Zombie Girl

There’s this young woman outside our front doors who looks lost. It’s a cold and windy fall evening outside our venue, and I’ve noticed her standing around for a while now. I would use the word waif to describe her. Slight, short, skinny, but dressed well. She definitely seems to be buffeted by the wind and has backed herself into a corner to keep warm.

Lots of people wait around outside our doors for their Uber or Lyft car to pick them up. Cabs pull up outside all the time, and people checking in to the nearby hotel. Or they linger outside for a quick smoke. But this girl was just standing in a dark corner outside our doors with her arms wrapped around herself. Remember in the movie Blade Runner when Pris is standing around with her raccoon eyes trying to find somewhere safe? She pulls a bunch of newspapers and debris over her to sleep in an alleyway. She had a feral, vulnerable and paranoid look on her face. This girl had that same demeanor.

I stepped outside and asked her if she wanted to wait inside to get out of the cold and wind. She sheepishly came inside and thanked me in a quiet voice. Now that she was under some better light I could see that she was indeed very skinny, and also had braces. In the weird yellow lighting in the entryway she looked very odd, and her braces just made her look like she had terrible teeth. She also had somewhat hooded eyes. Her natural complexion gave her dark bags under her eyes and her prominent eyebrows ridged her deep eye sockets. She was also chewing gum, which kind of reminded me of the nervous teeth grinding that meth users will do.  I was trying to figure out if she had some problem besides just presenting a bit strangely. Like drugs or a mental illness.

I tried to engage her in some conversation to see if I could help her with anything. I asked if she was waiting for a ride, or if she was lost. She just sort of nodded her head no and kept chewing. She also was rocking from side to side a little bit and making other employees wonder about what she was doing. I let her be for a little bit. I told some coworkers that I invited her in to get out of the bad weather, but to keep an eye on her.

The concert was about to let out, so I warned her that she may not want to stand there when the crowd starts pouring out. She looked at me like I told her aliens abducted her as a young girl and planted a tracker device inside of her. I’m starting to get the idea that she doesn’t know anything about this establishment. We are a restaurant, bar, and music venue. Not a bus stop with a nosy security staff.

She moved to walk into the bar and I asked to see her ID. Her hooded eyes looked up at me like my goal in life was to irritate her. I had to reiterate that she was walking into a bar that serves alcohol, so she needed to show her ID for entry. She brought out her purse and fumbled around inside of it for a long time. I looked around at some of the bartenders and caught them smirking at me having to deal with a potentially problematic and weird situation. I smirked back.

She pulls out a card and hands it to me. It isn’t any kind of Oregon drivers license at all. It’s some sort of card with just her name and photo on it. It struck me as an ID card for a residential treatment center. The facility name sounded familiar, but handing this to a door guy is the equivalent of handing them a library card. I now had a better understanding of what I’m dealing with here. She probably lives at some kind of adult care facility. She got a furlough pass from the treatment center and decided to wander around Portland creeping people out. I informed her that this wouldn’t work. She needed to have a drivers license or a passport to get in. She got frustrated and grimaced at me before returning to her post of rocking back and forth, chewing her gum, and glaring at people.

Without a proper ID she really has no justification to be here. She can’t legally enter the doors and is now only on premises because I was being nice and invited her inside the foyer. She can’t tell me how she got here, she can’t tell me where she’s going, and she can’t tell me what she plans to do after she leaves. Now the concert finished and the crowd is coming out the doors, right towards our favorite anti-social lady. She doesn’t move to get out of their way, she just stands there arms crossed looking at people as the stream around her. I start to hear people asking her if she’s ok. A few women even ask her why she’s mad. Our friend isn’t answering people but she’s standing there making people uncomfortable as hell. Somebody asks her why she’s making that face. She gets angry and starts yelling at that woman.

I ask her to come to the side where she will be out of the way of the crowd trying to get around her. I again ask her if she needs me to call her a cab to get home, because she can’t stay here any longer. I stated clearly that I am security here and that she is going to need to leave. She can’t be here without a valid ID. She gets mad at me and starts telling me that I invited her in here. I reminded her that was me being nice, and before I knew that she had no ID and no business here. Now that she’s aggravating customers and essentially refusing to leave, it escalates.

“I’ve been more than nice with you, and I’ve offered you all sorts of help tonight. But now you’re being asked to leave. If you don’t leave now, this will be considered trespassing and we will call the police.”

The crowd has finally flowed around her and left the building. She’s still here arguing with me. Over refusing to leave a place that she didn’t want to be in the first place. Sometimes it isn’t the big burly dudes that swing on you and start spitting…it’s the tiny women. I really have no idea what this girl is capable of now that she’s turned on me and is being rude and yelling at me. And nobody wants to see a male security guard manhandling a tiny woman by herself. I have no interest in putting my hands on her, especially in this situation. So I kick it sideways.

I thought that a different security staff might be helpful here, a female security staff in particular. Nothing I say to this woman is helping, and she’s in hate with me right now. I found my female coworker and quickly gave her the short version of why this woman needs to leave the premises. She walks out into the foyer with me, and our unwanted guest sees her and immediately walks out the front door. Damn, I should’ve involved her 20 minutes ago.

