No
Peace in the Middle East Club in Cambridge
The
Middle East Restaurant and Nightclub
472-480 Mass Ave. in Central Sq. Cambridge, Massachusetts.
I may possibly be the first person in history to be kicked out of a play. The play was being performed at The Middle East, in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The play was called Hotel Blanc, and it was produced by The Shadowbox Collective. The day was February 12, 2002. I had never been at The Middle East prior to my night of doom.
The Middle East is not a theater. It is a nightclub. Apparently, from what I heard, occasionally they serve as a venue for small theater production companies like The Shadowbox Collective.
Upon entering The Middle East, I found myself fighting for oxygen. Somewhere amongst all the cigarette smoke there had to be oxygen, but my lungs and brain just weren't registering any. The crowd was very young, perhaps early to mid 20's. It was a very bohemian looking, college crowd. They might have been Harvard kids. Who knows? I was amazed by how they smoked their brains out. Perhaps they were all studying to be lobbyists for big tobacco. In all fairness, I smoked for 15 years. After 6 years of quitting smoking though, a smoke-filled room is pretty irritating.
I did not however come to The Middle East to use the bar. I came to see Hotel Blanc. There wouldn't be smoking downstairs where they were having the play would they? It was of course, a play. I never found out the answer to this question, as I was kicked out before I even entered the auditorium. I will get to that...
There seemed to be a sloppy line forming in the bar. Yet, there was a lot of ambiguity as to what the line was for. I stood in it, hoping it was for the play.
But Christ I needed air. Perhaps there was more oxygen in the bathroom. I could stand to drain the vein anyways.
So I stepped out of this line which for all I knew lead to nowhere, and entered the bathroom. There was no separate bathroom for men and women. It was what you might call a communal bathroom. It was so communal in fact that it didn't even have a lock on the door. I don't see too well without my glasses. Perhaps I was missing something; there had to be a lock. I felt around the doorknob. Felt around its underside. Where the fuck was the lock? I did my thing as quickly as possible. Fortunately no one came in while I was in mid-piss or mid-ejaculation, although someone did come in while I was shooting up. I really shouldn't joke here, as I have a lot of very serious things to say about the rotten way I was treated by The Middle East. (For the record, I only urinated in their bathroom, aiming directly into the toilet. I did not ejaculate, take drugs, or engage in any other illegal activity -- and I did not find any lock on the door!)
I went back to wait in the ambiguous line.
It was getting very close to the start of the play, which was 8 o'clock.
Some staff member screamed something out about the line being moved to the side door outside. He then vanished into the bar. Maybe he thought people would listen to his authority if he wasn't seen. Who knows? Nobody in the line moved. Then someone in the front of the line states to another staffer that he has been waiting in the line for a long time and he's not going to move. I couldn't hear their conversation but I did hear the staffer sarcastically thanking the guy for his patience and understanding.
What had happened was the staff had simultaneously opened up the side door, where a second line outside formed for the play, creating a bottleneck. Mr. Sarcastic was a real student of Bill Clinton. Instead of pissing my entire line off, he took the path of least resistance, only pissing off the most vulnerable people in the line -- the back half. Mr. Sarcastic relegated them to the back of the back of the line waiting out in the cold. They didn't put up too much resistance. Fortunately I was in the front half and was spared the ax. The staff decided to halt taking tickets until they had manipulated the crowd to their satisfaction. Whatever the hell they were doing caused the people behind me to crash into me. That didn't bother me. That wasn't their fault. We were all being herded like cows into the corral to be slaughtered. We's just sheep, baby. What did bother me was the way I was manhandled by the staff as they pushed their way in and out of the side door. They placed their hands on my back and nudged me forward. Their version of "excuse me," was I'm pushing you into the patron in front of you. I'm nudging you. Nudge-nudge-nudge. This means, get the fuck out of my way.
Finally I'm at the ticket counter. First I give my $15.00 to Money Man. Then I get Bracelet Man, a little guy who stamps people's hands and puts plastic bracelets on people -- the kind that newborn infants have in the hospital so you can tell one from the other. Why they needed to stamp you and bracelet you, I'm still trying to figure out...
Bracelet Man stares at me. He is waiting for me to do something.
"I already paid," I told him.
"Can I see your ID?" he says.
"What ID?" I ask him. This is a play? What is this? I'm not going to see live sex acts, I'm going to see a play. What the hell do I need an ID for a play?
"I need to see an ID," he sees. "Do you have a school ID?"
School ID? I'm 36 years old. Why is he asking for a school ID. What is this? I am perplexed. Is this play only open to students of a certain school?
"Do you have a school ID?" he says, exasperated?
