A.A.G.M CH.1.

March 14th, 2012

It’s my bathroom he’s in, but I’m at work, so I didn’t know that yet.

Being a bouncer can fucking suck at times. It’s not because I'm a woman, though that doesn’t help. It’s more about the fact that where I work, The Vibe, is a dump.

Still, it’s a paycheck, and I deal with it the same way I deal with most things—no, not grace; attitude. Failing that, blunt force.

The Vibe came under new management around six months ago, and the current owners are desperate to transform it. Right now, it’s a joint where the vagrants of Boston give hand jobs for cocaine and then turn around and snort it off the urinal. The staff is deeply jaded. I have my moments of heroics, but most nights I didn't care either.

I’m rarely the one to toss people. Being a five-foot-ten-inch female has its advantages, but I kind of got that starved model physique. It's not anorexia; it’s my metabolism. There’s a hint of muscle tone here and there from all the grunt work the job comes with, but not much. Borderline emaciation doesn’t really strike fear into the hearts of people. So my pasty, ginger ass would work the front taking tickets, spotting fake IDs, and monitoring the female bathrooms.

People say, free music, free drinks at the end of the night – the job can't be that bad. They didn't see the degrading parts. They didn't see when I had to clean up puke, or piss, or whatever.

At twenty-three I shouldn’t have back problems, but I do, then I go home smelling like disinfectant. It’s glorified babysitting, watching people who are consciously half here and half gone.

It’s oddly busy for a Wednesday. There was some old-school punk band in town, and they were drawing a strange mix of people. Every tween with access to a laminating machine thought they were more clever than the next kid; and the older crowd, the ones who saw this band back when they were passing fake IDs, were stumbling in the ticket line.

The scene was scratching at my patience. I was slow on cutting off the drunks before they got back to the bar, had one too many guys in eyeliner staring at my cleavage, and the music was giving me a headache. I couldn't even find amusement in the way the hallway from the second-floor bathroom always smells like bubblegum.

Then the night shifts.

Three twitchy women were frequenting the bathroom in short bursts. Them being on drugs wasn’t the issue; it was their attitude.

They are all around my height and build, though the tallest one is pushing past six feet with her stilettos. Even without the shoes, she has a sense of authority and arrogance which didn’t sit right with me. Her face is lacquered with makeup, her hair concealed with a purple wig, and her leather attire clung to her body like a wet paper towel. The other two were poorly constructed clones of the first woman. They were clearly trying to recapture something from their youth they’d lost over the decades.

I knew how to spot the bribers and having a corroborator would expedite the deal. So, I scout the crowd for Ericka, a contract photographer, and spot her taking pictures of a table of goths in the back. I make my way around the crowd to her, following the glow of the club lights off her sepia skin. I gently put my hand on her right shoulder and move my mouth close to her ear, “Wanna make a bust?”

“Will it pay?” She clicked a few more pictures.

“Probability is high.”

“Lead the way, girl.”

The walls of the bathroom filter the music to a dull thud. I close my eyes and conjure my mantra. This is normal; this is every day; this is easy.

The bathroom is dank with urine and awash with bleach. There’s a hint of cigarette smoke lingering from whoever didn't want to stand outside in the cold March air. The stalls circle around the corner of the bathroom, a handicapped one at the end. I check under each door until I find one with six feet.

I hear laughter, fast-paced talking, and that familiar sound of a long snort of whatever drug is going up their noses.

Busted.

I beat on the door once; it flew open, and there they are, a small, compact mirror, a straw, and three white noses.

“This isn’t what powdering your nose means.” I turn to Ericka, “Call the cops.”

The two clones skulk into the back of the stall as Stiletto woman stands her ground, eyeing Ericka as she reaches for her phone. She looks me over, intently, and half smiles, half smirks, “We were just on our way out.” She reaches into her tiny black purse on a long gold chain, and inside is a roll of cash, and more drugs.

Pay dirt.

My right eyebrow raises, my arms cross and my spine straightens. “The three of you need to leave the building--immediately.” Then the next scene unfolds.

Leather pants lady rolls up one of the bills, snorts the last line on the compact mirror, flips it shut, and places it in her purse. She unrolls the money, which I saw was a hundred-dollar bill, dusts it off, and adds two more to the stack. She didn't hand them to me, just put them on the handicap railing, and made a motion to walk past me as she gestures for her friends to follow.

I thrust my arm out, nearly knocking her in the face as I do, and connect my palm to the wall with a thud. “Do not come back.” I retract my arm and nod my head at Ericka, as if to say, ‘escort them out.’ She nods back as if to say, ‘duh.’ I collect the cash, and slip it into my bra.

Once they’re off the premises I turn to Ericka, remove a hundred from my concealed cleavage, and hand it to her, “What a bag of bitches.”

She fans herself with the dusty hundred, and exhales smoke from her freshly lit cigarette, “Cash is cash, my ginger friend.” Ericka never dwells and avoids drama, and I love that about her. I watch her finish her smoke, and we make our way back into the mass of half-humans, all desperate to lose the other half by morning.

At the end of the night, I found myself in the lounge helping to contain a situation with Yuro, a six-foot-six bouncer with short dreadlocks and a calm disposition. He was dealing with an inebriated college freshman who had mistaken the vintage pinball machine for a urinal. The freshman had managed to unzip and recycle his last beers onto one of the legs of the game before anyone noticed. The high from the bribe vanished into the pool of yellow human waste.

After it’s mopped up, I turn to Yuro, “I need my shift drink now.”

He smiles and puts his arm around me. “You and me both.” His voice is deep, gravelly, and soothing. I finish out my shift with a free shot of top-shelf tequila.

At home, I polish off the last of my supply of cheap tequila and promptly pass out on the couch. At that moment when dreams begin to dissolve consciousness, I hear something shatter; my skin goes cold and clammy.

Someone is in my apartment.