STORIES - TITS

I'm a bouncer at your typical Americana sports bar called Tavern In the Square (colloquially referred to by its acronym, TITS). In an attempt to avoid the stigma associated with restaurant chains, the employee manual states that it's "locally owned and operated." Notwithstanding, TITS has nine separate locations and requires its employees to memorize and recite the dismal mission statement: "Our goal is to exceed expectations and provide the ultimate guest experience."

TITS occupies this wannabe-chain category of restaurant which makes it a particularly terrible place to work. It combines the worst aspects of “big-money” diner chains like Applebee's with the subtle illegality of locally owned spots. All the employees are subject to memorizing the impossibly dumb employee manual, but TITS is still small enough to skirt under the radar of federal regulations concerning things like overtime and injury compensation. Technically, we have a human resources department, but I've never seen anything that would indicate it actually exists. Even if it did, I signed a waiver when I was hired stating that I can be fired at any time, for any reason.

But I don't resent it. This kind of thing is typical in the service industry. TITS is just playing the game. The service staff puts up with these issues because a tsunami of college students shows up every weekend, leaving a mountain of tips in their wake.

The location where I work has the advantage of being sandwiched between the campuses of two of the wealthiest universities in the country. Every Thursday through Saturday night, the restaurant undergoes an awkward metamorphosis into a nightclub, like a caterpillar emerging from a cocoon as a cockroach. Because it's within easy walking distance with no cover charge, a line made up mostly of your prototypical khaki-and-boat-shoe-wearing, aspiring-middle-manager-fraternity-brother will extend around the block.

I get paid to deal with these people once they enter the building. I'm not bulky, I'm not intimidating, I don't know karate or muay thai. I've never even been in what I would consider to be a real fight. The only qualifier for being a bouncer these days is patience. You have to take a lot of shit, and the managers have to be able to rely on you to keep a level head and not get the place sued.

Thankfully, I've never had to put myself in any real danger. The big guys that show up to drink are generally compliant. It's the shorter, scrawnier young men that you have to worry about, especially if they’re showing signs of male-pattern baldness. As a result of their stature and their hairline, they don’t often find what they’re looking for at TITS, and that frustration sometimes manifests violently. It’s these overcompensators we have to watch out for, but generally, physicality is an absolute last resort, as I'd rather not risk confrontation on the off-chance someone actually knows how to fight. Especially not for $12 an hour.

At the end of the night, the security staff reconvenes to debrief and swap stories of all the ridiculous shit we saw from our assigned posts. It’s usually just variations of the same story– drunk people making fools of themselves. But there’s one time in particular that stands out, if only because it involves a messiah. It sounds like the start of a bad joke, I know – "Jesus walks into bar…" but I swear to god that's actually what happened.

I have no idea why Jesus chose to show up at TITS. It's not really where one would expect to witness the second coming. The place itself is basically the opposite of a church. The walls are lined with televisions flashing fast-paced images of hyperbolic excess and sexuality to accompany songs about hyperbolic excess and sexuality.

What goes on inside is basically the antithesis of prayer– true overindulgence and debauchery in the biblical sense. A miniature Gomorrah. I mean, people come to drink until they feel comfortable enough (or justified enough) to fuck strangers, sometimes in the bathroom stalls. I don't judge, though. I'm not particularly religious, but you'd think Jesus would not approve.

You’d think his arrival would involve some sort of grand entrance, like Lady Gaga skydiving into the Superbowl halftime show. But for whatever reason, Jesus chose to show up on this grimy, sweaty dance floor. I guess it makes sense, in a way. If you think about TITS as a den of sin, the occupants are definitely in need of some saving grace, but it turns out Jesus was not there to redeem wayward souls.

I didn't notice him at first, though. There was no grand entrance. I was stationed by the DJ, who was playing "I'm Different" by 2 Chainz, while the whole room sang along. When I first started the job, I would have laughed at irony like that, but after a few months, I just found it vaguely depressing.

I spotted him on the dance floor because he seemed to glow with an iridescent holy aura, but then I realized it was just the blacklight on his white robe. It was immediately apparent that he was here to party. He jumped in the middle of the crowd and started busting moves, then proceeded to grab someone's tumbler full of water, turn it into wine, and chug it while the crowd chanted "JE-SUS, JE-SUS."

People aren't allowed to bring in their own alcohol, but I wasn't sure if transmutation technically qualified as that, so I just watched at first. But then he started filling other people's glasses with wine, and pretty soon, no one was buying any drinks.

So I went up to Jesus and asked politely, "Hey man, would you mind just saving the divine providence for outside the bar? The staff is trying to make some money but they can't if no one's buying drinks."

He looked at me and goes, "What are you, some kind of fucking professional party-pooper?" and laughs, and everyone else laughs too. I laughed as well because I guess I didn’t want to be on Jesus's bad side.

"Yeah man, sorry to poop on this party but you can't bring in your own alcohol. Thanks for understanding."

"I don't understand," he said. "Why do you care so much? You get paid, like, minimum wage right?"

At this point, my patience was wearing thin. I already had to deal with some guy pissing in a corner and a drunk girl who accused me of "touching" her as I was escorting her out of the bar. My tolerance for bullshit had steadily been eroded by months of interactions like these.

"Look man, I'm just doing my job here. If you don't stop with the miracles, you're gonna have to leave."

"How bout you make me leave, bitch."

Having briefly studied some social psychology in college, I was aware when I started working security that uniforms make the wearer more authoritative, and black makes the wearer more aggressive. I wear a black uniform for this job, so I actively try to keep my authoritative, aggressive impulses in check. Or at least I did at first, but months of dealing with TITS clientele had made me more or less abandon my efforts to turn the other cheek. All this to say that Jesus caught me at a bad time.

"I'm over this shit," I mumble.

Jesus gets up in my face. He's kind of short, though, so he's staring straight up my nostrils.

"Speak up, bitch." And on "bitch" a little bit of saliva shoots out of his mouth and lands on my chin.

Now I definitely overreacted here. The frustration of shepherding drunk people culminated in this one interaction, and I kind of snapped and just started yelling in his face.

"I’m over this shit… I'm over this shit! Why are you helping these people?!" I motion to the crowd that's now watching this go down. "These rich kids rack up hundred-dollar tabs and don't tip! Why do they get the miracles?!" Aren't there starving children you should be helping somewhere?! I mean, fuck man, at least just help out the staff here. Our futures aren't made! Our educations aren’t paid for! You think we want to work here?! We have dreams that aren't handed to us! We have to work for them! We put ourselves on the cross so you guys can party every weekend, so how about you throw us a fucking bone, huh?! Or at least tell your daddy to."

That last line I threw in just to piss him off. It must have worked because he squared up to throw a punch. But before he could, another coworker, Pete, put him in a headlock and dragged him out.

When Pete came back in and asked what happened, I told him that Jesus was making a stink about performing miracles in the building. "Oh," he said. "Well, he told me to tell you that he'll see you in hell."

"I'm sure he will," I said. I went back to my post by the DJ to watch over the tumult of sinners.