Hit with a Beer Bottle at a RiotFollow @gaijinass
I have this habit of forgetting that I’m not, in fact, John Wayne.
Nor am I Charles Bronson, Clint Eastwood or Sonny Chiba. I am not an action star and I’m not a super hero. I’m just a guy that has traveled around, run his mouth, and continually has forgotten that he is not blessed with anything that will allow him to saunter into an altercation with the odds stacked staggeringly against him and walk out unscathed. It must be some kind of chemical imbalance.
So, this is why I can’t be surprised that things went so terribly south during one particular evening in 2003.
I ended up, through an acquaintance at the gym I was boxing at and working at part time, Tommy’s gym, accepting a security gig at a bar down the street. The occasion that warranted the security was a special TSOL concert. The lead vocalist, Jack Grisham, had decided to run for governor of California, and the show was part of his efforts to “drum up support.”
At this point, it would be a fitting maneuver to explain a little about TSOL and Grisham for those of you who don’t know, because without any knowledge, the need for security won’t make sense and the idea of Jack Grisham running for governor won’t be nearly as entertaining.
TSOL stands for True Sounds Of Liberty and had its genesis during the ’80’s hardcore-punk explosion in Los Angles alongside other well-known hardcore staples such as Black Flag, The Circle Jerks and punk mainstay Social Distortion.
Henry Rollins once said, on his paramount and fantastic Spoken Word Album Get in the Van, that what Black Flag had created was a soundtrack for a full-blown riot; TSOL is little different.
Some concerns should have set of alarm bells in my mind. I was working five nights a week at a big nightclub, The Shark Club, in Orange County and we had trouble regularly. I had worked at clubs all over Palm Springs, L.A. and O.C. but despite this experience, I walked into a very volatile situation like I was going to a picnic with my Grandma. Perhaps it was the 50 dollars I really needed so that I could eat. Or perhaps it was the chance to see TSOL live, or maybe it was both. But I learned quickly that when one adds TSOL, a load of ex-convict skin heads, Da Hui guys and Dennis Rodman, things can go well array.
The place was packed. I had arrived shortly before 1800 to help out and check things out and now, at 1845 it was already packed. Working the door with “Mark”, the guy masquerading as the security manager and who, a few months later, would violate his parole for possession and domestic disturbance, I was checking people out as they came in and was pleasantly surprised; lots of blondes, lots of beach bodies, lots of mellow looking cool people. With a proximity so near to New Port beach, this seemed to fit.
We weren’t doing pat downs like we did at my normal club because the owner of the bar had said it wasn’t necessary, and Mark clearly wasn’t taking this too seriously. I had already seen him put down three beers in the space of fifteen minutes. I convinced myself that this wasn’t something to worry about. Personally, I never drink when I work security or protection. It’s just a bad idea and it’s unprofessional. This isn’t as much of a hard and fast rule as one might think however, not with other bouncers and bodyguards I have discovered. Mark was proving that right in front of me by crushing another Budweiser can and tossing it into the bin near the front door.
The atmosphere started to shift, and clearly, at around 1910 when the skin heads started to arrive. They showed up in packs of five or six and were what you might expect with lot’s of tattoos, lots of grizzled faces and generally unpleasant expressions. They assaulted the bar immediately, although it was clear most of them had been drinking before they showed up. Their long jean shorts, wife beaters, wallet chains and the occasional swastika tattooed on deltoids or a bicep contrasted starkly with the fake palm trees and mellow cabana lighting inside the bar.
These guys raised my alert levels and I made a mental note of my fellow security guys. Mark was across from me shaking hands and letting people in and the Brit, “Scott”, an amateur boxer with a nearly impenetrable cockney accent, was floating around near the toilets smiling at the collection of tanned and beach blonde women mulling around.
Later, when all hell broke loose, Scott would actually be in the toilet with one of those bleach blonde women and hence, of no help at all.
Fairly dark thoughts were forming based on our lack of experience together and no real SOP’s (Standard Operating Procedures) in case of a throw down and I was about to step across the entry way and speak to Mark when the focus of the entire place shifted sharply and I turned and saw Dennis Rodman standing in the doorway.
