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DaRk AnGel : Why Home : February 2006 : Possibilities

Possibilities

I spent seven years fighting for a living. I was a bouncer at a titty bar on Bourbon Street in New Orleans. There are so many tales to tell from those days. Some funny some sad, but all are memorable.

It was for the most part an easy job. I would go in at seven and leave at 2AM when we closed. Sometimes much earlier and sometimes a little later, it all depended how many people were on the streets. Most nights I would sit around and flirt with the dancers. If it were not Mardi Gras I could go for a month without a fight. I did find though that the nights when trouble occurred, it never occurred just once. A busy night could be four fights and a couple of trips to central lockup. If I hurt the fella or fellas bad enough I would be booked and released. It was all part of the game. If it was a fight without blood then they just took the other guy. I do not know how many times I was booked. I do know I have never been convicted of anything. I have never stood trial for anything.

Each time I fought I received a $25 bonus above my nightly pay of $50. And each time I had to fight, I also received a shot of Southern Comfort. It was the only way to get my adrenaline under control. Sorry were the people that I had to deal with without my shot or the winding down period after an encounter. Those times were few.

There were no benefits with that job - traditional ones anyway. But there were three men that worked with 40 women. The parties we had, were fantasies most could never imagine. Enough said on that topic.

On weekends there were 40 dancers and during the week 15-25 dancers. Young pretty girls, some lost, some just stopping in for a couple years, some just seeking adventure, All were there for money. There were those that were runaways. There were those that had nothing better to do to earn the money they did. There were a few that came in and had a set plan, such as earn college money and quit. Those were the smart ones. With a dream and a goal they pretty much escaped the darkness of that world. Those without the dreams often went down slowly and steadily.

The first thing that started the downward spiral was a result of the way they were treated. These girls were not allowed to touch or be touched by the patrons. They would dance on stage and then go around and request tips. They would do table dances if requested for three dollars a song. Each one to make her money had to create a fantasy. One that was dangerous, one that made each man feel like there was a possibility there. A possibility for whatever the customer was looking for. For some it was sex. For a few it was love. In the process of hustling the men, they were for the most part treated with no respect. Just something that could be bought if someone had the right amount was the belief. Night after night of men trying to get into their pants, takes a toll. They began to respect all men, as much as most men respected them. Many men were unmerciful with their comments when after spending hours and hundreds of dollars, they realized that the girl had never intended to leave with them.

The Girls relationships outside of the club were affected negatively. The only relationships that seemed to work were the ones where their old man was a biker type. One who laid down the law and enforced it. They were the fathers that the girls never had but always wanted. Anything that resembled a normal relationship was doomed. Either by the girl's greed, or the man's jealousy. Men who were involved with the dancers were not allowed in the club at all. Still though there was jealousy.

In time they began to hate what they did. None were raised to use people. But that is what they now did for eight hours a night. None were raised to be whores, but all were treated like whores. I never knew one girl from our club that ever turned a trick. It was immediate grounds for dismissal. It jeopardized the club and was not tolerated.

Most men that came in treated the girls like they were simple trash. They talked to them condescendingly and made crude attempts at trying to buy them. After awhile the girls were so demoralized that they needed something to get through the night. Something to make them numb to be able to do just one more night. Most did not choose alcohol. Sadly for many it was a journey that they would never return from. A lot gave up men altogether and chose to enter into relationships with other dancers. There they found someone who could understand the life and the work.

There were guys that were regulars -marks and they returned night after night because of the promises and the possibilities. Most of the locals knew better. For the most part our clientele were people in town for a weekend, or on a convention or for Mardi Gras. People that believed every woman on the street could be purchased. And they treated them as they would never have allowed their daughter, wife or mother to have been treated.

Bourbon Street is an adult carnival. Fueled by music, and booze, and pretty ladies, people come and act like they never would at home. Some were happy drunks. Some were not. Most acted within the limits of what they were allowed to do. Those who did not were dealt with swiftly and without compassion. That was where I came in.

One night Bob, the manager called for me as I sat in the back of the club bored. I walked up to the bar and he pointed over to a dark corner. In the booth sat one man and he was obviously playing with himself. I walked over and told him to either stop or leave. I walked away after he stopped but was not more then ten feet away when I heard Bob whistle. It was a signal that something was wrong. I turned back and the man was full throttle, exposed and masturbating. This occurred occasionally. I walked back over and told him to tuck himself in and to leave. He tucked as I stood there. And when he rose he did one of the three things that will enrage me. Even to this day. He spit in my face. I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him outside into the street. I released him and he backed up against the building with his head against a clay drain pipe that ran down the side of the building. The he spit at me again. His arms were at his side.

