I’ve mentioned a couple of times that economic hardships have driven me to take part-time work as an armed security guard at hip-hop nightclub events. For the most part, I try to avoid telling about what happens, partly because I don’t want to inadvertently discuss something that may become a legal matter and partly because I worry that it would be disloyal to my employer. I want to go ahead and break that temporarily for two reasons:
1. An major national news event happened this week in which private security played a role; both as victim and heroes. I thought you guys might be interested in a story about security guards that doesn’t involve chasing kids around the food court by Macy’s.
2. It was all so fucking off the chain that I simply have to get it off my chest. I can leave out enough details in order to protect confidentiality.
Anyway, the group I have been working with specializes in providing security services for hip-hop clubs and events. Sounds wonderful, eh? The secret is that most of the guys carry Tasers (no, I don’t have one) and they’ve proven to be the best thing that ever happened for crowd control since the development of canister rounds for mobile artillery. Nevertheless, things get completely out of control nearly every week. I hate doing the special events because there is no dress code and we have only so much control over who can and cannot come in.
Dress codes that specifically ban types of gang apparel are important, because the gangbangers can tell who they are supposed to be fighting with based on the colors of clothing, the particular sports team logos, and the way the clothes are worn (hat turned at a particular angle, etc). You don’t let anyone wear the uniform, they can’t figure out who to fight with. It makes all the difference in the world, believe me.
Luckily, we started working a nightclub a couple of months ago. I prefer it because they do have a dress code and the hours are generally more stable. We have had only a little bit of trouble from gang violence on the outside of the club; a month ago, we prevented a large, potentially deadly brawl from breaking out at the front door when we saw one group of bangers approaching and intercepted them before they crossed the street and then a car got shot up nearby while a police captain was visiting. Nobody was hurt but after that happened, the police became super-aggressive about shutting the establishment down.
We got raided twice in three weeks because they were looking for intoxicated minors and—idiotically—the club owners never bothered to get the proper licensing to operate. Remarkably, they kept opening up after both raids and this only pissed off the police even more. We were stuck in the middle and when the police came in to raid both times, a high-ranking officer would take our security licenses and lecture us for an hour or so about how corrupt the club owners were and how they wanted it shut down because it’s such a nuisance. We didn’t want to hear it because all of us work there part time and need the extra cash. As long as they had our licenses, we couldn’t leave, meaning we were effectively detained. This is an especially embarrassing and annoying situation for a self-described security professional. One of the strange aspects of working as a nightclub security guard in this city is that you might want to be friends with the police so that they’ll be there when you really need them but you can’t be friends because they are often out to shut down your job site and take money out of your pocket. Police departments in this area are remarkably hostile to any sort of nightlife, particularly where large numbers of black folks are concerned. The club owners do have their shady backgrounds and associations, but they also pay me money I use on groceries. Who do you think I’m more sympathetic to?
For the past two weeks, since the last raid, the club continued operating. Still without a license but keeping a low profile. Since they weren’t promoting as much or drawing a very large crowd, they didn’t need us. I hated doing without the money and when my boss called me on Friday to ask me to work there the next night, I quickly agreed. On a normal night, they have ask for four of us but they only wanted two. I really wasn’t concerned, mostly because we have a good rapport with the patrons, the thugs know that we’re more aggressive than they are, and my partner, who we’ll call “Jeff” was a two-tour Iraq War cavalry vet who is close to getting a job with a law enforcement agency. No worries.
What I was worried about was the police, and when I met the owner at the door, I asked about his business/event licensing. He said that he would have it on Monday but was running anyway because “the cops usually come on Fridays” and he thought he’d be in the clear. Well, everything was fine; for the first two hours, that is. Just after Midnight, the owner asked my partner to move his car down the street and for us to meet him a block away. I walked with him and we all met up a comfortable distance from the club. From there, I saw why he wanted to get away: the cops were raiding the place again and they were probably looking for him.
The owner paid our fee in cash for the night and told us we could go. My partner gave him a ride out of the area while I had to walk back onto the parking lot to get my car and get the hell out of there. What I saw as soon as I set foot in the parking lot was complete pandemonium. The police had thoroughly riled up the crowd (about 200 people), who were pissed that they had paid $10 for less than two hours of partying. A fight between two guys broke out right in front of me and what irritated me most about it was that I just wanted to get away from there before the police saw me and started asking questions about the owner. On the other hand, a major fight on the lot would keep me from getting out and make things worse for the club. I pulled out my flashlight and pepper spray, shined a light on the combatants, and yelled at them to “stop it” and get off the parking lot. Incredibly, they did stop and everyone ran away without me having to do anything else. That was a first.
The police were still dealing with something on the other side of the club so I made it to my car. There was no way out of the parking lot which was choked with cars and pedestrians and there was a traffic jam on the street. During closing, we have a good system for clearing the parking lot and directing traffic out of the surrounding areas but obviously hadn’t been prepared thanks to the police department’s blitzkrieg tactics.
“Fuck it, they can deal with it,” I thought, and that’s when I noticed that some of the officers were even walking around with assault rifles like they were reoccupying Sadr City. Since I was stuck, I squatted down by my car’s engine block (being concerned about the possibility from gunfire from both the pissed-off bangers and the overly-intense and possibly jumpy policemen.) and called my boss to let him know that everything had gone to hell yet again thanks to the club owner’s inability to understand that the police want to shut him down and are going to keep trying until they win. I told my employer that I was going to bring the cash to him at the special event he was working in another part of the city. Eventually, it cleared enough that I was able to slip out.
