The Lyft dropped us off at the opposite corner. There appeared to be as many people outside the bar as there were inside. We crossed the street and tried to enter, but the doorman pointed to the back of the black stanchions with a disgusted look on his face.
The cover charge was $5. Cash only. That is, if you weren't a woman. Two of us had insufficient cash. One would think the doorman would direct us to an ATM, but he did not. The third one of us paid his cover, and the doorman reluctantly gave him in-out privileges to borrow some cash from his friends for our covers.
Once he went inside, a security guard roughly pulled us away from the door. We instantly lost sight of our third friend as he waded through the thick crowd inside. Momentarily, the doorman barked at us, "If your friend doesn't come back with the cash in 5 minutes, I won't let you in. My shift is over then." We could not say much more to him other than "Ok."
A guy attempted to enter after paying his cover. The doorman blocked him from entering because he was wearing a gray baseball hat.
Our friend made it back to the door. He paid our covers, we got our hands stamped, and we squeezed through the crowd to a far less crowded back room. The three girls we were meeting were very obviously buzzed--the bartender cut one of them off.
Within fifteen minutes of our entry, a few more people rushed into the back room. Rumor had it that a fight had broken out in the front portion of the bar. An unhealthy mix of testosterone, patriarchy, and alcohol must have gotten the best of two gentlemen.
At 1:50 AM, the lights snapped on in the bar. Four security guards waved their LED flashlights through the building, pushing tipsy patrons out of the building onto the sidewalk. There was no "Thank you for coming," no "Have a good night," no "Get home safe". Once the bar was clear, the security guards were not finished extending their lack of hospitality. They barked at patrons to move to the other side of the street, claiming that they were not allowed to stand on the sidewalk adjacent to the bar. Yes, urging intoxicated patrons to cross a busy street is excellent advice. They were even attempting to clear patrons from the bus stop. Apparently businesses somehow also own the public sidewalk in front of their buildings.
After the third time I was told to cross the street, I had grown tired of being treated like a child. "This is a public sidewalk. You can't force people to leave. People can stand here if they want. You don't own the sidewalk," I said to a security guard. In response, he made up some justification by saying that the police required the sidewalk to be clear. I went back and forth with him for a bit, but I eventually gave up arguing with him. I wanted to continue to stand on the sidewalk in defiance to make a point, but the other people I was with had already crossed the street. I walked away frustrated--I knew that I was right, but I wish that the security guard had admitted that I was right. My crossing the street simply reinforced the bar's wrongly earned victory on sidewalk ownership.
I guess I had taken for granted the way that gay bars treat their clientele. I had taken for granted the atmosphere that a gay bar generates. This night will forever remind me that I cannot stand straight bars.
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