We stand around for a few minutes and joke about how weird that woman was, and how after battling with me all it took was my female coworker to walk out and it was over.

Then I look across the bar through the crowd and I see her again. She had walked all the way around the building and was standing at the back door. There is a large glass window the size of a door and she’s standing right there looking into the bar. She can’t get in, but what the hell is she even doing there? She’s still shuffling around, rocking from side to side looking inside the bar like a zombie. That’s it. She’s a zombie.  If she would just raise her hands and moan a little she would be exactly like an extra on The Walking Dead. There are strange green and yellow lights near that exit, which only add to making her look sickly and affected. Her scowling grimace is exactly what all zombies do in the movies. Standing by the glass but not being able to get in is a trope of most zombie movies. We can see zombie girl and she can see us, but she can’t get in.  “Brains…..”

The ridiculousness of this situation got to me and I went outside to go tell her to leave the premises one last time. I leave through the front door to circle around to that back door to intercept zombie girl. Starting to feel like this is the moment I get jumped and bitten by this zombie. Never go anywhere alone. I, of all people, should know better. I imagine her biting me and then I become one of them. I wander back into the venue, where I order a rare burger before biting a coworker’s neck.

I approach that back door alcove to find her gone. Poof. Vanished. I don’t know where she could’ve gone that fast from when I spotted her. She’s nowhere. Zombie girl has escaped me. This time.

But I’m pretty sure I can find a crossbow around here somewhere.

 

 

 

 

 

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Howdy, Roy

Tonight I met Roy. Roy and I had a unique time together.

I carded this guy as he came in the door. He was a big dude, tall and stocky like a lumberjack. He was in his 40’s and asked me a lot of questions. He was wearing overalls and a flannel shirt.

Sometimes when a person comes through the door we just have a short 20 second interaction where I ask to see your ID and give you the appropriate stamp. Other times I act like a host and answer a bunch of questions and even help seat you in the appropriate area. Other times I’m an event promoter and I’ll try to sell you on seeing the bands performing tonight. Or I’m the concierge and I’ll answer dietary questions about our menu, coordination for someone with special mobility needs, and even act as a tour guide and offer suggestions for other nearby places.

Roy came in and just wanted to be my friend. He told me his name was Roy and asked mine. Sometimes I don’t give my name but this instance seemed harmless so I told him. He seemed more than content to just stand in the entryway and chit-chat with me, his new best friend. I answered some questions of what we offered and how the place worked. He was intimidating visually, but a teddy bear once you started talking to him. I quickly understood that he also had a limited mental capacity. He wasn’t grasping social etiquette well and had a slight speech impediment that made him sound drunk when he wasn’t. He shook my hand and held onto it wayyyyyyyyy too long. He proceeded to shake my hand several more times. He also had thick Coke-bottle glasses and very bad teeth, so his overall first impression wasn’t that great.

He saw my female coworker standing behind us and went up to her and said, “You’re purrrrrrty.” And he wasn’t being a lecherous old man. Imagine the mentally challenged character from the great Steinbeck novel Of Mice and Men. Lennie. That’s him. That’s Roy. I think that he honestly didn’t get out much and wanted to give her a compliment. However, giving a compliment like that comes off more like you’re an inbred hillbilly rapist from Deliverance or The Hills Have Eyes. He just as well could have said, “Girl, you got a purty mouth. Let’s make a baby.”  Once he moved into the dining area my female coworker said, “Roy is just a simple man.” We laughed and moved on to helping other patrons.

About a half hour later one of the managers asked me for help with exiting a customer.
I knew it was Roy immediately. They told me that a gentleman had been cut off and they had already removed full alcohol bottles from his table. Now he had moved to a stranger’s table and was talking with them. They had asked him to leave and he refused. So they asked me to escort him out. Ah Roy, we hardly knew ya.

I walked into the restaurant portion and immediately saw large Roy, good ol’ boy. He had indeed sat down at a table with a stranger and was talking his ear off. Loudly. And he was now indeed drunk. I walked around the table and said hello to Roy. I then asked the man at the table if he knew this man. He laughed and said that he didn’t.

I asked Roy to walk outside with me. Of course he shook my hand another time. I leaned down and tried to explain as clearly as I could. Smiling, of course. “Roy, the managers here have asked me to ask you to leave now. They aren’t going to serve you any more beer because it seems that you’re pretty drunk. So I would like you to walk outside with me and we can find you a way home tonight.”

Tactful and clear. I feel like if I hadn’t bonded with him at the door and become his new best friend, this wouldn’t have gone well at all.

He said almost bashfully, “Oh ok.” He stood up and smiled at me and held his arm out in the gesture that means, “After you.” I smiled at him and made the same gesture, encouraging him to walk out of the restaurant ahead of me. “Oh, after you, Roy.”  He made the gesture again and said, “Go ahead.” I made the same gesture and said, “No really, you should go first.”