I’m a big man, but Rodman dwarfs me. This wasn’t the first time I had met him though. I had spoken to him briefly at The Shark club six months early and we had talked about Mixed Martial Arts for fifteen minutes and he was a fairly regular fixture in the area. He lived in Newport beach, really just down the road, and his reputation and propensity for trying to “Keep in real” meant that he showed up at all sorts of shit he really had no business at.
Here I have to shake my head in disappointment at myself. I let Rodman and his wife showing up on that ridiculous moped distract me from what were the early warning signs of a storm brewing over by the bar. Bottles of beer being passed out and consumed. Narrow eyes looking passed thick lids just scanning the territory. A lot of scar tissue and calcified knuckles.
Shortly after Rodman and his lady moved into the bar is when the third part of this chemical explosion showed up; Eddie Rothman and the Da Hui boys.
Rothman came in and immediately gave a business card, and fifty bucks each, to myself and to Mark. I had no idea who he was, but I had heard of Da Hui, a team of pro surfers that travel the world essentially carving waves and getting in fights. He was well-built and was followed into the bar by between 5 to seven guys, all of whom were big, heavily tanned and muscular.
The tension between the skins and the Da Hui guys was immediate, but within ten minutes the show started.
TSOL was immediately and intensely off the chain. They rocked. Hard. It was a really heavy show and they were going for it. Grisham’s vocals were awesome and the entire bar was alive in a huge, huge way.
In the center of the floor, in front of the small stage that was set up, a mosh pit had quickly formed. The action inside was rough but nothing over the top. I’ve been in some brutal pits over the years, the worst ones back in small town no-where-land when cranked out skins were literally head butting chicks in the face and then brutally kicking the shit out of their boyfriends when they tried to step up and on their way out they would smash car windows; just because. This pit was rough but contained, and in retrospect this should have clued me in. This wasn’t an MXPX concert, and skin heads don’t come to these for exercise and networking. They come to fuck shit up. The fact that they hadn’t yet was disturbing.
The skin heads were going round and round, but weren’t physically making much contact with other people. It was like they were just ramping up their vibration for an onslaught and there was a clear and unmistakable hum of menace to the entire place. This all went nuclear when TSOL finally played Code Blue.
Within thirty seconds of the songs initial cords it was like the skin head guys had decided to let the battle begin and the mosh put doubled in size and everyone was getting crunched. Girls, guys, big people, little people. Didn’t matter. The entire bar was beginning to get razed. Rodman grabbed his wife and they were out within a minute. It looked that bad.
Mark and I tried, truly in vain, to get these guys to calm down but we might as well have hopped into the Gorilla inclosure at the zoo and asked the boys there to let us just “hang out here for a while.”
I had to grab two girls that got planted by the rotation and current of the pit and I pulled them toward the door. It was right about when I reached the door and saw Mark gesturing for people to go through, most of the “normal” patrons had decided to call it a night, that the band said “Thank you, we’re fucking out.” And on hearing that, Mark and Iwent outside to try to clear a path for all the other patrons to exit.
Rodman was standing out there and we all started talking to him. He was on fire. “Holy shit those motherfuckers aren’t kidding!” And we were all laughs and joking until this very petite little blonde woman came up to me and asked, “Uh, are you guys like, the security?”
We all stared at her and Mark and I both said together. “Yeah.”
“Well, they’re fucking destroying that place in there.”
We looked at each other for a second and then both took off for the door and into the bar.
Inside it was absolute and utter bedlam.
There was no longer “a bar”. Within the space of 3 or 4 minutes, they had completely torn the bar out of the floor. Two windows at the back of the place were shattered. No table remained standing. Someone had lit a fake palm tree on fire. I had five seconds or so to take in the scene and it was fights wall to wall. A massively built, brown Da Hui guy effortlessly slammed some skin heads face directly into the pool table to my left with such velocity that the guy bounced off it and landed completely motionless on the floor.
