It’s Friday night and you live in New York City so you know there may be lines. You’ve always hated lines outside bars and clubs but generally succeed in avoiding the types of places that would have them. However, every now and then the occasional birthday party, reunion, charity event, etc arises to require your attendance.
For instance, once, nearly 3 years ago, you put yourself through the dreadful, artificial atmosphere of the meatpacking district to attend a club for your friend’s 21st birthday. They were “doing it big” with tables and bottles and ice and five figure bar tabs. It’s not that you didn’t have a good time, dancing and orally exchanging ice cubes with your friend’s cousin was an interesting story in itself, it’s that this place just doesn’t suit you. You don’t want to feel important or classy or cool, mostly you just want to feel drunk and as we all know location doesn’t matter for that.
So this past weekend while drinking beer at some banker bar in Chelsea you send out your one size fits all mass text message to quickly elicit alternative means of entertainment. It’s through this process that you’re reminded of a friend’s birthday at Gallery Bar, a Lower East Side venue. The Lower East Side used to be a neighborhood you thoroughly avoided between the nocturnal hours of ten and six, but slowly you’ve grown more accepting as long as you stay away from bars like pianos which, frankly, just suck. You tell her you’ll be there and along with your good friend Nik hail a cab and head southeast. Upon arrival you see the entrance roped off like a crime scene and there are four wannnabee detectives dressed in sports jackets and designer jeans rubbing their five day old facial scruff in two minute intervals. There’s no line as you approach but that doesn’t stop some small, loud talking doorman from halting you with a condescending hand and asking “what party are you here with?”
“Christina’s” you tell him.
“Christina’s and Steve’s?” He asks incredulously.
“Of course.” You both assure him.
“Wait right here.” He says before turning around seemingly annoyed that he’s been forced to spend time with these line occupying peons. You hear someone refer to him as “Perez” and completely understand why he would have that name. The line begins growing as you quickly discern two types of people, those that quietly move to the back of the line and those that don’t. Those that don’t seem to be made up of consciously hot girls and self absorbed guys with gelled manes and fake smiles wooing the doorman as he laughs, hugs, and opens the velvet rope to happily admit them inside. You’re instantly reminded why at times you’re sure New York is the most evil place in the world.
Two guys in sports jackets, graphic t-shirts and hair flipped up in the front next approach the pale, beanie wearing Perez to concoct an obscenely uninteresting sob story. You watch as the sad faced newcomer says, “I’m just trying to see my cousin who’s in there.” It’s all the more shocking though when you watch the douchebag doorman, pleasantly satisfied that these bro boys have spent the last five minutes effectively fellating his oversized ego, allow them to enter. You would’ve thought they believed he was Jesus or at least Ghandi with the way they praised him as they walked in. “Yea, he’s a real hero” you think to yourself. In a moment though your instinctive reactions get the better of you as you exclaim immediately following their entrance, “hey! My cousin’s in there too!” A chorus of laughter erupts from the line behind you now also aware of our gatekeeper’s tragic shortcomings.
“My sister’s in there!” someone else yells quickly followed by Nik yelling “My cousin’s sister’s in there!” Despite the obvious humor the joke is not appreciated by your new night working friend whose power you haven’t respected but mocked. He locks eyes on you and approaches. It’s a standoff straight out of the Discovery channel and his body posture and unearned air of superiority make it obvious he thinks he has the upper hand. No matter what happens here though he doesn’t; because he’s still a prick LES doorman, which maybe on the spectrum of doormen is impressive, but on spectrum of life still falls below drug dealer, amateur porn star, and endangered species hunter.
“Seriously?” He asks you disdainfully.
“It’s just a joke.” You tell him, not really believing it
“Seriously if you don’t stop you’re just gonna have to leave.” You hold back your mocking laugh until he’s distracted by a group of whorish honies eager to play the game and cast aside respect for entrance. You wonder who’s worse the doorman for yielding power so irresponsibly or the eager patrons who give it to him. It’s at this point that Perez learns the word, “capacity.”
“Capacity” is what the owner tells him the bar has just reached before letting in six more girls. Excited as this addition to his meager vocabulary he begins proudly announcing the bar has reached CAPACITY and that they won’t be able to let anyone in right now. If you knew any better you’d guess he wanted to wrap his eccentric arms around the word and jam his impotent doorman dick into one of the A’s.
After ten more minutes of waiting and 500 more uses of the word capacity you’re growing impatient. You’ve told your friend you’ll make an appearance for her birthday but certainly she’d have to understand the extenuating circumstances. You think you’ll just query the man on the other side of the rope for an estimate on time to enter.
“Hey, it looks like a lot of people have been leaving, any idea on much longer it might be for us to get in?” You ask without any sort of dissension, though you know you want to.
“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that right now? If you don’t stop being such an asshole you’re not even gonna get to stand here you understand?”
“Wait what? I just asked how long you think it’ll be; I’m not being an asshole.”
“Alright you’re seriously gonna keep asking me? Really?” This flamboyant cunt prick is fucking with you and you’ve just about had enough of it. You’re about to say something that will A) Get you kicked out B)Get you kicked out and punched in the face by the bouncer a couple feet away or C) get you kicked out after punching the doorman before getting beat up by that dude’s cousin who’s still inside along with 3 of his friends that have gone in since. Before you retort though someone yells the doorman’s name as the owner’s bushy head is sticking out the entrance and is yelling at the bouncer to start letting people in. The bouncer who’s sat quietly to the side, remaining a neutral but no less innocent, checks your id and lets you in the side entrance while the self important Perez is busy being complimented by more soulless partiers.
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