befriending children, overindulging on rhubarb pastries, and I am a terrible bouncer

what the hell is this title

All my life I’ve wanted to be a bouncer.

I don’t know what it is about working the door that intrigues me. The power that comes from turning people away probably feels awesome, and I love the idea of wearing all black with a walkie talkie at my hip, but mostly I just want to be indisputably a part of something.

Bouncers have been kind to me. They’ve been cruel. They’ve been unclear in their gestures for me to open my purse. They’ve flirted with me and given life changing advice and been seconds away from spitting in my face. But only recently have I realized that a bouncer might have the most important role of all: they set the vibe. And if the bouncer sets the vibe, then the bouncer has a choice: make someone feel like they belong before they even walk in, or make them feel like they have to earn it.

The man in a full tweed suit, hair braided down the middle of his back but shaved on either side, ear gauges adorned with twisting, silver jewelry, was determined to garner a vibe that leaned toward unwelcoming. I had walked thirty blocks after work to a gallery opening I had received an invite to during design week in New York. My knowledge of the art world is dismal at best. I want to keep it that way. But I had dressed the part, and when I approached the tartan clad bouncer, I gave him a knowing smile.

“Thirteenth floor?”

He looked me up and down before responding with an unimpressed tone. “Are you on the list?”

“Um, I should be. One second.” I scrolled through my email inbox, trying to find the RSVP confirmation.

Impatient, he flipped the papers on his clipboard. “Name?”

“Evie. Or Evelyn. My last name is Goodman.”

Seconds passed in excruciating silence. He didn’t nod or give an indication I was on the list, but I caught a flick of his pen as he marked a check next to, presumably, my name. “Do you know how to get in or do you need help?”

“Do I just… go up to the thirteenth floor?”

He rolled his eyes. “Elevator to the left, stairs to the right.”

Biting back a response to rival his obvious contempt, I slid past him and into the linoleum entryway, veering to the left when I saw the gaggle of colorful skirts and chunky glasses. To break the silence on the way up, I turned to an older woman standing next to me.

“Hi. I’m Evie.” I held out my hand.

She took it and glanced down at my outfit. “Patricia.”

“It’s nice to meet you. What brings you here tonight?”

“We know the artist,” she said, nodding toward the group she was with. They all stared back at me, as if I had asked the dumbest question possible.

“Right. I guess that makes sense.” No response. I continued, casting a hopefully subtle look toward the floor indicator as it crept toward eight at a glacial pace. “I actually don’t know anything about the exhibit tonight. What type of art is it?”

“Abstract.” Of course it is, I thought. I nodded and murmured something about being excited to see it before lapsing into silence.

Ten… twelve… with a ding! the doors opened and I darted away. The room was adorned in large, bulbous canvases with nets strung between them. In one corner, a loom sat with a half finished tapestry made of plastic garbage. People milled around the centerpiece: a table heaped with piles of raw vegetables on brown parchment paper. There were globs of hummus and something purple dispersed between the snap peas and carrots. I watched as one woman dragged a breadstick through the communal dip, some of it flying onto the floor as she brought it to her mouth.

I drifted throughout the room, smiling at people in what I thought was an inviting way. They just stared back for a second, vaguely confused, before turning back to their conversation. Eventually, I stopped next to a younger pair of women who looked friendly enough and were far away from the hummus splash zone. “Hi! I’m Evie.”

“Sarah.”

“Zoe.”

“It’s nice to meet you both. Have you been to this gallery before? I haven’t and don’t really know the backstory.”

“Well, I own this space. So yes.” Sarah responded, her face impassive.

“Oh, fuck. I’m sorry.” I laughed nervously. “It’s a cool space. How did you get connected to the artist?”

“She contacted me.”

“Right. That makes sense.” Inching away, I continued. “Well, it was nice to meet you! Congratulations!” I turned around and beelined for the bathroom.