Then, across the room I saw it; a group of guys, at least six of them, surrounding one body that was in the corner, on the floor between the wall and the stage, and they were completely kicking the shit out of him. I grabbed Mark’s T-shirt and yelled “Stay on my back!” and I bound forward across the club. I would later learn that Mark, who had spent a couple of years in prison, had extreme survival instincts, took one look at the situation and said “Fuck this,” and had turned around and walked out. Thanks.
Well, I reached the group just as some other guy, neither a skin head nor a surfer grabbed my neck, as if to shove me, and I simply smashed my forehead into his face and chucked his head toward the opposite side of the room and he went flying into some turned over tables.
I stepped up to the group and could see nothing but boots flying into the prone body on the floor. I dropped my right hand low and shot a hook into the kidney area of the guy closest to me. I hit him really hard and this stood him up straight and I grabbed his chin with one hand and covered his eyes with the other and snapped his head back sending him slamming heavily into the ground. The next guy in the group I just fish hooked, turned him and then bodily shoved him away. Amazingly, the group had somehow cleared and I saw the guy on the ground, his face covered in blood and I moved to kneel down to help him up when I got rocked.
Whatever hit me felt like it was a lead pipe. It propelled me six feet to my left and turned my body 45 degrees. I must have blacked out on my feet for a moment, because the next thing I remember is that I was leaning, my hands holding me up, against the low stage, looking up I saw two really attractive girls, one blonde and one brunette on the stage, holding each other, terrified. In the next moment I felt my head bobbing forward and realized that someone was punching me.
I spun around in time to get a fist directly in my mouth. Then another in my shoulder, one in my head, another in my collar-bone area. Three skin heads were standing in front of me having a workout. The visual woke me up and I started swinging wildly, still getting hit, and mostly hitting them in areas that didn’t feel important but I knew that if I went down I’d be sleeping in the hospital that night. This wild barrage gave me enough space to roll up onto the stage, pick up the mic stand and drill the heavy base directly into the lead guys teeth. I was dizzy and the entire right side of my face felt wrong. The blonde that was on the stage grabbed me and screamed, all sense of culture or control or civility now gone “Get us the FUCK OUT OF HERE!” She had a crazed, dangerous look in her eye’s and spit and drool was coming out of her mouth.
I took in the scene again while trying to ward off two angry skin heads from on top of the stage. The room a swarm of violence. Several prone, motionless bodies on the dark floor. Music equipment all over. Just then some little guy came dashing toward the stage, past the skin heads and leapt, head first over the stage and out a back door that I hadn’t realized was behind me, that was blocked by sound equipment.
The girls and I moved to the far end of the stage and in the process lost the remaining skin heads, jumped down and pushed through the crowds to the front door and out into the parking lot. The parking lot was no better. People were all over, two fighting between two cars to my right. I grabbed the brunette girl and asked her, roughly “Look at my eye, is it OK?” She was sobbing. “What do you mean?” I lost it. ” I mean is it in my fucking skull or hanging out of it?!” I screeched at her and she just sobbed uncontrollably. I couldn’t see out of my right eye, and I couldn’t feel anything on that side of my face and had assumed the worst.
I then saw Mark by the front door and just then a girl, stereotypically blonde, cute, wearing a tight white t-shirt showing off her 24-hour fitness body with little jean shorts came stumbling out of the bar covered in blood. Her nose was clearly broken and gushing crimson and she had a wicked black eye.
I then went completely mad, walked back into the bar. Mark tried to grab me and I shoved him back, I picked up a pool cue off the table, took a step forward and hit the first skin head type that I saw, some guy who was actually trying to leave the bar, squarely in the face. A second later Mark, and a few other people were dragging me out of the bar and I was screaming and cussing and completely losing it.
A few minutes later I had calmed down and saw across the street, four police cruises parked, engines idling. The cops had been called by the owner of the bar, and they came, but they decided not to do anything. Fights went on for a quarter-mile in both directions up and down the street.