Now, obviously everybody saw me get called over to kick this guy out. Everybody is watching this silly interaction go down. Roy is about a foot taller than me, and a hundred pounds bigger, and he’s drunk. And a bit mentally challenged. He could do some damage to me if he wanted to. I guarantee that all waitresses, managers, customers, and hosts were watching this happen wondering what in the hell we were doing. Was he about to swing on me? Were we about to dance? Am I going to grab his arm and try to manhandle him out of here?

I finally said to him, “Roy, I’m security here and I am supposed to walk out behind you. So please, let’s both walk out now.” Letting somebody whose intentions you have no idea about get behind you would be completely stupid. He could decide he didn’t want to get kicked out and punch me in the back of the head. He could get his arm around my neck and choke me. He could trip or tackle me. No way in hell I would ever do that.

So he walked out of the restaurant ahead of me and I followed him out.  Like two old friends. I made eye contact with a few customers and staff as we walked past. Everybody was watching us intently, but smiling at me seeing that Roy and I had come to an understanding. At the door he asked if I could call him a cab. I said I would gladly do that once he walks out the front door of the establishment. We have cabs outside our place all the time, and if there isn’t one already there, they get there in a minute or two.

As I called for a cab for Roy one of my coworkers said, “That was the nicest, sweetest bouncing of a drunk that I’ve ever seen.” Indeed. It may have been. Playing tough guy in this situation probably would not have worked as well as acting like the guy’s friend. Always go for charm when you can in these dicey scenarios.

I look outside and I see a vehicle pull up outside our doorway. This is common as Lyft drivers, Uber drivers, and taxi cab drivers are constantly parking out there for loading and unloading. I see Roy go up to the vehicle, thinking that it was his driver already. He starts pounding on top of the vehicle in drunken excitement. A man gets out and starts yelling at him. This guy is a jarhead military-looking guy and he is angry. “Hey get the fuck off of my car! What are you doing? I’m an off-duty sheriff and I’ve had a shitty day. Who do you think you are???”

Goddammit. I finally got Roy out of here without incident and now an off-duty sheriff is about to kick his ass. Once I saw Roy start to pound on the vehicle I dropped the phone and ran outside.

“Hey there! Officer hold on, this is a misunderstanding. This gentlemen thought you were his Uber driver. He didn’t mean anything by it, and also he’s a bit…uh….challenge—uh…he’s had too much to drink tonight. Please, just let me handle this.” Angry off-duty sheriff backed off.

“Roy! Hey buddy, this isn’t your ride. This is somebody’s personal vehicle and you surprised them. But your taxi just rolled up down here at the street. Come over and let me walk there with you.”

He shook my hand about 4 more times and I swear he just about hugged me. We walked to the street where Radio Cab was waiting. He thanked me for a great night and muttered something about how he’s just living the life, ya know? Just living every day.

Hell yeah, Roy. Preach. If you come back again, please ask for me. Cause now we’ve got history. And I’ll keep you out of trouble.

 

 

Hey, pass me that drumstick

Nights where I’m working in the venue are often my favorite nights.

The venue is air-conditioned, so I can stay cool in there. And my job when working venue is one of the easier ones. I essentially sit at the curtain leading to backstage and the green room. I check wristbands for access, and make sure nobody gets back there without authorization. I help the musicians out, watch over their personal belongings and gear, and assist them with load out. I can help out the bartenders if it’s a slow night. I watch the crowd for issues and remove people if they get onstage. Crowd control includes watching you while you’re watching the show. I stop people from smoking pot in the venue, and ask people to leave if they are visibly intoxicated or being too touchy with women. And I’ll sometimes physically remove people if they belligerent, non-compliant, or start a fight. That’s the actual ‘bouncer’ part of this job.

But essentially, if nothing is happening that needs to be dealt with, I get to watch a free show from mere feet away from the stage.

Being a musician in a band myself, it’s a perfect job for me. I get to be around musicians and performers and watch them perform their art. I can network with them and pick their brain about things. I love watching a pro touring band pack up their vehicles like Tetris. I usually learn a few things about packing and storing gear for long drives to the next gig.  I often am given free CDs and t-shirts and such from the bands once they figure out that I’m interested in them.

Being a drummer, I am usually slightly more focused on watching the drummer play.  I was happy to discover that one drummer had the exact same Pearl Session Studio Classic kit that I have. Same color even. I definitely see what people mean about drummers making goofy faces while they play. I’ve been told that I actually don’t do that, but I don’t really know if I do or not. I try not to. Some drummers really do look ridiculous and distract from the show with their odd facial mugging.

One drummer poked his set list on the little hi-hat pull rod. This is the pencil-sized metal piece that extends vertically above the hi-hat cymbals. I’ve never seen a drummer do this before and, I’ll be honest, I judged him for it. Every other drummer simply lays the set list on the ground for reference. Some tape it to the side of the drum monitor. But never in my decades of playing shows and attending shows have I seen a drummer stab the set list on this little metal rod. It’s now on your instrument. You might accidentally hit it with your drumstick. Were you concerned about a gale force wind blowing across the stage and your set list flying away? Were you just too in a hurry to put it in an appropriate spot? Did you leave your contact lenses out and you can’t see the list unless it’s a foot from your face? Or are you just trying to be all punk rock rebel about it?

