Free Other Stories And Nothing But Time by Gerard Brennan

Bouncer
    (first published in Verbal Magazine, 2008)
     
    “What did you do to your face, son?”
    “Don't start, daddy.”
    “You're asking for trouble.”
    “No, I'm not. I'm just… I've every right to look the way I want to.”
    “Son, Belfast is full of animals. They don't care about rights. Fellahs like you attract the wrong kind of attention from…”
    “Big fellahs like you?”
    “Hey. I'm no queer-basher.”
    “ Queer -basher. Thanks, daddy. Just thanks.”
    And then he storms out. My eighteen-year-old son, slamming doors like he did when he was five and couldn't have the last chocolate biccy. But at least back then I could talk to him. Make him laugh with stupid chicken-crossing-the-road jokes. Now every time I open my mouth I say the wrong thing. And if I complain that he's being too sensitive, sure isn't that the wrong thing to say too?
    It's not that I resent the way he is. At least, I don't think so. Not on what you'd call a conscious level anyway. I love him. Always have. That's why it scares the life out of me that he runs around Belfast city centre holding hands with other boys. Wearing eye make up. Spiking his bottle-blond hair to attract as much attention as humanly possible. He thinks that because I'm a bouncer, having a gay son is a dent in my machismo. But that's not right. Being a bouncer though, I've seen some horrible shit. What some of these young thugs do to innocent kids without provocation… horrible. But give them a reason… well.
    I just have to hope for the best. He's not interested in what I have to say and I'm late for work. Nothing for it but to get my arse in gear.
    I check my clip-on tie and button the cuffs of my white shirt before I leave the house. Then it's off to Lavery's for another night of keeping the peace.
    And, of course, I arrive as some little hard-nut is giving Sammy lip. It's only a touch after eight and this skinny wee spide is swaying back and forth, pointing the finger at a man twice his size and saying dirty rotten things. He has that face you see all around Belfast. These wee hoods all look related. And the standard haircut, shaved all over except for a stupid wee fringe gelled into little points, it adds to the clone look. I'm in no mood for diplomacy.
    I grab spide-boy by the collar of his knock-off Ben Sherman and yank him backwards off his feet. He squawks and pukes a little as he hits the ground. I bend at the waist slightly and look right into his beady eyes.
    “You can either take yourself off, or I can dance on your head,” I say.
    “I was only sleggin', mister. Bit a banter, ya know?”
    I hate that. Only sleggin' . Bit a banter . Like that's their catch-all excuse to show nobody any respect. I want to stomp on him. Crush him under my steel-toe Caterpillars. But I can't. I'm not taking an assault charge for this scumbag. Best I can hope for is he comes back later on, drunker and looking for revenge. I want him to come at me, fists swinging. Then I can get some real digs in. Is it any wonder us bouncers come across as a bit surly sometimes? The stress of self-restraint eats our insides out, so it does.
    So I let the wee man go with a nod and a snarl. He skitters off. Of course, he shouts a bit of abuse from a safe distance. They all do that. But never mind him, eh? It's the start of the shift. I'll see worse as it goes on, no doubt.
    “All right, Sammy? The headers are out early tonight, what?”
    Sammy shrugs, dead dour and protestant-like. “Aye. But sure what's new, Paddy?”
    Sammy's all right, like. From the other side of the city, but you're not long learning that geography means less and less these days. One of the good things about working a door in the city. You mix with both sides of the fence and the easiness of it shows you how life's getting a bit better around these parts. Catholics, Protestants, Eastern European immigrants. We're all of us just slapping spides to make a few quid.
    It gets to the quiet part of the night, when it's too