Forty Five minutes later, the Da Hui guys were gone having escaped in some piece of shit little sky-blue van someone had. Rodman was gone; he and his wife had taken off on their bedazzled huge white moped. TSOL had been the first to split when they realized that this show to drum up support for a bid at governor hadn’t worked out as planned, and finally the cops came strolling in.
I was sitting on the pool table by the door, a bag of ice over the right side of my face when the worst case scenario came waddling up to me; a short, offensively fat cop, balding, stupid mustache, white as a ghost and then said with a snarky little laugh “So, what happened to you there, buddy?” I tried to say nothing and failed horribly. “Just doing your job officer.”
His smile vanished. “What did you say?” I removed the ice from my face and looked at him. “I said, good work officer.” He was now a shade of red. “Watch it son, you really need to watch—” I cut him off. “You’re a real fucking hero. Thanks for the help.” And with this totally unnecessary jab, I got off the table, went and found the owner, who was in bad shape and totally distraught about everything and told him to give me my money because I was leaving.
“Jesus, can you drive? I think you need to go to the hospital.”
I sighed. “Just pay me man. I’m outta here.” I lightly touched the swollen, misshapen right side of my face and said, nearly a whisper. “I am totally fucking out of here.”
And he did. Actually he gave me 100 dollars, double what we were supposed to be paid. Then I walked down the street to the gym in the dark where I had parked my truck, got in and with a high level of difficulty drove home.
When I got to the apartment in Dartmouth Court, right next to the UCI campus, I walked in passing the big pool glowing yellow and gold and blue in the center of the attractive apartment community, got out my keys, went inside, ignored my girlfriend, drank a half a bottle of NyQuil, took several Ibuprofen, put a bag of frozen peas over my face and passed out for 13 hours.
Long night, but at least I made 150 bucks. Less than six months later I would be getting off the bus from Narita Airport at the West Exit of Shinjuku station knowing nobody, with two bags and a thousand dollars to my name and I’ll never forget what the city looked like. Different.
Read more from GaijinAss by Checking out:
|7 Books for Warriors||Hardest Endurance
|Enlisting||Kickboxing in Japan||7 reasons not go to the clink in Japan|
I hate loud noises and I hate crowds. I’ve been to a few concerts. Always full of both. Always managed to drift to a calm place to watch the chaos from when things get out of hand, and always left before anything like you described. I can’t imagine being a bouncer. I’ve seen people get it right and people F*** it up. Other than the chance to hurt someone and get away with it scott free, what you described just didn’t sound like any kind of fun to me.
The cop part reminded me a bit of a time when I totally went off on a cop and almost got myself into some serious trouble. The only thing that saved me, as I was screaming every obscenity I could think of at top volume and red faced, was the two idiots, who had actually been the reason for the cops pressence, showing back up. It was stupid and not any fun and all I could do was panic in my head screaming “WHAT THE F*** ARE YOU DOING SCREAMING LIKE THIS! OH GOD HE IS GONNA TAZE ME!” It was a complete out of body experience, I could feel my clenched fists and hear myself screaming at the cop and see him getting pissed, but I couldn’t control my mouth. It was like I had split in two and one half bent on getting a beating the other a helpless victim along for the ride.
It wasn’t bad-@$$, it wasn’t tough, it was just stupid. He would have had NO trouble kicking my @$$. I was certainly giving him every reason to. Those two wastes of sperm probably had a very rough night. I didn’t stick around to find out I just walked off clenching my fists, still with no control over my body or actions. It was the first time in a few years I had let my anger to the point that I freak myself out. It was also the first and last time I went off on a law enforcement officer. I hope I never repeat it.
I don’t think I could ever work security. You are far braver than I. Crowds really scare the hell outta me.
Oh, incase your wondering the cop was being a dickhead. It was winter and I had been walking uphill for a while. He stopped me and began questioning me and acusing me. Something about a report of two teenage boys rolling a tire down the hill into traffic and they had dented in the side of more than one car. Being short, pot belled, one man (not two teenage boys) with a huge beard and out of breath I didnt think I fit the description at all and therefore, I went off. I am just so sick of not being able to walk across town at night without having to dig my shorts/pants/whatever out of my @$$ after being patted down (and having a cop try to shove his fingers up my digestive track) and questioned like I have committed some heinous crime.
