By anonymous
Field research by Rupert Common
My fascination with the art of door-manning, or “bouncing” as it is known best, began on the first – and the last – day of my university education. Newly arrived in Montreal I headed into the party zone to have some fun. I was supposed to meet some friends at a place called Vol de Nuit, but instead I came face to face with destiny.
When I laid eyes on the Vol de Nuit bouncer my heart palpitated. He was just so strong. He demanded respect for no reason and people kind of gave it to him. Rather than call it quits and go back to rez (slang for “residence”), I decided to loiter in the shadows and watch the man at work. If it weren’t for that fateful decision, I wouldn’t be where I am right now. Well, I definitely wouldn’t be here, at my foster-parent’s house, in the cellar, I’d probably have a job and an apartment, but no regrets.
The next day I withdrew from all my courses and put my degree on hold. My religious studies, gender studies, and environmental sciences would have to wait. In order to be accepted as a bouncer, I had to free my mind of all tolerance.
Not really knowing where to begin, I asked the first guy I saw wearing a “Tapout” T-shirt. It turned out he was a bouncer and was willing to take me to his training facilities. His name was Bradley, Brad to his friends. Not being his friend, I called him Bradley. Bradley needed to make sure I was for real and that my desire to bounce was strong, so he took me into an alleyway and asked me three questions. To the question “are you angry” I did not reply vocally, instead, I picked up a filthy syringe and crushed it in between my teeth. I then spat the glass into my open palm, closed my fist, and began punching bricks until he stopped me. The second question was rhetorical, and thus, impossible to answer, and rather than a third question Bradley regaled me with a fight story. Feeling quite confident of being his protégé I suggested subway for dinner Bradley got the tuna sub, toasted. I got the cold cut trio, trio, with sun chips and lemonade. We spoke of hatred, aggression and mean-mugging until the clerks asked us to leave.
The training facility which I would spend much of the next 6 months in was extremely well protected from non-members. There was a guard on duty at all times, you needed a special card to enter, and you were kicked out if you didn’t have a towel. Bradley always had two towels in his back pack, so he loaned me one for the first visit. It was damp and smelled like male ass but, following an intense workout of what seemed to be endless bicep curls, I used it to dry my face off anyways.
Of course, the physical training was only one part of the rigorous preparation, the mental aspects and stamina challenges were to prove even more strenuous. Hours and hours of standing without talking, hours of holding a water bottle at belly height by both its base and its top, and God only knows how many times I had to practice shaking my head, even to things I agreed with.
Literacy is a non-essential part of being a bouncer so I actually had to un-practice my reading abilities. This was carried out by listening to club banger anthems on full blast while looking directly at the sun. I also memorized non-words and yelled them at mirrors. The only word we were allowed to know on paper was a strange three letter one, “V I P”, and we were obliged to satisfy the sexual needs of those who carried it.
I would soon come to realize that bouncing is not an art, but a religion, and these VIP persons were actually deified. They held rank among attractive bar staff, really lame bar staff, massively lame people that used to be bar staff and “regulars.” Regulars were to be treated as friends, but as soon as they had no money, were to be treated as scum, no better than people who wore sandals, or gang colours.
My first shift At Vol de Nuit remains the best day of my life. I worked alongside the very man who planted the bouncer’s seed within my empty womb. (Forgive me for getting carried away, since re-learning how to read and write I have found that all the energy which was once directed towards others in the form of brutality and irrational rudeness has transferred into articulated thought.)
Sadly, however, after that single beautiful shift, my life went on one of those rides which are like trains but at a theme park. It was all up and then down and then around a corner. I got addicted to energy drinks, which gave me severe stomach ulcers. My lack of health and twitchy demeanour lost me the spot at Vol, and I was soon destitute. For a time I lived in the vent behind Molson stadium, but eventually a wiry homeless woman with exceptional leg strength managed to take it away from me. So here I am now, In my foster parent’s cellar, weaning myself off energy drinks and ordering a pizza every week with the visa number and expiration date I transcribed from mother’s wallet some weeks ago, after I drugged her.
But no regrets. No regrets.