I took a few steadying breaths and enacted my golden rule: talk to two people and then leave. If everyone I spoke to turned out to be as rude as the first few, I would leave and consider it a win that I spoke to anyone at all. But hopefully, my next victim would be kinder. After a few minutes, when I could not hide any longer for fear of the angry line of people waiting outside, I left the safety of the private, gender neutral stall.

There were a few high top tables along the wall opposite of the trash loom, and I wandered over to see what people were doing, their necks all bent in concentration. To my delight, I saw a pile of coloring paper and markers strewn about. People were doodling idly as they chatted. A couple made room for me as I approached and I cast a grateful smile in their direction.

“Hi! Are these open for grabs?” I held up a blank page. They nodded.

“Yeah, we’ve worked our way through a few.”

“Amazing.” I opened my mouth to ask how they knew the artist— a dangerous question, apparently— but before I could, one of the men grabbed his empty drink and nodded toward the bar. “Another drink?” His boyfriend nodded and they threw smiles my way before departing. I deflated.

Just then, I caught sight of a little foot peeking out from underneath the table cloth. I bent down, lifting up the white gauzy fabric. A little boy looked up at me. “Careful! I’m hiding.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Without thinking, I climbed underneath the sheet and sat next to him.

He looked at the empty page still gripped in my hand. “Do you need colors?” He held out a green, pink, and blue market in his fist.

“Why yes I do. Thank you.” I plucked the pink from his grasp and began drawing the outline of a flower. “So. Who are we hiding from?”

“My mom. She made me come after school and I’m hungry. I don’t want to look at the stupid art. It’s not even good.”

I snorted. “No, it’s not.”

The boy held out his drawing for me to see. He had drawn an aquarium with fish of all sizes, their bodies painted like some of the art hanging in the room. I raised an eyebrow. “You’re talented. I’d rather look at this than anything out there.”

He held a hand over his mouth and looked shocked, but I caught a glimpse of a smile. He was pleased. We settled into a companionable silence, him leaning back over his drawing with a furrowed brow, me contemplating how I was going to pull off crawling out from beneath the table in a dignified manner.

In the end, I was saved by his mom pulling back the tablecloth and thanking me for watching him for her. “Anytime.” I said, grabbing my purse. I gave the little boy a smile when we were both standing and he returned it, markers and paper still gripped tightly in one hand. I felt bad as I left him to his fate of boring adult conversation but I had talked to two people. It was time for me to go home.

The bouncer was still leaning against the brick exterior when I left, this time a lit cigarette balancing from his lips as he scrolled on his phone. I didn’t spare him a second glance as I hurried down the street back to the safety of my bed. The tweed bouncer hadn’t just been rude to me, it was like he’d given the whole night permission to be cold. Every eye-roll from Patricia, every clipped answer from the gallery owner, every person who scanned me head to toe, it all started at the door. If it weren’t for the unexpected new friend I had found in a literal child, I would have felt far more defeated.

Still, that night haunted me for days. I ranted about it to my friend over coffee the next day and vowed to never step foot in a pretentious gallery again. If I ever host something like that, I vowed to myself, I am making sure every single guest is friendly. And I will welcome people with a hug and shove my kindness down their throats if they want it or not. My commitment to giving off a good vibe was reinforced violently. On the walk home I kept thinking about what I would have done differently. Not as a guest, but as the person at the door. And then, a few weeks later, I had a chance to find out.

Charlotte and I were volunteering for our friend’s magazine launch party. Produce Parties was releasing a Rhubarb Issue and as per their tradition, they were throwing a themed potluck in celebration. After setting up the venue, we were given the high honor of door girls.

“Oh my god.” I grabbed Charlotte’s arm in excitement. “You do know what this means right? We’re the bouncers.”

“Do we want to play good cop, bad cop or should we be normal?”

“Let’s start with normal.”

Normal, in this case, meant that we took turns checking people in and piling our plates high with the various desserts attendees brought. At one point, a girl walked in to give me her name with a tray of brownies in hand.

“Name?”

“Ella.”

“Awesome, you’re checked in.” I eyed her tray. “Wait. Before you go in, can you tell me what you made?”

