I’ve come face to face with every type of bad doorperson, but that’s a bit of a misnomer; to call them “people” is sometimes a stretch.
Here are the worst, in ascending order of horror:
(5) The ones who don’t tell you crucial information.
They’ll let you in and say “Have a good time,” but they won’t tell you that to get past the register, you’re going to need a ticket and/or stamp on the wrist. You go in, find that out, and have to come crawling back to get it from the door douche! Also, after you’ve had your fun and are on the way out, these same non-communicative types will say “Have a nice night,” but they won’t lift the rope for you to leave! You have to figure a way to crawl under it as if exiting a P.O.W. camp–which is not that outlandish a reference, actually. The relentless withholding of action and information is either inept or sadistic, but either way, it’s deeply annoying.
(4) The ones who think everyone there is equal.
That works fine in a democracy, but please–this is nightlife! Some people are more important than others. That’s the nature of the game, and if you don’t know that, then you should go into dry cleaning. Telling someone who’s powerful and exciting and could get the guy fired that he needs to wait on line along with Joe Schmo from Ronkonkoma is a crazy way to do business! They need to realign their priorities–as in getting some!
(3) The strict rule-carriers who’ll turn you away for some ridiculously picky reason.
Remember the Copa guy I wrote about who wouldn’t let me in because of my shoes? “You don’t have shoes,” he said, as if I were standing barefoot in 30-degree weather. But I had surgical shoes, with wool caps covering the front for warmth. It’s what I wear by absolute necessity, not choice. Shouldn’t medical conditions be considered allowable? What if somene pulled up in a wheelchair? Shouldn’t that be OK? (Unless they’re from Ronkonoma.)
(2) The inattentive ones who can’t be bothered to do their job.
As you’re trying to catch their eye so you can argue your case for admission, they’re busy gabbing to one of the other workers, bullshitting about nonsense because to actually lift a finger (or a rope) is anathema to them, and way too hard. You have to practically send up a flare to get these people’s attentions. But they’d probably just impulsively yell “No smoking,” then go back to their conversation.
(1) The ones on steroids.
They’re pumped up and scary and obviously just broke out of Death Row, and they’re gonna seize this position of power for all its worth, screaming and raging at the crowd that they need to line up and shut up or they’re not gonna get in! I’m always amazed at how what’s supposed to be a fun night out can turn into an experiment in terror in which you’re being heckled and ordered around by some psycho loser from hell. But otherwise, it’s a great time!
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on March 6, 2013