American Outlaw - Jesse James [51]
I nodded. “Yeah, man, I’m really sorry. You’re right.”
“No problem,” Glenn said. “You’re learning. I think you’re gonna be really good at this.”
Encouraged, I ordered another beer. We sat back and drank, and idly, I wondered whether the stories I’d heard about bands on tour were true—was it all a bunch of sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll? If so, when was it going to start?
I began to get a nice little buzz going. In my little personal haze, I stared up happily at the gyrating dancer on stage.
Just then, I noticed Glenn, who was up at the bar getting a beer. An older dude appeared to have recognized him. He was leaning over him, harassing him, and Danzig seemed totally uninterested. Immediately, I saw that I’d been given the perfect opportunity to redeem myself. Anticipate!
Popping out of my seat, I strode quickly toward Glenn and the older guy.
“Yo, jerk-off,” I growled. “Take a step back.”
“Jesse, it’s . . .” Glenn began.
“Not a problem, Glenn,” I said, turning to the older dude. “Are you deaf? My friend doesn’t want to talk to you. So take a fucking step back.”
“You telling me to step back?” the older guy said, amazed. “Why, you stupid lunkhead, I should . . .”
He never finished his sentence. I stun-punched him in the face, and his head snapped back into a glass stuffed-animal vending machine. The plate glass of the machine cracked, spiderwebbing.
The rowdy Acropolis suddenly fell completely silent. I could hear the record screech to a halt. The house lights came on. A blond, leggy stripper, who only moments before had been grinding lustfully on stage, covered her huge breasts with her hands.
“Jesse,” Glenn said quietly. “You just punched the manager of this club in the face.”
“I should send you to jail, you bastard,” he mumbled from the floor. The machine’s metallic claw wobbled unsteadily.
“I’ll pay for the damage,” I mumbled. “I’m really sorry.”
“You’ll be reimbursed for your machine, Jack,” Glenn said, shooting me a dirty look. “Not to mention a trip to the doctor. It’ll come out of our new security guard’s first paycheck.”
Our bus ride back to our hotel was somber.
“So . . .” Glenn began.
“Yeah,” I said. My head was already hurting from the alcohol. “I know . . .”
“You really can’t do that, Jesse.”
“I know. I know.”
“We have to find a middle ground, man,” Glenn said, laughing. “I need to know that you’re one hundred percent behind me, so I can be as crazy as I want to be. But I don’t actually want you to, you know, incur bodily harm on anyone.”
I sighed. “I’m sorry, Glenn. I was just trying to do my job right.”
“Just remember this,” he said. “You are the biggest guy in the room. You can make people do your bidding, simply by standing there. So watch your temper. Be nice.”
“Be nice,” I repeated.
“People want to obey you,” he said, smiling. “So let them.”
With Glenn Danzig’s words echoing around in my head like a confusing Zen koan, I took to the remainder of the tour with a newfound determination to execute my job like a pro. Again, I was reminded of playing outside linebacker: you used quickness and intelligence, not brute force, to anticipate the rush of the crowd. There was always going to be more of them than you, so you had to learn to watch them carefully, and let them expend their energy, instead of wasting yours. Being a bodyguard was not about crushing heads. It was about creating an impression of yourself that was bigger, calmer, and more woefully dangerous than anyone else in the world.
Of course, theories didn’t always translate to the real world, and they didn’t always save your ass from taking a beating every once in a while. As much as people liked to pick fights with Glenn, even more they liked to shout at me, insult me, and tell me to go to hell. Punk crowds were unified by a hatred of authority—and, as odd as it was to realize, I was that now. At one of my first shows, a quick “FUCK YOU!” alerted