distract from the here and now. But when you approach your drinking destination and fail to notice the 20 people neatly lined up double-file against the side of the building, all glaring at a guy in a suit in front of the entrance ignoring them and playing Brick Breaker on his Droid, it’s obvious what’s going on. I can’t count how many times I’ve had a person saunter past me and reach for the door, only for me to explain that all these people currently stabbing him or her with their eyes are waiting to get in and that he or she needs to promptly take a position at the back of the, what’s it called? Oh yes, the line. The once-dead eyes light up with indignation. “But, but…I thought all these people were smoking.” No one is smoking. “I thought all these people were standing around.” Yes, because people in New York love to stand in an organized fashion observing the bricks on the side of an otherwise nondescript building! Then there’s my favorite: “Oh, I didn’t see the line.” Granted, these responses could just be covering up for failing at a rather stupid ploy to gain early admittance, in which case, congratulations, you now look stupider than if you had just gone to the back of the line. And if you really are that oblivious to your immediate surroundings, you’ve got much bigger problems than having to wait in line for a drink. In fact, you should probably quit drinking and never bother me again. Have a GRRRREEEAT evening!

Honorable Mentions

6. Using the word “cheers” for anything besides toasting

7. Using the word “queue” for any reason

8. Name-dropping

9. Asking how long the wait is going to be

10. Australians

*If my bosses read this, just kidding about the Ben Franklin Handshake