No officer I did not steal everything that’s on me including my clothes. No officer I am not on any drugs and do not have any on me. No officer I have not done anything illegal. I don’t know if any of my friends are on drugs right now, why don’t you go ask them so I can get back to walking. No officer I will never again wear anything over my head and especially not a hood. No officer I do not have burglary tools hidden in my rectum. I am sorry I was walking across town after sundown; you are right I should never do that again. (Just a small sample of the average conversation I have to go through with these pricks).
Yet, if I am wearing a zombie mask they don’t f’n stop me. I mean come on a person in a zombie mask at night isn’t suspicious, but normal clothes are? Am I the only one that sees something wrong with this situation? Why is it, that if I am doing something crazy or stupid the cops never stop me, but if its late and I am dead tired (having walked a long distance as well) they suddenly feel the need to stop me, make me wait while a second squad car shows up and then proceed to question me while patting me down?
This would never happen to your average person. I hate this weird crazy crap that always seems to happen to me. It just isn’t normal. God has a sick sense of humor. The sadist.
Cops are a problem. I have experienced it in many ways. They are like the Mafia, just supported by the state.
Nice Sonny Chiba pic in the article by the way.
working security fun times especially if you are a small dude like me,
being sober and working in a place with lots of stairs always gives you the uper hand though 😛
True. I have a good friend that learned this the hard way, on the other side of security.
Hui is Hawaiian for “club” as in your gonna get mean mugged by one and jumped on by a lot more than 1.
It refers to a specific group that is in charge of the guards union at the federal penitentiary in Halawa and it’s where the 6ft 8 inch 380lb guys go that were H.S. football stars that never made it to the NFL.
They are the scariest motherfuckers I have ever met and it’s one of the reasons I call Japan home and not Hawaii..though that’s gonna change soon.
Da Hui…..takes some balls using that name if they knew who was using it back in Hawaii……and maybe they do? 😉
Those dudes are all Hawaiian man. I assume they know their shit. As far as I have been told, North shore does not fuck around.
dear gaijinass, I come as a messenger. chris thinks his comments maybe be getting caught up in your spam box. i like spam in my rice. message relayed. that is all, carry on.
“In the next moment I felt my head bobbing forward and realized that someone was punching me.”
I gotta quote this.
I mentioned in the linked post how getting smashed in the face while your adrenaline is pumping is just “pressure” the feeling of like a slap but no more because your brain is in a kinda shock. Scary is getting knocked out or killed but getting hit is not so painful…….about 98% of the population doesn’t seem to get that which is a good thing but I have been told/asked so many times
“I’m afraid to fight because i don’t like pain”
Well shit…it’s like a very bad whiskey hangover in that your REALLY gonna feel it the next day….your words I quoted …took me back.
Recently, I was reading some study that said that certain people, based on 1: DNA, 2: natural selection and 3: private history, are more prone to the use of violence in situations simply because it has worked in the past. All those categories stack on equally. This means by default that somewhere in the long line, someone else, and I can think of clear and easy examples, in my family excelled at the employment of violence.
And another thing, even the USA gov knows this. In all the Interrogation manuals, well, pre-9/11, they had figured out that the THREAT of violence is much worse than the real thing. Because as humans we have these great systems to deal with shit that keeps us alive. And once you start pounding on someone or cutting them up, shit clicks off. that’s pretty universal. This is also the idea that EVERY Rocky we have ever seen is based on.
People don’t get it because first you need to have a beating, a real one, to know what it is. More people, rightly, avoid this.
My brain has never activated the shut down switch and (KO’d) in or outside a ring and I have taken some massive shots with bats fists and a 10lb steel weight from a bench press set dropped right on my face. It all slows down or speeds up depending on how it’s going. An amazing primal safety system. The fast ones…my own beatings are blurs of non memory that I guess is for my own mental sanity and the ones that turned out well are very clear. I agree that the threat of force is far more effective than the use of force. My knuckles would be cottage cheese already if that were not true.