OK, that might be too picky. But this example is certainly a valid one of an unprepared and unprofessional drummer.

A fun band was onstage rocking some funk/dance music. This band shall remain unnamed. The drummer dropped a drum stick while playing.

OK, let me go back here and give you the background before I launch into this guy. Drummers break sticks. Drummers drop sticks. I’m not begrudging him for this, nor am I innocent of this faux pas myself. It happens. You’re gripping these custom cut pieces of wood and hitting things with them thousands and thousands of times during the performance. They chip away as you play, they crack, and then they break. You’re sweating. Shit happens. I pride myself on not dropping sticks very often when I’m playing drums onstage. But I hit pretty hard and the stage lights make you sweaty. I break sticks during shows and occasionally drop one.

But what you do is, keep playing the beat while you grab a replacement stick and forge ahead. Most people don’t even notice this happening unless they are a drummer themselves. You have extra drumsticks placed around your drum set for this very situation. You can just set some on top of your bass drum. Or buy a cheap clamp-on stick holder and clip it to the base of your hi-hat stand or any cymbal stand within reach. Or, your stick bag itself unfolds and hooks onto your floor tom. Any of these methods work to prevent being stick-less after a break/drop of a stick.

But this particular drummer on this particular night had a very unfortunate circumstance. He dropped a drumstick. But instead of it just dropping down to the floor around the drum kit, somehow it was flung sideways towards his fellow musicians. The drumstick went laterally to the right and hit the keyboard. On the keys. Stopping the keyboard player from playing. The stick bounced off the keyboard and hit the other guy in the chin. This completely stopped all keyboard parts in the song and made the musician recoil a foot away from his area.

That’s embarrassing and unprofessional. But accidents happen and you must expect misfires, and just deal with them like a trooper. But, this drummer had no replacement sticks set out anywhere on or near his kit. He was just screwed. He kept playing what he could of the beat with just his one hand and his feet, but the beat essentially disappeared. There was a gasp from the audience as they all worried if the keyboard player was ok. Part of me expected the keyboard player to launch himself at the drummer and wrestle him to the floor. A drumstick flung at somebody (accidental or not) could really hurt somebody. Especially hitting you in the eye.

But the keyboard player recovered and moved back up to the keyboard again. At this point I realized the drummer truly had no backup sticks anywhere in sight and this could be what’s called in the business a “Trainwreck”. That’s where somebody screws up the song so badly that the other musicians can’t maintain the song and it falls apart completely. But, the bass player came to the rescue.
He had to stop playing as well, but it was for the salvation of the song and the band at this point. He walked across the entire stage, crossing in front of the drum set and the singer and the guitar player. Somehow he had seen where that drumstick had landed and took it upon himself to go get it. He picked it up and handed it to the drummer, who sheepishly grabbed it and was able to play the full beat again. The other musicians could then return to the same part of the song and keep playing.

I was sitting in the backstage curtain shaking my head. Such a newbie mistake. I’ve seen high school drummers that had no experience bring backup sticks and recover from a dropped stick better than this guy did. It’s the same issue with guitarists having extra picks taped to their mic stand or the guitar itself. You’re gonna drop a pick and you know that you will need another one during the song. For the love of gawd, come prepared. It’s kind of just a given. There are enough other things that can and will happen on stage that you aren’t ready for. But hedge your bets and have a plan for the problems that you can foresee.

I would’ve loved to have been within earshot of the discussion after the show in the green room. The discussion where the keyboard player asks the drummer why he tried to skewer him with a flying machete-drumstick.

Maybe I should just double as a stage hand while I’m working security. I can bring my own drumsticks and carry a pair in my back pocket. When somebody drops a stick and has no replacement, I’ll just scramble up onstage with my flashlight and security shirt and hand the drummer new drumsticks.

I will accept tips, of course.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shots Fired

While staffing the door checking IDs for a rock concert, a patron informed me that he heard gunshots just down the street from our venue.

I couldn’t hear any gunfire due to the music and chaos in the entryway, but the person was very believable and convincing. In a career where I assess if people are lying to me often, I can usually spot a story. This guy truly believed that there were shots fired.

I radioed to the rest of the team that a patron reported gunshots outside the venue. The police were notified. Most people who were outside on the patio came inside the bar, as they actually did hear the gunshots. There was nothing else for me to do except to continue working the door checking IDs and scanning tickets for the show.

I was near the end of my shift when this chaos happened, so I got to clock out and head out to my truck. I didn’t make it very far. I saw candy lights from numerous Portland Police cars flickering and flashing. This type of bright red and blue colors lighting up the sides of buildings only happens when there are fireworks or police lights. I saw several groups of what looked like Swat team members creeping along the side of a building just feet from me. No perimeter had been set up yet, so I could have walked right up behind these guys in flak jackets carrying AR-15 rifles and shotguns. Had I been a complete idiot.

