I was convinced there was something in the water--or rather, the alcohol. Over the course of the evening, there had been three near-brawls in the bar--the last one ending with the words, "I'm not your average faggot--I'm the type of redneck who'll go to his car and get his gun to shoot you right in the face!"
Just when I thought the worst was over, a lesbian (referred to as "Agitator") walked in with her date and a gay friend with bad teeth from his crack-addict days. Yes, it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but the punchline wasn't as funny as you'd think. She was already liquored up when she walked in, and the signs of strain between her and the date were visible.
A few minutes later, the agitator and her GBF (gay best friend) stormed to the entrance, yelling "I'm tired of that bitch!" As they did, I warned them that leaving would terminate their $10 beer bust/$15 well drinks from 10–2 a.m. privileges. (I should mention that I'm the door man.) So they went outside for two minutes to smoke and blow off steam.
Those two minutes turned into 45, during which the date looked for them frantically (her keys were in the agitator's truck; this is the South, after all). When Agitator returned with crack-teeth, I told them they had to pay again. She tried to argue they had been gone for two minutes, to which I countered "two minutes in drunk time." When that failed, she tried to charm me using the black card (we both were/are). When that failed, she went back to the two-minute plea--which, because she was drunk, went on for another five minutes. Her GBF talked her down and they went back in, knowing they would have to pay. The date avoided Agitator and managed to get the GBF to retrieve her keys from the truck.
At three o'clock, I locked the door and was heading toward the bar when I heard a knock at the door. It was Agitator, who'd forgotten her credit card at the bar. I shrugged and let her in.
When shown her tab for two beer and two liquor specials, she claimed she'd only ordered one drink. The bartender/manager (a transvestite) explained that she'd left and knowingly came back to order another round; the agitator refused to pay. A shouting match ensued, and the police were called. I was instructed to block the front door and my coworker, an out-of-drag queen went to block the front. The shouting continued, with the agitator throwing around antigay slurs (from a lesbian; hello, hypocrisy!) at the bartender/manager and the owner (and namesake of the bar). When that failed, she rushed toward the rear entrance--at which point the out-of-drag queen yelled, "HELP!"
I alerted the bartender, who joined me in racing toward the exit, where Agitator had knocked the latch off the door and was trying to escape. The out-of-drag queen tried to stop her and was rewarded with a kick in the face, to which she replied "Oh, Hell NO!" Knowing she (OODQ) was going to beat the life out of her, I grabbed her while the bartender grabbed the agitator, who knocked her to the floor. The owner joined the scuffle and was rewarded with a blow to the arm and neck.
Agitator kicked through the other lock on the door, with the owner and bartender scrambling to hold her. I let the OODQ go, and grabbed her from behind and locked her arms; the manager got her legs, and we tried to bring her back into the bar while trying to keep the OODQ from her. The owner placed her in a chokehold, and we tried to get her back inside. But Agitator, whom we later learned, was in the army, held onto the rail and wouldn't let go.
Thankfully, the police arrived. I can only imagine how strange a picture we made: a transvestite, an out-of-drag queen, and two gay guys all clinging on to a lesbian, who was clinging on to a handicap-ramp rail. We released Agitator to the police, who took our stories for a report. (I should mention one of the officers was extremely hunky; I almost wanted to commit a crime myself.)
The end of the story was anticlimactic: She was ordered to pay her $38 tab (yes, all of that for $38), to stay away from the bar, and no charges were pressed... Many a joke has been made about the action at Blaine's Back Door Bar ("comedy gold" as my friend would say), but this took it up, down, every which way and loose. Not quite the start I'd envisioned for Pride Weekend, but what can you do.
Later, as I was walking my dog, Lizzy, around Forsyth Park, I looked up at the moon--it was full, just like Agitator had been--and it all began to make sense. Or as much sense as a five-way fracas can. So much for "unity in the community."
When shown her tab for two beer and two liquor specials, she claimed she'd only ordered one drink. The bartender/manager (a transvestite) explained that she'd left and knowingly came back to order another round; the agitator refused to pay. A shouting match ensued, and the police were called. I was instructed to block the front door and my coworker, an out-of-drag queen went to block the front. The shouting continued, with the agitator throwing around antigay slurs (from a lesbian; hello, hypocrisy!) at the bartender/manager and the owner (and namesake of the bar). When that failed, she rushed toward the rear entrance--at which point the out-of-drag queen yelled, "HELP!"
I alerted the bartender, who joined me in racing toward the exit, where Agitator had knocked the latch off the door and was trying to escape. The out-of-drag queen tried to stop her and was rewarded with a kick in the face, to which she replied "Oh, Hell NO!" Knowing she (OODQ) was going to beat the life out of her, I grabbed her while the bartender grabbed the agitator, who knocked her to the floor. The owner joined the scuffle and was rewarded with a blow to the arm and neck.
Agitator kicked through the other lock on the door, with the owner and bartender scrambling to hold her. I let the OODQ go, and grabbed her from behind and locked her arms; the manager got her legs, and we tried to bring her back into the bar while trying to keep the OODQ from her. The owner placed her in a chokehold, and we tried to get her back inside. But Agitator, whom we later learned, was in the army, held onto the rail and wouldn't let go.
Thankfully, the police arrived. I can only imagine how strange a picture we made: a transvestite, an out-of-drag queen, and two gay guys all clinging on to a lesbian, who was clinging on to a handicap-ramp rail. We released Agitator to the police, who took our stories for a report. (I should mention one of the officers was extremely hunky; I almost wanted to commit a crime myself.)
The end of the story was anticlimactic: She was ordered to pay her $38 tab (yes, all of that for $38), to stay away from the bar, and no charges were pressed... Many a joke has been made about the action at Blaine's Back Door Bar ("comedy gold" as my friend would say), but this took it up, down, every which way and loose. Not quite the start I'd envisioned for Pride Weekend, but what can you do.
Later, as I was walking my dog, Lizzy, around Forsyth Park, I looked up at the moon--it was full, just like Agitator had been--and it all began to make sense. Or as much sense as a five-way fracas can. So much for "unity in the community."
3 comments:
I guess the South isn't so quiet after all! Boy!!
Hi Lawrence, its me- Queda.
Hey, Queda! No, small-town life definitely has its drama. It's also tight-knit, because the next morning, people were already asking about it!
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