I went to shin Osaka station once and smashed a guy from Gaijin Pots face off the mens room bathroom. He reposted some pics of my students and I was not happy and I found out where he worked and took the 5 hour trip just to be met with a “I was just messin’ around bro”
I told him I had some weed and I had to jet but I’d give him a dime bag in the bathroom…just a spur of the moment idea to get him out of the crowd and the dumb fucker took it…and the last thing I heard was his teeth cruching off the tiled wall. He never reported anything and I was i.p. banned from most of the sites. I got Fiber optic later and another ip but it still banned me…?
He like 90 of folks will act like they want some all the way to the point of violence and then back away…I traveled 5 fucking hours so no …fuck no. He had to pay.
I once had a road rage incident with a Hawaiian near Pipeline and he was 6ft 7ish and he was driving a little mazda miata..after he got his big ass self outta that little car he jogged toward me with a smile and layed a beating on me with hands the size of my head. He never said a single word.
Life is good!
I think everyone should have their ass handed to them at least once in their life. The world would be a safer place because people would know the effects. Eating cereal for dinner for a few days to stay low till your head swelling recedes and your eyes aren’t red and purple gets old.
I agree. There are people that just don’t realize that physical violence is in fact an option. It’s always on the table. It’s just a matter of weighing consequences and after having dealt with the law before, well that’s a lot like violence; the threat of it is more effective than the actual application. By no means do I want legal problems again, however, if someone really has an ass kicking coming, then they have it coming. Oh well. Deal with the possible police trouble later.
And, I’m no gangster. That shit’s not for me. However this resonates with me big time. Big time.
I saw TSOL about 10 years ago at the Glasshouse in pomona, that shit was awesome. I’ve been wanting to pick up Grishams book, but everytime I go to the book store I forget about it.
I went to another show there around the same time, it was the business with agnostic front and there were a shitload of skinheads that started to fight at the end. I understand the whole dominance aspect of starting a fight with someone, I just dont understand why those dudes just fight because they think its fun/absolutely no reason. I wouldn’t think its fun having to feel the recovery for the next week but those skinheads are probably all hyped up on something so it doesn’t really matter I guess.
I saw the Business in Anaheim in 2002 and they rocked. Yeah, skin heads and fights. All the time.
Great story GJA, you are a treasure trove of stories. Code Blue is the one about necrophilia right?
The skinhead thing is strange too, the skinheads in Sydney that came to punk shows and so forth were always staunchly anti-racist and didn’t pick fights at all. The neo-nazis had their own scene going with bands and activist organisations, I don’t know if they fought that much though. They gave the regular punk shows a wide birth generally, but they. I think there were a few bad egg skinheads going to hardcore shows though.
I used to see this shit go on all around me, especially through secondary school, generally one pre-determined ethnic group versus another or things like footy players versus such and such. Then when we were old enough to drink, it was more of the same shit, lots of glassings and so forth. I grew up in a fairly rough area, but In the midst of all of this shit, I never seemed to get involved, so I guess I have been a pencil pusher genetically from way back. My mate was the opposite, we would go out for a beer and some pool at a club, not even trying to pick up or do anything, but he would always have a few fellas come and try to start something.
Anyway if there are too many fights at pubs now in Sydney they can reduce their trading hours or even take their liquor license away, so it has cleaned things up quite a bit. A good thing I think.
So did you end up having any long-term damage to your eye?
My ex-gf took me to an optometrist shop in the plaza next door to where we lived this next day.
The woman working there started crying when she saw me, insisted I go to a proper hospital but I told her I just couldn’t afford it and I asked her to please just check out my eye and see if anything was disconnected or whatever, because the entire eye was blood red and I still couldn’t really see out of it.
Turns out everything was OK. The lady ended up not even charging me and my face returned, by and large, to it’s original shape in a month or so.
In regards to Punk rock down under, it’s strange; I have talked to a few people involved in the scene over the years and it just seems so completely different than what I saw in the US or Europe. The key element there in punk rock is anger and then violence. Almost without exception every show I went to had fights, and skin heads everywhere I went, everywhere, were violent.