Even though it was perfectly clear that these were real officers dealing with a potentially fatal situation, they looked like some regular dudes playing Airsoft or paintball. But out in the city. With real guns and uniforms. And I am only feet away, directly behind them on the sidewalk. I remember thinking, “If somebody fires at these officers and misses them, I could be an innocent bystander in seconds.”

I’ve always been fascinated by and drawn to police activities. When I see a police situation I usually go towards it like a magnet. Perhaps most security staff are like this. Since we interface with law enforcement often, and we are, in a very general way, in the same field as they are. And many security officers do indeed wish that they were real law enforcement.

I heard a calm voice over a bullhorn saying things like, “Get down on your knees. Now keep your hands up in the air. Move SLOWLY. Now back up to the sound of my voice. SLOWLY. Now put your hands on your head. SLOWLY.” I watched some teams establish positions and flank the events in the street. A car had been stopped in the middle of the street and they were slowly having each person exit the car and move into Police custody. I gathered that the person who was shot earlier was already taken to the hospital by ambulance. I was witnessing the very careful cleanup of the situation and removal of the alleged shooters. I think I even heard radio chatter about a sniper on a rooftop. I have to admit, seeing officers with these kind of tactical weapons drawn made me think of the epic shootout in the streets of L.A. in the movie HEAT.

This was all very exciting to me, and then I realized a different problem. My vehicle is parked on the street just a few yards from this car. The street parking is on each side of the street going the same direction as the flow of traffic. So my truck is parked parallel to the curb facing the same direction as the pulled over perp car in the middle of the road. The Police did have this area marked off with yellow tape that says POLICE. DO NOT CROSS. My truck is inside an active crime scene. I’m gonna be here a while. And possibly have my truck riddled with bullets like the Ford at the end of Bonnie and Clyde. It’s a 1999 Toyota 4Runner with 320,000 miles on it. So honestly, now that I think about it……fire away, gangstas.

I moved away to relative safety behind a concrete garage in case of a firefight on the streets of Portland. I texted my boss that my truck was unfortunately still inside the crime scene tape and that Police have their guns drawn. He texted back, COME BACK. HAVE A DRINK. WAIT IT OUT. But of course, I stayed to see the outcome.

While I’m thinking about the surreal scene and inconvenience of having my truck stuck in a crime scene potentially all night, several men within shouting distance are thinking that the police might kill them right now. They are on their knees in the middle of the street with guns aimed at their center of mass. Their lives could very conceivably end in a moment by automatic machine gun fire.

I walked around the block a different way, backtracking so I could get a better view. By the time I emerged around the corner of the building they had successfully cuffed the people in the car and driven them off for processing. Now the police and forensics people were combing the street for evidence. I could see the police and the bystanders visibly relax since the situation was now over. Now they are going to go through that car looking for anything they can find. And that takes time. Hell, my truck might be stuck here until sunrise. I was considering if I should call a cab, then return to get my truck tomorrow. Or just go back to work and have a few drinks and hope that it gets cleared up by closing time.

I realized that I was still wearing my security uniform from work. I still had on the bright yellow shirt that says SECURITY on it. I think I even still had my earpiece in my ear. I was dressed in all black. I could see the yellow security tape just on the other side of my truck. I approached the yellow tape very slowly, pulling my jacket open a bit so the yellow security shirt was visible.

“Excuse me, officer. I know that this is a crime scene. I know you’re very busy. But I just worked a double at my job as security and would love to get home. That’s my truck right there. Is there any way I could drive under the tape and get home to sleep?”

One officer across the street responded how I expected. “Nope. You’re gonna be here a while.” Luckily another officer said, “I think we can get you out. Hang on.”

I  paced around slowly waiting for them to call me over. But some officers started moving the crime scene tape even further out, expanding their area to look for more evidence. Now my truck wasn’t just on the edge of the crime scene, it was deep within it.
The officer that was sympathetic to my situation got busy searching for drug residue and bullet casings. So I asked a different officer, repeating that I just worked a double shift as security and just wanted to get my truck out and go home.

This one invited me inside the crime scene tape to examine my truck for damage. We both walked around it, shining our tactical flashlights all around my truck looking for bullet holes, or drug bags or bullet casings underneath. Honestly, a bullet hole in this truck would be a pretty unique badge of honor. But, we didn’t find any.

The officer said he would walk over and lift up the yellow tape and I could drive out under it. I had to crank my wheels hard to the right and drive right up on the curb since there were cars parked close behind and in front of mine. And they didn’t want me driving on any of the street since they were still looking for syringes and casings. His final advice to me, “Oh yeah, please drive VERY slowly as you do this.” Damned right I will. The unspoken fear was that another officer might think I was trying to drive away without permission, or that I was a cohort of the people they just drove to jail and had a truck full of heroin with me. And that they could open fire.

The officer pulled up the yellow tape and let me slowly drive underneath and out. I don’t think I’ve ever driven so cautiously and safely before. The officer holding up the yellow police tape for me to pass under did it exactly the same way I would pull up the velvet rope at the venue gate for a band member to pass under.

