Victor Kerlow Dear Diary:
The bouncer outside the Lower East Side rock club looked formidable, even by the standards of his profession, and he behaved that way, too.
“Full house,†he snarled at me. “You gotta wait till someone leaves.â€
Which was fine by me â€" I really wanted to see the band that was headlining the bill that night, and it wasn’t due to start yet. I just wished the guy weren’t so gruff about it.
While he checked his cellphone, ignoring me, a Goth kid sauntered up, looked around for a minute, and stole past the bouncer into the club. Shouting an expletive, the bouncer raced inside to find him. I admit I felt amused when he came back a few minutes later, apparently unsuccessful.
Then something strange happened: The bouncer burst into tears and wept loudly, with no apparent shame at doing so.
Not quite able to believe what my eyes and ears were registering, I asked him what was wrong.
“Did you see that punk sneak past me?†he said between sobs.
“Uh … yeah. So?â€
“So I can lose my job for that!â€
Neither one of us spoke now. I just gaped at him until new prospective customers appeared.
“Full house,†the bouncer told them in a broken voice, using a palm to wipe tears off his cheeks. “You gotta wait till someone leaves.â€
The young woman, mystified by the weeping behemoth, turned to me.
“What did you do to him?†she asked.
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