Let me tell you a story that's all about passion. It's
purely fiction, but there is no real reason why it shouldn't
happen.
I was employed at the time in a College bar as a... Well,
bar back, doorman, bouncer and anything else the boss might
think of- get stuff from the store, clean puke up, drive a
good tipper-gone-drunk home. But the relevant here is the
doorman/bouncer. Nobody likes the doorman- I'm the guy that
takes your money in the entrance before you even started
having fun, and doesn't let your blonde, hot, and willing,
under-aged girlfriend in, with her fake ID that says she is
a 35 year old Puerto Rican basketball player. I'm also the
guy that will take all the fire while persuading/ pushing/
throwing everyone out at the end of the night, as if it was
me that voted on the city law that says that on Saturday
night all the bars must close half an hour early, so that
everyone would be bright and shiny for church on Sunday.
One night, it was karaoke night; we had a guy who was
enjoying the musical experience just a little too much.
Let's start with the fact that he was drunk even before he
walked through the door. In fact, he acutely floated in on
alcohol fumes (or other fumes), so we will never know if he
was a bad singer to begin with, or that without alcohol he
was a real threat to Frank Sinatra... This guy was the first
to get up on the stage, and we were all very grateful for
that for two reasons:
A) The first singer is always the hardest to find - only
after him is everyone willing to get up and make fools out
of themselves.
B) He was so bad that people who were always too shy now had
no doubt that they will sound professional tonight compared
to him.
But by his second number-a rap version of "we are off to see
the wizard", we were all hoping he would put his mouth to
use only in what it seemed to be so good at- drinking.
Needless to say he didn't stand up to our hopes and stood up
for a third, fourth, and countless more, each getting worse
and worse thanks to his countless consultations with his
close friend- Sam, and his colleagues- Jack, Jim, and Hose.
The audience, who at first cheered him for his courage,
cheered with amusement the second time, out of politeness
the third time, and not at all from then on, trying to
ignore the noise enough to seem like they were listening to
the girls they were trying to take home.
My night would have ended with nothing more than a headache
if it weren't for a sudden artistic decision of his- it was
now time for a duet. One of the girls that got up, while he
was seeking musical advice from three wise men, was doing
her own cover version of Madonna's "like a virgin" and was
pretty damn good. She was tipsy enough not to mind looking a
little sluttish, but not drunk enough to effect her good
voice and her ability to keep a tune. The guys seemed to
like her for obvious reasons, and the girls, for much less
apparent reasons, seemed to like her even more.
I guess his paid consultants told him that she would sound
much better with a male raper in the background, because he
marched right to the stage, proudly announcing that exact
intention to me on his way up. That was where I drew the
line. Thanks to a secret method, known only to people from
the alcohol service industry, my smiling Face magically
appeared in front of him every time he tried to climb the
five inches of our stage, politely asking him to wait for
his turn, and insisting that I didn't think our Madonna
wanted him on stage with her. At first he acted like I was
just an illusion created by the great Jack to test his
persistence, and that with enough will-power he could just
walk through me. But after he realized that I was quite a
solid obstacle and that faith alone won't make me go away-
all hell broke loose... With a mad spark of heavenly
inspiration in his eyes he turned to me and I had no-doubt
that I was no-longer a mere diversion but that I had become
the objective of the crusade. "Racist!" he screamed, "You
won't let me on stage because you don't like my black
style!" A few heads turned to the new entertainment. "You
don't want black dudes in this bar so you give me a hard
time with the music. The brother is good enough to wash your
dishes and clean the floor but he can't sing in a
white-bread karaoke night, ha! You have been giving me bad
looks all night".
Since I'm the "brother" who washes dishes and cleans all
kinds of things from the floor at the end of the night, I
was very amused by his speech, and didn't notice the silence
in the background. As I was rejoicing the opportunity to
apply A little more physical persuasion methods on him I
heard a voice from the crowed- "they are throwing the black
dude off the stage!" and before I even turned - "you can't
do that, man!'' I still didn't comprehend just how much
trouble I was in when Madonna suddenly said (over the
microphone): "He has a right to sing just like the rest of
us!"
I don't know if you have ever seen a bunch of liberal
college kids preaching human rights under the influence of
alcohol, but it's amazing how articulate, loud and self
-convincing they can be.
Suddenly the bar was being accused of discrimination, racism
and of selling more pale beers than dark beers. Two girls
attacked me for not letting-in their friends because one was
black and the other was Jewish (obviously they didn't know
of my circumcision and the two friends simply did not have
their ID), and a drunk member of the football team kept
pounding on the bar yelling that he remembers several times
he saw a bunch of suspicious guys with white capes and masks
enter the bar through the back door after closing hours.
Apart from the capes and masks (a figment of a drunk
imagination) he probably saw the staff poker night- but it
was much easier to believe that my boss was housing KKK
meetings than to believe that bartenders were involved in
illegal gambling....
Someone in heaven must be looking after unfortunate bouncers
because at that moment the door slammed-open and the entire
women's gymnastics team came in. Dressed in very minimal
white "Miller lite" T-shirts they were raising money for new
uniforms. Thanks to them and to the bartender who shoved a
free shot of "wild turkey 101" into the pounding hand of the
Football player- the flames were put out. To ensure the
matter would be totally forgotten I was sent to the
bathrooms to check that the water was still wet, and only
then did I start to realize my stupidity. In stead of
drawing lines, if I would have let our little friend (who
was now very occupied with charity) get up on the stage and
do his thing- the crowed, which was enjoying Madonna's solo,
would have greeted him with a loud "boo" and would probably
have begged me to get him off the stage, giving me the
chance to become a hero rather than an oppressor. Further
more, Madonna's boyfriend (the pounding football player)
would, probably, not have liked his enthusiasm to get up,
close and personal with the singer and would nave done the
dirty deed for me.