I looked it up later and the police stated that it was possibly a gang incident with people in the car shooting up in the air and at another person they saw on the street. The shooting victim was taken to the hospital and survived. The other people were arrested for the obvious reasons. I got home safely around 3am and quietly snuggled my step kids and my fiancé.

Pretty sure I dreamt about hearing gunshots all night.

Onstage with Denzel

Working security at music venues continues to put me in odd situations that I never thought I would be in.

I usually do the expected things like greet patrons, check IDs, scan the concert tickets, stamp wrists, and bounce drunk people out that need to leave the venue.

But some nights I end up onstage.

Some touring bands with a fervent fanbase request that one or two security guards from the venue stand onstage during the set. This is to prevent overzealous (or over-drunk) fans from climbing onstage and interfering with the performance. And to prevent stage-diving or accidental damage to musical equipment.

On this particular night, we had a rapper on tour that requested security presence onstage. With only a DJ table onstage, there was more room than normal for the performers to run around. But also more room to entice a drunk fan to try to come on up and have a moment with their musical idol. So once the show began I positioned myself stage right.

I’ve been on lots of stages performing with various rock bands I’ve been in, so I’m quite comfortable on stage. But, as the drummer, I am the furthest away from the crowd and am somewhat hidden by my drum kit. It is indeed a strange thing to be onstage in full vision of the entire crowd and not be performing in any way. I’m literally just crouching down on the side of the stage looking out at the crowd. I try to make sure that my walkie-talkie is visible by hanging it off the front of my hoodie. The word ‘security’ is clearly printed on my hoodie as well. My boss actually hates being onstage as security, and he probably offers the spot to me because I don’t mind it.

My friends know that I’m a big teddy bear, and friendly as hell. But as a security guard I’m sometimes required to be the tough guy. When on stage as a preventive measure my job is to at least attempt to look intimidating. The message we want to send is, “Security guards are onstage to prevent you from coming up here, so don’t even think about trying to get up here.” So I’m crouched onstage wearing all black scanning the crowd for potential problem patrons. Frowning, of course. And my brow is seriously furrowed.

The rapper is Denzel Curry. I had never heard of him and hadn’t had time to google him before clocking in to work tonight. The show was sold out and the venue was packed. His DJ/partner came out on stage and started playing the intro tracks. Denzel then came out and the crowd went wild. Little clouds of pot smoke puffed up over various spots in the audience. Denzel is an attractive young African-American man with huge thick dreadlocks. He was shirtless and pretty ripped. He reminded me of a leaner and younger Busta Rhymes. I later found out he was 22 years old. This dude wasn’t born until I was already out of college.

So he starts running all over the stage and getting the crowd going. He had a lot of room up there he could cover by running around and engaging with the crowd.  He sees me crouched over on the side of the stage. Now, just to recap, I am a Caucasian man twice his age, probably have 80 pounds on him, also with dreadlocks. I am quite sure that I looked….out of place onstage. I keep trying to look out at the crowd to make eye contact with people. Some patrons are just a foot away from me trying to hold up their smartphones to record the performance.

Off to the side of the stage were two sexy Latinas pushing right up against the stage. Each of their boyfriends were pushing right up against them too. The men were definitely grinding their crotches into the asses of the two women. Everybody was so into it, with the booze and the weed, that I almost thought that these two couples were actually having sex. The faces the women were making were straight out of a porn movie.  Mouths wide open in a huge O shape, flipping their hair around, and grabbing the hands of the boyfriends. The dudes were behind them doggy-style gripping their hips and sometimes their breasts. I felt like I was inside their bedroom witnessing a personal private moment. If I had seen belts come off I would’ve had to go over and ask them to leave. Because, you know you can’t have sex at the front of a rap concert. That might distract from the musical performance happening. Of course they weren’t actually having sex, but the dry-humping in unison continued for a few more songs.

Some things that run through my head as I’m looking out into the crowd include:

“So if somebody gets up onstage should I throw them back into the audience like fishes into the sea? Or should I escort them off to the side stairs?”

“Man, I don’t even like rap music.”

“Some of these fans would pay money to be able to stand on stage with their rap hero. Maybe I can have one of them trade with me?”

“What if Denzel pulls me out onstage like Bruce Springsteen does with Courtney Cox in the Dancing’ in the Dark video?

Denzel makes his way over to stage right and is standing right by me now. He looks at me. I’m wondering if he doesn’t know that I’m security and is questioning why the hell I’m even onstage right now. I look back at him and he raises his hand high. He wants to give me a high-five. I raise my hand and we give each other a huge high-five clap. I grin a little bit, and the crowd right around us cheers.

Was it that we both had dreads? Was he thanking me for working security onstage tonight? Was he bridging the gap and being inclusive? Did I just get vouched for?
I have no idea, but it was a special little odd moment. I know that the crowd found it quite unique to see this 22-year-old African-American rapper high-five this middle-aged white security guy onstage. I wish somebody would’ve recorded this.
Nobody tried to get onstage for the rest of the night. Denzel put on great performance. Being the only person onstage with a DJ behind you, the responsibility all falls on him to be the entertainment and engage the crowd visually. He probably sweat out 10 pounds during his show. At one point he laid down on the stage and rapped from a prone position, twitching almost convulsively as the music traveled through his body. Great show, great performer, great vantage point.

