Written 2009

Eternally bad behavior has been endemic in bars and nightclubs. Drinking tended to assholize many people, myself included, and drugs exacerbated the dilemma. The problem covers all stations of life from the very rich to the very poor. My years of working security at Hurrah, the Jefferson, Bains-Douches, Milk Bar et al had cursed me a deep insight into how one person’s fun becomes another person’s nightmare.

One spring night in 1986 at the Milk Bar on Seventh Avenue I heard someone say that a thief was stealing wallets from the clientele. I spotted the pickpocket on the stairs. He spotted me and tried to escape up the back stairs, but I was quick on my feet back in the 80s. I snaged him by the cuffs and swept to the steps, clonking his skull hard. He was semi-conscious and Isearched his pockets for the purloined possessions. Five wallets with cash and a wad of money.

“That belongs to me.” He reached for the dollars.

“Nothing belongs to you.” I slapped his hand and frogmarched him up the steps into the street, kicking him in the ass as a farewell gesture. I was wearing army boots and the pickpocket protested my violence.

“You’re lucky I didn’t call the police.”

That last word sent him muttering into the night and I returned inside to distribute the wallets to their owners. Each was grateful to be reunite with valuables, except for one man, who asked where was the thief.

“He ran off.”

“That’s not good enough, I want you to call the police.” He was about twenty-five and his face was a bloated red. Bigger than me by a few inches. His suit was tailor-made. His Ivy league accent nailed him as a Wall Street banker and I figured that my Haitian partner had let him into the club after a bribe. The standard charge for boxhead bankers was $20.

“What for? You got back your wallet.”

For me it was case closed and for the most part the police turned a blind eye to any crimes at the Milk Bar, since most were of choice. I climbed up the stairs to the front door.

“I want to make a complaint about the thief and about this place.” The loudmouth’s girlfriend followed him with an embarrassed expression.

“Well, you can call from outside. There’s a telephone booth across the street.” I held up a dime.

“I don’t need your money.” He slapped the coin from my fingers. His girlfriend pulled at his arm. She had seen this act before.

“Calm down, let me buy you and your girlfriend a drink.” My bouncer sized up the stranger with regret. Big Bernard was 6-5. He didn’t like trouble.

“I don’t need your drinks.” He took a step closer. His muscles tensed under his jacket. Gym muscles spoiling for a fight.

“Please calm down.” I gave him one last chance to save his night.

“Calm down? I am calm.” His breath smelled of steroids. His girlfriend cowered as if she had been beaten more than once at the end of an evening. He lifted his hand to poke me in the chest. “You fucking____”

I didn’t let him finish the epithet. My foot swept under his loafer to knock him off-balance. Big Bernard pushed him into the street.

>”You are officially uninvited from the Milk Bar.” I moved aside for his girlfriend. She joined him on the sidewalk, once more tugging at his arm. “Let’s go.”

“Go. I’m not letting these assholes treat me like this. I went to Harvard. I make big money. I could buy and sell you.”

“Sorry, but you couldn’t even rent me.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but I was an anti-capitalist by nature. “So fuck off.”

“C’mon let’s go.” His girlfriend pleaded with the irate banker. She seemed too nice for him, but also very Upper East Side. The night was still young. They could have a good time somewhere else. New York was a big city.

“Don’t tell me what to do.” The banker openpalmed his date and grabbed her by the hair.

I had hit two women in my life and regretted each incident. Both times there was no excuse, so I had no qualms about coldcocking the banker with an overhead right. He dropped to his knees and I caught him with a left under the chin. Big Bernard pulled me off him before any real damage was done. The girlfriend helped her date to his feet, as a patrol car inched around the corner. The driver was a patron after hours and didn’t want to get involved in a public scuffle. His partneralso came to the Milk Bar.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

“See you later.” He waved to me and they cruised over to make a cash pick-up at lesbian bar on Hudson Street. The couple departed from the corner. I only wished the girl would leave him before he hurt her, but that was hoping for too much.

“Thanks for the help.” I had been planning to kick the banker in the head.

“You know I don’t want no trouble.” Big Bernard was Haitian. The NYPD didn’t mind white people hitting white people, but black on white was another story to be heard at 101 Centre Street or the Tombs.

“I know and there’ll be no more trouble tonight.” My right hand was sore. I might have dislocated a knuckle. Squeezing the thief’s wad of cash made it feel better. Money always had that effect on me and everyone else too. We were all just human.