One night in November 1983, I was handling the door at Snafu, the transvestite/ performance club on 21st and 6th in Manhattan. It promised to be an intriguing evening, as I was about to encounter an experience within a familiar field: Robbery.
Ironically, it had been three years since Lewis, the owner of Snafu, had hired me to manage the door following my conviction and suspended sentence for a bank heist. In this context, "manage” meant acting as the direct liaison between the acts and the club. This involved tasks such as unloading the band's equipment, overseeing guest lists— commonly referred to as ‘freebies’—and in order that the club would make a profit. Thus , more significantly, my job was to collect the door charge. This ranged from a minimum of five bucks to ten bucks for serious acts aiming to showcase in a smaller venue before progressing to more renowned locations like Danceteria or the Mudd Club.
At the time of this incident, the venue had slowed down considerably after the first two shows (typically, we hosted three: one at 8:30, another at 10:30, and the last at 12:30) had already concluded. They had each charged a slightly higher price of $8 but hadn't been paid yet, seemingly on the wish to linger a while. Consequently, I had accumulated a significant amount of cash, a substantial portion of which I stowed in my front jeans pocket—yet leaving me enough to pay the bands and provide change, if necessary, for the upcoming act.
As usual for a weeknight, the final act didn't draw a large crowd, and I soon found myself dozing off. However, my repose was short-lived due to the arrival of two men who appeared more ‘Bronx street’ than downtown hip. Clearly, they weren't interested in the band. While I explained to one of them that the charge was five bucks, his partner surveyed the club—as if he was assessing whether it was worth the five. After a brief conversation—which I couldn't quite catch—they exited, but outside they remained talking, yet appeared distracted as they scanned up and down Sixth Avenue.
Nevertheless, after a minute or so, they returned and handed me a hundred-dollar bill, prompting me to verify its authenticity using a special pen for counterfeit detection before reaching into my pocket for change.
Once the transaction was completed, one of them headed to the bar behind me and ordered two Heinekens, passing one to his companion, who appeared somewhat nervous while peering out the door window. It was at this juncture that my experience and finely-honed street instincts kicked in, prompting an unconscious yet timely decision to retrieve the cash from my pocket and tuck it securely down the front of my pants.
The individual at the window now seemed visibly agitated, prompting me to inquire if they were waiting for friends.
The response, however, came not from him but from the man seated behind on the stool. Unfortunately, just as the band erupted into their first song, his words were lost amid the music. So, in response to my exclamation of "Come again!", a gun suddenly appeared, pointed towards the floor, and discharged with an audible bang, startling me. Unfortunately, as the band hadn't ceased playing, I was unable to hear clearly, and not connecting the dots, responded to his command of "Stick 'em up," by shouting back, "What?"
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The True Tall Tales of Bob to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.