"What do you need an ID for?" I ask.
He doesn't answer my question. He just repeats: "Do you have a school ID?"
"I didn't see anything in your advertising about needing an ID," I say.
Again, he ignores my question and says, "All I need is an ID. Do you have a school ID? A license, anything..."
Finally it clicked. Duh. They must be serving alcohol downstairs, which is why they want the ID. The kid is probably trained to ask everyone that looks under 90 for an ID. Why the fuck the kid couldn't just ask for a license in the first place and had to persist down the "school ID" road is pretty mind-boggling, but I handed him the ID without hesitation, relieved that I had finally made it past this giant obstacle.
My hands were shaking as I took out the ID and handed it to Bracelet Man. But let me clarify why they were shaking: It was not out of anger. It was out of fear! This was the last showing of this play. I had gone through great pains getting there, including canceling an important engagement. The idea of missing this play after all the trouble I had gone through because of some kind of school ID technicality frustrated the hell out of me. I was extremely flustered. But I was not angry.
And then it happened. Bracelet Man says to me, "Got a little anger management problem there, bud?" This is an exact quote. Exact.
Then I was angry. I was more than angry. I was infuriated.
Hold on here, I said to myself. I'm paying $15.00 to get amateur psychiatric advise from a piss-ant.
More words were exchanged between us. We did not start name-calling, but it was becoming a very heated verbal exchange.
So he stamps my hand.
And then when he proceeded to put the bracelet on ... when I felt the fucker's slimy paws touch my hand, the thought of the little shit touching me is too much -- I just couldn't let him touch me. I attempted to snatch the bracelet out of his hand and put the thing on himself. He wouldn't let go though, and we had a brief tug of war for the bracelet. I wound up with the winner, but the bracelet was ripped.
That was a mistake. A bad mistake. Why couldn't I have just told the piss-ant that I didn't want him touching me? That I would put it on myself. Of course he would have refused because he was a little fucking prick bastard. But then it would have given me the justification I needed to demand my money back. That was in my interests. The play was over at that point. It was no longer possible to enjoy it.
I proceeded to walk down the stairs.
"Security!" the piss-ant yells. "Security!"
I proceeded to walk, slowly though, very slowly. The extra steps forward would buy me the precious seconds I would need to plot how I would deal with it if they started getting rough with me. The idea of resisting their violence with violence never for one second entered my mind. Contrary to the piss-ant's psychiatric assessment of me, I have no problems managing my anger. Had I, the piss-ant would probably have a few less teeth than he does now. I am not reckless, nor am I stupid. Bouncers are one of the most dangerous people on the planet. Some of these people have no necks and live to bash heads. Management and police always back them. There is no way of winning in a confrontation with them. How do I know so much about bouncers? I used to work for a valet parking service and had many occasion to see some of these steroid freaks in action. I never understand why they were called bouncers till I saw what they are capable of doing to people. Bouncers really know how to put the bounce in bouncer. I was scared shitless.
There were too many people around for the goon squad to beat me up. They might however drag me out. I had two options for being dragged out: The proactive approach where I would try to walk as much as they were willing to let me, as they attempted to drag me out. Or, there was the Gandhi approach. This entailed letting my muscles go completely limp and letting them do all the work of dragging me out. I honestly cannot tell you what I would've used because I never made up my mind in time. I'd like to think I would of had the courage to opt for the Gandhi approach. This would have caused me more physical damage because they would've had to drag me up a small flight of stairs, but it would've made me look more victimized to the witnesses, possibly giving me more ammunition if I were to sue them.
To my surprise, the goon gave me a line that sounded as if it came from a Hollywood movie script:
"Excuse me, sir. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
He was the most professional goon I had ever witnessed. He was just a kid, but I definitely saw a future G-man in the making. I made sure to avoid eye contact with the goon.
I asked for my money back. They gave it to me.
"You happy now?" I said to the piss-ant.
I don't remember the response, but I believe it was affirmative.
"Crowd is really rowdy tonight," said one of the staffers.
I didn't say anything to that. Just wanted to get the fuck out of there in one piece.
Christ I needed a drink. But I can't drink. I have a spastic colon. Alcohol does a number on my digestion. I mean it really, really makes me ill which is why I never drink. Fuck my colon, I thought. Let the bastard shrivel up and die and go to hell.
Is there drinking and smoking while plays are performed at The Middle East Restaurant and Nightclub? I don't know. I will never know, but I doubt very much if this is a good place to see a play. I don't recommend this place, unless you suffer from low blood pressure. If you want to go to a good nightclub, free of snippy staff, The Cantab is just down the street.
Dickie Richards
3/3/2002
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