I can’t wait to see what tomorrow night has in store for me.

Night shift

I come home from my job pretty late at night. I work security at various music venues. Bars in Oregon close at 2:30am, so sometimes I’ll get home at 3:30am after closing. I call this the middle of the damned night. People who have been up are usually in bed by now, and people who have to wake up early for work usually are not yet awake. On my drive home I primarily see first responders doing their thing. Police vehicles, ambulances, and fire trucks are all out taking care of people.

When I get home I quietly press the code and 8 beeps notify the dogs that I’m home. My fiancé and my two step-kids are always asleep when I come home. I step quietly in the house and check on everybody. Everybody has their own rooms, but tonight I noticed 4 little feet poking out of the blankets on the couch in the living room. Sometimes one child will still be out there after watching shows with their Mom. I think she intentionally leaves them out there sometimes, knowing that I’ll gently pick them up and tuck them in their beds.

But tonight was the first night that both kids were still out in the living room asleep on the couch. Looking at the Netflix queue I can gather that they were alternating between Naruto anime that I got them hooked on, and another cartoon series called Trollhunters. Then my fiancé watched some West Wing once they were asleep.

I often come home smelling like the smoke from a fog machine, or beer, or sweat (mine or others). This is my surreal life, and it never fails to make me smile.

“Is that a new cologne you have on?”

“No, that’s just the fog machine.”

So tonight I gently wake up the 8 year old girl and say, “Hey, grab on to me and hug me, I’ll carry you to bed.” She wraps her arms around my neck and I stand up, lifting her up off the ground. Her legs dangle down with her feet still over a foot off the ground. Or sometimes she wraps herself around me like a koala bear. I can smell the shampoo in her hair as I walk carefully to her room. I carefully step over the toy figurines of horses, and piles of books, and gently lower her into her bed. “Goodnight, sweetie.” Her face looks a little like a sleepy turtle.

Then I go back and gently wake up the 10 year old boy. “My dude, give me a hug so I can carry you to your bed.” He is a substantially heavier than the girl. But he wraps his arms around me and hugs me the same way. Legs dangling a foot off the floor as I carry him down the hall to his room. I have to slowly walk over the minefield of matchbox cars on his floor. Those little hunks of metal can really dig into the soles of my feet. And since his head is nestled right next to mine, I can’t cuss in pain if I crush a die-cast Bat-mobile car. I cover him up with a blanket and tousle his hair. “Goodnight, young man.”

When I leave for work , they both ask me to wake them up when I get home. Or sometimes they claim that they will wait up for me to get there. I tell them I would never wake anybody up at 3:30am intentionally, and they are always zonked out when I get in, as they should be. But it’s cute to think they fell asleep on the couch, knowing that I’m going to pick them up and carry them to bed in the wee hours of the night.

I spend most of my shift at work keeping people safe. Or trying to. When I come home I am reminded why. I spend many hours at work dealing with drunk or rude people trying to do things that I am not allowing them to do. Then I get to come home and keep these two little ones safe. They don’t understand or care about bars where people go to drink alcohol and flirt and see a music concert. All of this is still many years off for them. Once I showed them how I use a UV flashlight to show the hidden hologram on Oregon state IDs to see if they are real. They thought that was really cool.

Whatever problems I had to deal with at work always melt away when I come into my house. I’ll often replay interactions or situations or incidents that happened at work while I’m driving home. I’ll often be shaking my head at the behavior of a patron that I had to intervene with. I’ll be thinking of ways I could have handled that situation differently. Mostly I just think about how some people simply shouldn’t drink alcohol. But I am always humbled by coming home after thinking my problems are oh so important. I happily take care of our two dogs and two kids and I am reminded what is important. Taking care of everybody you consider family. Making sure everybody is loved and safe. These little moments that may or may not even register consciously for the kids. But when they wake up in the morning, they’ll remember that they fell asleep on the couch and are now on their beds. Maybe they won’t have any nightmares because I pulled their blankets up around them and told them I loved them.

I’m also painfully aware that these moments have an expiration date on them. In a few short years they are going to enter into puberty and will be teenagers. They are also going to get bigger and heavier. All of this means I’m not going to get to pick them up and carry them to bed to be tucked in for too much longer.

These two aren’t my biological kids. But I feel like they are mine nonetheless. Like they belong to me, as I belong to them. Family should never be determined by blood alone. You can choose your family. And they are mine.

I’ve got the night shift. And I’ll watch over you while you’re asleep. Sleep well.

Let me stamp your wrist

I’m a security guard at several music venues around Portland, Oregon. It’s probably one of the most interesting jobs I’ve ever had, and I’ve had a few. You come in to a music venue to see a band or a DJ perform. To dance all night, drink, flirt, and tell loud stories. To make bad decisions and have great stories to tell the next day.