First, I met up with Jeff at a nearby gas station, only a few blocks from the club. He had dropped the owner off at a convenience store across the street from where we were and he found a ride home from there. The parking lot of that convenience store has the misfortune of being the location where all of our club patrons meet and hang out after the establishment closes (or is shut down) each night. The police who deal with our club can’t do anything about it because it’s in a different city and that city’s police never seem to do anything about it. Because Jeff had nothing better to do, he said he would follow me out to the special event and see what was going on.
We had pulled out of the parking lot and I was just about to turn left, onto a street that would lead me to a freeway ramp next to convenience store parking lot where 200 of the club’s patrons were gathered, when I heard four or five gunshots ring out from behind the convenience store that sent the crowd running. Instead of turning, I straightened the wheel and stomped on the accelerator. Jeff, oddly, did make the turn even though he heard the gunfire (after dealing with Iranian-made IED’s, I suppose that small caliber handguns aren’t a big deal).
When we arrived at the special event, I handed the cash over to my boss and provided all of the details about the enormous clusterfuck I’d been party to all night. He was a little bothered that we had helped the club owner evade the police (he had already gotten away, Jeff just took him out of the area) and avoided them but when I explained that the police had pretty much eroded my sense of private-public sector cooperation as far as that establishment is concerned, that keeping the client “out of trouble” is sensible and desirable, and that we had done nothing illegal and I didn’t feel like being detained for an hour over nothing, he let it be. Regrettably, he asked both of us to stay at the special event and help out. This sucked because we had gotten paid for a full four hours and sent home after two hours. I had been ahead but now was actually going to have to work for my wage.
As is normal with these events, it didn’t take long before they started fighting inside. Jeff and my boss charged in to handle it while I stayed outside to keep the doorway clear and prevent anyone from coming inside. I’m the oldest one who works for that company (even counting the owner of the company) and I tend to avoid the drama whenever I can. During the melee, my boss Tasered a guy and was trying to cuff him when someone ran up and hit him in the head. My boss was “seeing stars” as he described it afterward, but finished up and pulled the guy out, never figuring out who hit him. It left a knot on his head and everything. Jeff pepper-sprayed some people inside of the club—which is frowned upon my our policy—and ended up spraying a girl who had the bad luck to walk right through of the stream. I didn’t see it happen, but she walked out with a friend who managed to avoid the stream and stood next to me. Well, at that point, the event promoter pulled the plug and everyone started leaving.
Surprisingly, everybody left without further violence and I stayed with the poor girl who had been sprayed until almost everyone was out. Her friend wasn’t very sympathetic.
“Renee, I been pepper sprayed before. You need to open your eyes, girl!”
Renee couldn’t do it. I think that her friend had never taken a direct shot like that before. Since the crowd was dispersing and the cars were leaving, I took the girls to the restroom and decided to help treat the pepper spray. The girl’s friend was awful. She brought in a bottle of water, held Renee’s head in a headlock, and started just pouring water all over her face like she was Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Renee, naturally, started panicking and I had to save her from her friend.
Useful shit to know: the best way to deal with pepper spray is to scrub your eyes with no-tears baby shampoo and rinse with cold water. You should be able to get your eyes open in less than five minutes (or you can do nothing and be blind for 45 minutes). Because most pepper spray is water-based, any of the oil on your skin will reactivate the burning sensation when you take a shower, even if you thought it had worn off. To remove pepper spray from your skin, wash with dishwashing soap as it will cut through the oil.
If you don’t have baby shampoo readily available, wet a paper towel and press it against your eyelids—but do NOT rub—then lift the paper towel off, throw it away, and repeat with another wet paper towel. After the second wet towel, press a dry paper towel on your eyelids, hold it for a few seconds, and lift it off. This pulls the oil off your face that causes the burning. Repeat the “wet towel/dry towel” treatment until your eyes stay open. If you don’t have any paper towels around, pour lots of water on your face or dunk your head underwater while holding your eyes open. If you don’t have access to any water, well, it sucks to be you.
Unfortunately, we had no baby shampoo handy. I have been meaning to bring one of Thrilla’s old bottles and keeping it in my bag for these occasions but keep forgetting. It took about fifteen minutes of wet/dry towel to get her eyes open. During that time, another young lady ran into the restroom and we were treated to the sound of her hurling in a toilet for several minutes. I only treated the girl who got hit with the pepper spray because she really shouldn’t have gotten sprayed in the first place and I felt bad for her. If it had been somebody we meant to blind, I probably wouldn’t have bothered. When she said she was fine, I suggested she go home and shower with dishwashing soap and left.
I got home and, as usual on the crazy nights, was so wired that I couldn’t get to sleep until dawn.
The moral of the story? I’ve got nothing. The shit was fun when I was 23 but at 32, I wish I could just get a respectable full time day job in an office. I hate this recession for the awful things some of us have to do to get by. I hate taking these ridiculous risks for these wages and putting up with the general jackassery of nightlife. The only reason I am doing it is because they pay cash. Until I get a real job, I can look forward to more of the same.
May your own choices be better than mine during these hard times.
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Screwing With People
Regarding practical jokes and blog warfare against those who obviously have it coming.