Chapter - 6
Jim could tell it was around midnight by the constant line of people filing into club. He took each I.D. and dropped it in the photo box. Jim didn’t look too closely at the authenticity of the cards. Just taking the I.D. and documenting it with a photo let the club off the hook for allowing in minors. As long as he took about ten fakes off the customers a night the police stayed off the club owner’s back.
“You can’t come in,” Jim said to a man who stood holding out his I.D.
“We have a dress code that doesn’t allow tennis shoes,” The man looked down at his shoes and back at Jim.
“These shoes cost two hundred bucks,” The man’s face scrunched into a sneer.
“They do not coincide with our dress code. I’m sorry you cannot come in,” Jim said. The man quickly mounted an offense.
“I fucking come here all the time. I spend good money here,” The man scoffed. Some shouts of ‘hurry up’ or ‘get the fuck moving’ were heard from the customers waiting behind him.
“I’m sorry,” Jim said. “I cannot let you in. Our dress code is defined clearly on the sign outside.”
“Look at your fucking shoes,” The man said beginning to redden at his cheekbones. His voice raised in pitch and scalped each syllable. “You’re wearing ten dollar K-Mart brand, homeless man shoes. Do you get off on turning away successful people like me at the door? You fucking loser.”
“Sir, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave.” Jim looked directly at the man. Jim had allowed more warning in his voice than normal. Jim’s face, however, remained impassive against the twisted rage bestowed on the other man’s countenance.
“Fucking fine!” The man dug his hand into his back pocket and ripped out his wallet. He tore out a couple twenties and threw them into Jim’s chest.
“Here!” The man said, “Now you let me into this club you fucking asshole! I hope you fucking choke on it.”
Jim looked over the man’s shoulder at the next person waiting in line. “May I see your I.D. please?” The person stepped forward and handed her license over. Jim checked the date and dropped it in the photo box. He handed the card back to her and looked to the next person in line. Soon the flow into the club was going at its normal pace. The irate man glared at Jim. He looked down at the dropped twenties that were now being crunched underfoot. He finally left, shoving through the line. When there was a momentary break, the cover charge girl leaned and whispered in his ear.
“He’s right about your shoes,” She said, “They look real cheap.”
Jim looked down at the dirty and rumpled twenty dollar bills on the floor. He kneeled down and picked them up, putting them in his pocket. Jim looked back up at the cover charge girl. She smacked her gum and drubbed her fingers on the half-door railing. There was disdain behind her passive, regarding eyes. Jim pretended to ignored it, but it hurt. As he stood up, a group of guys entered the club loudly. They had the confident swagger of those well oiled with liquor. He was about to check their I.D.’s when he noticed one of their party had on a pair of worn sneakers.
“Excuse me sir,” Jim said. “I cannot let you in the club.”