Strong Arm Tactics

The music that bombed the disc, smelling at once of both nicotine and top-end perfumes, appeared to be one of today8217;s illegitimate spawns. The fickle strobe lights caught amour, flirtatiousness, and fun in alternating blinks of time, as we kept a grim watch on the proceedings. Every effort was, of course, made to look the part. My head was held imperiously high, my hands folded on my chest, and the most irritating sign of an impending middle-age was somehow tucked in. There was also this hope that a recently erupted sty in my right eye would enhance the effect.

Trouble happens very infrequently, informed Tyson, raising his voice over the din. 8220;If it does, be cool. Use your persuasive powers,8221; he added, squarish jaw bobbing above his bull neck. I nodded, keeping a watch on a couple of overexuberant dudes, one of who had stepped on my toes twice.

8220;People think we bouncers are here just to bash up errant guys. In all my 14 years, I8217;ve had to use my hand just once or twice,8221; said Tyson. His arm, by the way, was the size of my thigh.

OK, I thought, cool and calm is key. But my unprofessional approach was visible in the way I glared at a shortish, bespectacled Django, whose only fault was that he was with a swell-looker.

But what happens, I asked Tyson, if some smarty-pants isn8217;t open to persuasion? 8220;Then we take him outside and politely ask him to either leave or take it real easy. But some guys are just too cocky, and at times, push and shove my boys,8221; said this soon-to-be-reel-life bad man. 8220;At which point, we know what to do,8221; he smiled. I didn8217;t want to know how.

Fire 038; Ice that day appeared calm. There were no 8216;heroes8217; around on the dance floor, and neither did the crowd display any signs of unruliness. It was past midnight when Tyson motioned me out. The entrance was jammed with party animals, and our services would be better deployed out there, he said. This job was a lot more hectic than the one inside. I checked people8217;s hands for the entry stamp, and let them go after casting a mildly suspicious eye. And, along with Tyson, I asked spiky-haired punks, rich brats, and their nice-smelling partners to get in without much pushing and shoving.

One guy with a mobile stuck to his ear looked like mild trouble, insisting that the faded stamp on his hand was put on the current day. Tyson reasoned with him and so did a few others, but the guy was insistent. I gathered every smidgen of elusive threatening bass in my vocal chords, and, looking him in the eye, asked him to beat it. And surprisingly, he did! That apart, the others were, more or less, well behaved, causing no activity for my persuasive powers or rusty, umm, flabby muscles. Maybe, word had spread about this man with the blood-red sty in his eye.

Popular Tyson was, I noticed, being frequently hugged by immaculate structures, with a value-added peck on the cheek. But posterity will have it about that new bouncer who stood steadfast and vigilant, succumbing neither to sultry voices nor to the brush of flesh. The night, as it is wont to do, wore on.