Million Dollar Cowboy Bar book

 

I hope everyone's day is off to a fantastic start today and every day for that matter.  I think we all deserve that and should strive for that.  That isn't why I am writing.  I've made mention before that a lot of friends, former co-workers and former owners have urged me to write a book about my time at the Million Dollar Cowboy Bar.  I'd still like to, but what I want to avoid is any litigation.

I am not in a position where I can be sued.  I am also not so sure of my story telling skills and how some people may pick up what I am putting down.  Being sued is one of my hold ups.  The other hold up is, I would like for all of these stories that I remember to come about organically.  If I have to sit and think about them, the writing is much harder to do.  I don't know if that makes any sense to you or not.  I'd love to be able to drag you into all of the scenarios and make you feel as if you were there to witness the whole thing.  That's what I strive for, and if the story just comes to me from out of nowhere, I can do it more justice.

Okay, so... I told you that in order to tell you this.  One of my clients recently heard that I was a "bouncer'' at the Cowboy Bar for years.  I clarified that by saying that I liked to refer to myself as the "resident diplomat."  That was about the funniest thing he had ever heard.  

I further informed him that my official title there was "Manager" but I felt like it was my position to be able to do it all.  In fact, I have done it all at the Cowboy.  Many managers in joints all across the country come to realize that they will be required to wear many hats as a "manager", and I explained that I felt more comfortable leading by example rather than coaching from the side lines.  I wanted to set precedent with the doormen that we would strive to have a gentleman's conversation with individuals that would soon be leaving the place rather than just gorilla their ass out of the joint.  (However, we would keep the gorilla shit on the table.)

So, this client asked me to tell him one story in about 10 minutes.  I stumbled.  Whenever asked that question, I often have a hard time thinking about just one.  They come through in a soup of memories, if you will.  I can have one story in mind but it morphs into many stories.  Maybe that is just how my broken brain works.

This is that story:

2 big bastards were having an animated discussion.  I wasn't familiar with either of these characters but this was an opportunity for me to go introduce myself and explain the rules of the game.  Turns out, this was a family beef.  Both of these fellers were 6'4" to 6'5" and around 265 pounds, I'd guess.  

As I approached, I looked for my guys just so they knew I was wading in all by my lonesome.  I kind of had a rule that we would run interventions like this with 2 people, but the joint was packed so I ventured in solo.  I smiled when I made eye contact with one of the boys.  I nodded and waded in.  "Hey gentlemen, is everything okay?"  That seemed like a reasonable and friendly way into the conversation.

The old boy I made eye contact with was the first to respond.  "What in the fuck do you want?"  This wasn't the reply that I was looking for.  Now, both of these guys is looking down at me being 5'11" tall.  I said, "My name is Brice and I am the manager."  I held out my hand and said, "I didn't catch your names."  The other brother said, "Why don't you get out of here before you get hurt?"  

I figured that my evening was going to get entertaining, real quick.  I motioned for a waitress to go get me some help.  It looked as if I was going to need it.  She came back with one of my guys but before they arrived, I started to lay down the law.  "Ain't nobody going to get hurt in this son of a bitch tonight!  I run a real nice Christian joint here.  You can come in and have a little sin with your gin, but you have to do it like absolute gentlemen.  Shit starters and tough guys always end up outside or in jail so, do me a favor and listen up.  I don't give a shit what you guys are arguing over, but your too fucking big to be squaring up with one another, screaming and yelling at one another and interrupting everyone else's good time.  So, grab your shit boys.  You're done here."

Both of them looked at me.  They looked at each other.  This thing could have gone any direction at this point.  I look to see if my doorman was prepared.  He looked a bit concerned, but if we were going to do this, the first couple of minutes were going to be us versus them.  

The guy I first made contact with put his drink down.  (I thought he was going to smack one of us with the glass.)  He looked at his brother and said, "Every fucking time we go drinking, you start shit and get me thrown out of a bar."  He grabbed his coat and walked to the front door, escorted by the door man.  His brother stood there looking at me.

He started reading me the riot act, about how to not interfere with family business when I stopped him in his tracks.  I said, "Hey, unless you own this son of a bitch and I know you don't, all family business will be taken care of outside.  Grab your shit, its time to go."  I thought for sure I was going to be in the middle of an ass kicking contest here, real quick.

His eyes never left mine.  He squared up to me, nostrils flaring.  He bent over, grabbed his coat and walked with me to the door.  They left... just hit the road.  Obviously that was the preferred option.  Fighting cowboys can be a tall order.  Fighting big ass cowboys can be just what you don't want to happen, but it was over.  I wished them both a good night and headed back to my perch.

Now, you have to remember.  This was a night after the rodeo.  The joint was packed and every employee was firing on all cylinders.  Some noticed this altercation in the making but then got distracted by trying to sell more whiskey, which I appreciated.  

Someone had spilled a drink.  I walked into the employee room to get a bar mop so I could clean up the mess.  The door opened into the employee room inwards.  I tried to hold it open with my foot.  I grabbed a bar mop and turned around to get after the mess and walked right into the door edge.  Mashed my nose flat.  Didn't break it, but I had a gusher on my hands.  (The only bloody nose I ever got there.)  

I walked back into the employee room and put the bar mop on my bloody beak.  I started to laugh at myself.  I just talked 2 big bastards out of the bar without getting my nose broken, but damned if I didn't damn near break my own nose.  The barback said, "Shit boss!  Who hit ya?"  

I was laughing my ass off with that comment.  This bar back thought I had lost my mind.  "You good?" he asked me as I kept laughing.  I said, "Yep.  I'm good.  Nobody hit me.  I just walked into the door nose first."  He looked at me in disbelief. "You missed an opportunity for a hell of a story" and back to work he went.

So, a few more employees became aware of my bloody nose.  "Who hit BD?" they were asking.  AT the end of the night, with an after shift beer in my hand, I took everyone who had inquired about my pushed in snot locker over the employee room and demonstrated how I kicked my own ass in a no-punches-thrown fight.  

Not many men are capable of this act.  This guy right here, did it more than one time. 

So, my client laughed.  He said, I have questions but I have to go.  Kind of glad he did.  I'm sure the next time I see him, I'll either have to explain or tell another story that seems a little more "bouncer like".

Thanks for taking the time out for this.  I hope you enjoyed it.  I am a dumbass, completely capable of kicking my own ass and don't need help form anyone else....