Road House.

Emma works at the Roadhouse but thankfully it’s the Texas kind filled with warm dinner rolls, fancy line dancing and juicy, fresh cut steaks. Back in college, I too worked at a Roadhouse, but it wasn’t actually called the Roadhouse. It was formally known as Bottoms Up – later to be called O’Brian’s but I always imagined it as my “Roadhouse”.

Like the 1989 Swayze classic, my college bar was sometimes a bit sleazy and attracted some of the most notorious local ruffians. Most of the security staff was made up of young men from the Bemidji State football team – brought in to keep the peace while DJ Butch thumped the dance music and Brent, and his bartending buddies kept the stiff drinks coming. A month into my freshman year, I joined the ranks as a bouncer. What I lacked in size, I made up for in observational skills, reckless abandon, disregard for my own well being in times of chaos and a penchant for violence. Thanks to my time in the Marine Corps and being good at "trouble", I thrived in the rough and rowdy moments in between Puff Daddy songs and the endless flow of Captain Morgan.

Bouncing wasn’t lucrative but it was fun. Unfortunately, some of the nastiness leaked off the locals and became intermixed within some of the staff. Casual alcohol use while “on duty” gave way to recreational drug use amongst a host of other poor choices. About that time, the business went up for sale while at the same time I was ready to step down to pursue more scholarly accolades. Shortly thereafter, Brian Jacobson bought the place and immediately tried to clean up the seedy image by replacing most of the previous staff. Few were able to maintain their positions whether as wait staff, bartenders, or security. A few months in, O’Brian’s was still known as the place to go to finish off a night or carousing with some dancing and hopefully a fight. Brian needed to bring in a Cooler to handle the troublemakers. Patrick Swayze wasn’t available. So, I took the gig.

Brian let me set my own hours. Paid me a respectable wage. I served drinks. Checked ID’s at the door. Danced and did whatever I could to keep the morale of the customers high and the attention on the riff raff low. I offered stability and a safe place to enjoy a cocktail. Those were fun times at the Double Duece.

Now I’m much older…most of my wild days are behind me. I just want to sweep up some popcorn and run the Zamboni machine for a couple extra bucks every now and then so that we can have a nice Christmas or afford to go out for a fancy dinner occasionally.

All was calm…until last night at the rink – I slipped right back into character. Like Swayze’s Dalton, I was asked to take out the trash.

“Somebody gets in your face, I want you to be nice. Ask him to walk but be nice, until its time to not be nice.”  - James Dalton – Road House. 1989

During the last game of the night, a spectator became aggravated to the point that his command of the French Language and aggravated ways towards the on-ice officials earned him a ticket for an early exit. I was not impressed with his vulgarities in the proximity of children and politely asked him to leave. When he shrugged me off with an expletive of my own and disregarded my directive, I closed the distance and politely reminded him that I would be taking him to the door myself if he didn’t start walking. At that moment, another gentlemen came from the top level of the bleachers throwing his opinion on things in his own R-rated tyrant. I quickly assessed that his anger wasn’t focused on me but rather challenging my new friend to a fracas in the parking lot. With an audience of Hockey Moms and small children, these two knuckleheads exited the main arena under their own power.

When they reached the concession stand, their animosity towards each other and what ever issues they were arguing about couldn’t wait one second more, they grabbed each other in clutches of clothing and started the back and forth jostling and positioning that is a fight between two grown men. I was one step behind them as were two other parents from a neighboring town, but we were unable to deescalate these two Rams butting heads and a 3 second fight erupted. Unfortunately, these meat heads spilled into a concession stand booth where two little innocent girls were coloring and while tables flipped and more profanity flew, I grabbed the girls and tossed them over the benches and sent them scurrying for the concessions counter in fear. I hollered for a bystander to call 911 before there was any more collateral damage.

Our two gladiators quickly realized that they may have overstepped some acceptable public norms and one headed towards the door with me in tow while the other retreated to lick his wounds. Once one assailant was outside in the gently falling snow, I returned to retrieve my other new friend and give him reprieve of his evening plans and sent him out the door as well. I can be seen on security footage calmly barking out commands and pointing directions like a conductor at some beautiful symphony of chaos. I got the names of the ruffians and scribbled them quickly in a notepad. Outside the front door, the two decided that fisticuffs was no longer necessary to defend the honor of a PeeWee C hockey game wrapping up inside the rink and when I let them know that the Pine County Sheriffs Department was inbound, both decided to high tail it for the hills.

A couple hours later when the officers’ investigations were done, reports were written and phone calls made – our two heroes will be served with Disorderly Conduct courtesy of a youth hockey game and some bad choices.

My heart rate has returned to normal and I’m back at work the next morning shoveling the sidewalk and sharpening skates again…

Just can’t get away from being the “Cooler” – like a night at the Double Deuce.