I’m the guy at the door checking IDs. We are going to have a brief little moment together. Usually polite, usually friendly, almost always pretty surfacy. Our special interaction takes anywhere from 30 seconds to a few minutes. In that time I’m trying to do several relatively simple things.

I’m trying to be friendly and welcome you to the venue. Then I’m engaging you in small talk, looking at your eyes and your gait to assess if you are already too drunk or high to allow into the club. I’m checking your ID to be sure that you are actually the person on the ID. I’m making sure that you were born before this date on 1995, and if your ID has expired. I’m examining the ID to see if it looks fake in general. I’m also trying to keep an eye on people in my peripheral vision that might be trying to sneak past while I’m engaged with you. Then, depending on the event or venue, I’m also scanning your concert ticket and giving you stamps on your wrists. Usually you get one stamp for having a valid ID and being of age, and then you get a different stamp for having a valid ticket to the concert.

I’m also the guy who escorts people out if they’re fighting, or simply are too intoxicated to be there. I answer a lot of questions. The most common things I end up saying besides the usual include, “Yes, there is re-entry. The bathroom is over there. No we don’t have a coat check. You can’t take your drinks outside. The ATM is just outside by the door. The box office is just over there. Yes the show is sold out. No there aren’t any more tickets available.”

Depending on the venue, and my specific duties that night, it is possible that I will have anywhere from 150 to 600 small interactions with patrons of the venue. We’re  going to handle all of these things as quickly as possible, and I’ll try to not ask the same questions several hundred times.

Since I’ve lived in Portland for 20 years, it is a rare night that I don’t see at least one person that I know from my various circles of friends and acquaintances while working the door.

When I ask to give you a stamp on your wrist, we have a strange little physical interaction where a complete stranger is touching your wrist and putting a little ink mark on you. It’s actually sort of intimate. I’m cradling your hand in mine with one hand, then stamping your wrist with my other hand. We’re close and looking in each other’s eyes. It’s almost the way you would cradle your lover’s hand if you were proposing. Sometimes you have to remove gloves, move bracelets, or switch your phone or beer to your other hand. Very often you have wrist tattoos that make it difficult to find a good visible place to put the stamp. And sometimes you have a scar on your wrist.

This happens far more than you would think. I look at the scar on your wrist and sometimes I know it’s from a suicide attempt. Or that you are or were a cutter. If you and I ever had a personal talk you’d probably tell me it was from a car crash. I’d probably smile and agree with you. But cuts from windshield safety glass can look like cuts from your broken wine glass in the bathtub. Or a straight-razor. If the scars go across the wrist like where your wristwatch band would be, maybe you weren’t that serious. If the scars go up the length of the forearm, you were more dedicated. If there were numerous scars of differing healing patterns, colors, and scar tissue, you might have tried a few times.

I think about all of this in the few seconds before I stamp your wrist. Occasionally I have a debate in my mind deciding if I should put the ink stamp off to the side of your scar, or directly on top of it. Some people must wonder, “Why did that door guy just stamp my scar?”  It’s a strange little moment we have where neither of us acknowledges it or says anything, but we both know what just happened. Two complete strangers now sort of share a secret. When I stamp you on your scar I think of it as a protective seal. It is a magical binding. Don’t open this again. It’s me placing my sigil of safety over your wound.

It is a sobering thought to imagine that every person who has a scar on their wrist may have been so depressed and dejected that they tried to end their life at one point. I hope I’m wrong about this. Because I see a bunch of them each night. But here you are, out and about trying to have fun. Not staying home in your apartment where the darkness can take too strong a hold of you. Don’t paint it black.

Maybe someday you’ll try to take your own life again and succeed. Maybe you’ll never try it again. Maybe that was a specific dark time in your life. Or maybe you have to fight off suicidal thoughts every day. You may be here because music is the only thing in your life that keeps you going. Or you’re here meeting the one person that you’ve met that understands you and gives you reason to keep going.

I’m just glad that you are here. And I want to see you here again. Music heals.
Maybe tomorrow morning you’ll wake up and wash the stamp off of your wrist and remember what a great night it was. And maybe you’ll think again about how that scar got there in the first place.

Maybe I’m overthinking all this and I’m just a guy putting a stamp on your wrist.

But I don’t think so.

I’ve been having this dream where dozens of people are stumbling into the venue holding their bleeding wrists out towards me. I’m supposed to suture everybody’s cuts shut but there’s too many of them and I can’t close the wounds fast enough. They all are asking me to help them and pulling up their sleeves to show me their wrists. The crowd starts pushing past me into the venue. Both wrists of every single person have been slashed open and they won’t stop bleeding.

Everybody streams past me into the venue and I hear the music start. Then a figure slowly strides through the doors and stands in front of me. This tall robed figure gently lifts up my wrist and pours candle wax on it. This doesn’t hurt. Then he stamps a sign into the wax, just like Kings in ancient times would do after sealing a private letter. I look up to see his face and I just see light. And then I wake up.