I was moving towards him when out of the corner of my eye I noticed movement and heard my name called. It was the door man from the bar next door and he quickly pulled me aside. I had never seen this guy before but he had. And he knew the guys trip. Boy was I glad the stopped me from hitting the guy. Seems that this man was well known for starting trouble on the street. And he would never throw a punch. You could beat on him for an hour and he would stand there and take it. All the time he would be having orgasms. It was what he really wanted. I walked inside and really shook my head at that one. I had seen many things, and many types but he was one of the ones that topped the list.

One week we had a proctologist convention in town. There was a girl there named Holly that had dropped out of school in the fifth grade. She was as cute as a button and looked all of 12 years old. Holly was on top of everything else your stereotypical blonde. Ditzy and funny. Holly had just finished a set on the main stage and was going from table to table to collect tips. All she was aware of was that there was a doctors convention in town. She approached this one man and asked for a tip. Usually they get a buck. But he refused.

Holly looked at him and said, "you're an asshole doctor!"

At which he replied, "Yes I am."

We were in hysterics. Holly looked around at all of us wondering what was so funny. She had no idea what a proctologist was.

There were a lot of light moments and fun. There was also death. It was the one thing that could bring reality to the carnival. Violence was expected and part of the life. Death was never expected yet happened at least once a year.

March 26, 1977 was a pretty slow night. It was getting near closing and a biker, a Galloping Goose was in the crowd. He was the only boyfriend allowed in the club. Pat was Bob's nephew.

I had a case of the munchies. And I could only leave if there were someone there who would back up the doorman, so I asked Bob if Pat could take over while I walked to the corner to get a hot dog. Bob said sure. This was not the first time Pat had filled in.

Besides being Bob's nephew, Pat was not the run of the mill type of biker. He was warm and friendly and smart. And his old lady was named Patty. Both were friends of mine. Pat more than Patty. Pat was the closest thing to a best friend I had at that time. He was one of the few people I trusted. He was one of the few that were not on the hustle. I guess that is why Patty loved him so.

I walked out the door. It just so happened that Patty was on stage dancing. The stage was visible through the front doors, and the doors were opened and closed by the doorman/barker allowing a tease. So Patty saw what happened next. I did not.

I was almost to the corner when the shots rang out. Three quick shots in succession. I somehow knew in my gut it was Pat. Pandemonium hit the people and they were running in all directions. Many were screaming. I pushed my way through them heading back to the club.

Pat lay on the step into the club shot once in the face and twice in the chest. The music was playing, and I looked up and saw Patty on stage frozen in the moment. She had seen it all. In an instant the police were there and with description had the man in custody within 5 minutes. They brought him around in a patrol car where he pointed to Pat and laughed. If I had only had a gun on me….

The man had been released three weeks to the day from Angola for murder. He wanted to go back to the only life he knew. Someone had to die that night.

I am sure you can imagine how I felt. How Patty and Bob felt. We each started our own journeys deeper into the darkness that night.

The next night the club opened as usual. Life went on. There was a sadness amongst the street people, but we had a show to put on. An air to create. Money to be taken from drunken fools.

It is a hard tail to recount. The first tattoo I ever had put on was that next week. A cross with Pat in the framework and the date underneath. Patty was not seen for a few months, but eventually returned. I took a week off and began to carry a gun. Bob soon was gone. He ripped the owners off and fled. The doorman/barker became more of a junkie that he already was. I was afraid, but wanted to still do the job and not succumb to the fear.

A year later was the trial. Patty knew that I was still hurting and angry from it all. One night after work she asked me out for a drink. It was a week before the trial. She looked at me and told me that Pat really loved me. I welled up. She welled up. She looked me dead in the eye.

"Don't do it. Pat would not want it. I don't want it." I sat silently for a moment, hating that what I was thinking was written all over my face. I nodded ok.

She saved my life that night.

The trial went quickly. I was pleased that he got life without parole. Death would be too quick. Too easy. I was 15 feet away from him as I testified. There was no courtroom security. No searches. No x-ray equipment. Nothing to stop someone from carrying a gun in.

Life went back to abnormal. Back to dealing with possibilities both in the club and out. I always felt that it should have been me.