But you aren’t the first aussie and/or person that spent time there that has told me that isn’t so much the case over there.
It’s sad that some people’s idea of a good night is going out and fucking shit up. I thought for a long time that this was exclusive to the ‘cholos’ or bike clubs in my town. But I actually heard two girls in the loo talking about how badly they just wanted to pick a fight!
I sat my butt down and waited until they left the bathroom. I have seen so many people get fucked up just because someones idea of fun is knuckle sandwiches. I too have been on the receiving end of a pummeling; collateral damage. I was at the wrong place at the wrong time. My bf at the time worked at a bar and in 3 different instances I ended up hurt or knocked down because a melee would break out.
So, how is that eye these days?
This is something I learned the hard way- Girls start fights too. Especially in California. I’ve seen the most petite little women cause serious bodily harm just because guys weren’t ready.
Eye is fine. Face is exceptional.
What did you do then?
What do you mean “What did you do then?”
When you got to Japan
That’s a long, long story.
Long but one that maybe people want to hear!
I’ve been reading for over a year, and this is my first comment. You have developed so much and the writing level has gone so much higher than just a year ago. I hope you keep writing and maybe more often. Thanks. Just want to deliver the message.
Step by step. Thanks for the comment.
And to think the Shark club is where Asian college students host their events now lol. Awesome blog man, I’ll be using it as a guide for when I head to Japan (ALT) in a few months.
“The THREAT of violence is much worse than the real thing…”
What bothers me is when I find myself in the presence of people who understand how this works in a very practical sense. And what is even more disturbing is when people look for solutions that do not necessarily involve the display of wanton violent acts.
For some reason, Wifey wasn’t during one of the kids’ classes, so I had to answer the door. I thought it might have been one of the moms, but it wasn’t. A smartly dressed youngish man asked what started off as few polite questions. I was waiting for him to finish what he was saying before getting back to the flock.
As the tone suddenly shifted and I got a good look at his exceptionally lean face, I realized that he was different than most run of the mill door to door salesmen. And he wasn’t leaving.
Once his tone shifted, he started speaking a bit more quickly, as if to want information. He started sounding almost pissed. He’d been downplaying the fact that he was worked up, ready to do business, I suppose. Somebody had obviously borrowed money using a bogus title with a picture of the previous owner… a guy rumored to have liked to gamble.
Instead of just standing there, we stepped outside as I told Mr. Collector that he really had no business being where he was. Which, yes, was unfortunate for the both of us (as we kept moving and I kept talking). A class was in session and I should not have stepped away, but the kids didn’t need to hear an adult raising his voice like that.
The ‘misunderstanding’ was done and over before anyone noticed. Nothing more than an ‘inconvenience’ for everyone who happened to be involved.
Mr. Collector left in a fairly compact car driven by a slightly scared older man dressed in a cheap tracksuit. My guess is that the driver was providing the ride as part of the deal that involved paying off whatever debt he may have owed.
Mr. Collector didn’t seem to care that I was taking down the number plate as I informed him that, yeah, I’m calling this in. I’m not surprised that he didn’t care and he didn’t seem surprised at what I was doing. We were just doing what anyone in our respective positions would do.
If he was just little more experienced, he probably would have been more calm. Then again, by the time people like him are more experienced, they are probably not being asked to make house-calls.
That’s the closest I’ve ever gotten to anyone’s business dealings of that sort over here.
For some reason, there never really was a threat of violence. It was all just a matter of getting things done.
Growing up just like everyone else, I heard plenty of rumors. And, being rumors, they are not worth repeating, since everyone’s probably already heard them anyway. And they are just rumors.
Good to see that you are writing.
And thanks for providing space for comments… can’t believe that I just wrote what I writ, but I got up early this morning and wanted to leave a few courtesy comments here and there. I try to read everything you put out on a regular basis as a way of staying balanced.
Will that was your most epic comment to date, and it was a good one. You were tight to call it in I think.