“Brownies with a rhubarb jam marbled on top.”

“Oh. my. God. Can you come find me when you’ve found a spot for it? I want to try.”

“Wait, here.” She lifted the lid and gestured for me to take one. I snatched a center piece greedily, taking a bite and stifling a moan.

“You are my favorite guest tonight. Go have fun.” I gave her a smile, chocolate still in my teeth, and she walked away beaming.

After that, every guest with a tasty looking contribution was subject to an Evie tax. I did my best to hype them up, to introduce single attendees with other people who came alone. I was in flow state. I was made to be a bouncer.

When people started wandering in from the street, curious about the event but not on our RSVP list, I politely turned them away but directed them to Produce Parties’ social media and made them swear that I would see them at the next event. I wanted to avoid the exclusivity that our capacity limit required. Unfortunately, when an old woman came up to me with a gleam in her eye and gushed at how cool the event was, how she needed her granddaughter— new to the city, just moved after graduation— to be a part of things like this, how awesome it was to see young people gathering around food, I caved.

She spotted one of the cakes being cut into, the vanilla sponge ribboned with rhubarb and strawberry, and held a hand to her heart. “Oh, that looks delicious.”

Leaning towards her, I whispered, “If I let you in to try some of the dishes, will you promise to pretend you’re on the list?”

She looked at me with barely contained excitement. “Of course!”

I waved her forward and in the direction of a homemade poptart that I had just eaten. As she approached it, a paper plate in hand, I heard her announce loudly to the girl next to her: “Oh, I’m so glad I was able to get tickets to this! I’ve been excited all week.” The girl smiled politely and nodded in agreement. The woman looked back at me and winked.

After that, my grasp on managing the door became a bit looser than I meant to. If someone came looking for entry who did not have a ticket but had great energy, I let them in. If it was a gay couple or anyone over 65, they got in. If I liked their outfit, in. I wasn’t like other bouncers, I was cool, chill, I made their night. I was the Tweed Asshole’s antithesis.

Charlotte snorted as I switched back to turning people away, scared I was going to get in trouble. “Like turning away one person is going to undo the other ten.” I gave her a look. It was worth it to see the look of joy on people’s faces as they got to join in on the festivities.

Yes, it was nice to be a point of perceived authority. People came up to me asking for directions, information on the magazine, questions on how I got involved. The feeling of belonging was finally mine. But it was the way I got to make people feel comfortable before they even entered that gave me the most joy. I liked the way people confided in us that they were nervous to show up alone, excited to meet new friends, unsure of what they were getting into. One girl mouthed “we’re on a first date!” to me as she passed, arm in arm with a man.

Writing this will probably ensure I never get door duties again. I’m pretty sure being a bouncer does require adherence to the list. That’s okay, I had my moment in the sun. All I really want is to connect with someone and make them smile, whether it be a little boy hiding from his parents or anyone who feels the slightest bit out of place.

---

Hey, stranger.

Imagine Goodfellas but it’s me trying to break into the world of bouncers. Who would watch? In high school I volunteered at Marching Band competitions and worked the concession stands, in college I lifeguarded and coached a swim team, earlier this month I helped Yesterday Tomorrow sell at a market in Amagansett. I love being a part of a team.

In recent news:

1. I’m bored with my hair and with my wardrobe and with my appearance in general. Tell me your favorite way to change up your look that’s not tattoos or piercings. I have commitment issues.

2. I’ve randomly been on a spontaneous SAY YES journey. I’m running a half marathon in October. I’m going to Montreal in like two weeks. You should always have things to look forward to.

3. On Friday morning, Jess and I ran along the West Side Highway and got breakfast (um, the burrito at The Elk is insane). I love pre-work hangs. I also miss having Sunday night family dinners so I’m reinstating them. FRIENDS ARE ALL THAT MATTER!!!

4. Loop earplugs have changed my sleep for the better. I’ve never been more rested.

5. I want to throw a party for my New York readers and writers… who wants to help… who wants to let me use their event space…

xoxo,

Evie