By Stephanie Abbajay

Newsweek magazine had an item recently about the rise of female bouncers in nightclubs. The article said that, increasingly, clubs are employing women in their security details to reduce the incidents of fights. The theory goes that women are naturally less aggressive and may be better at talking through a situation rather than resorting to violence to get an unwanted patron out.

As anyone knows (at least those of us with experience in the bar business), alcohol plus testosterone plus rules of conduct can very often equal fights. It has also been my experience that the presence of a team of very large, very muscled men does little to intimidate the short angry guy after he’s downed three Jaegermeisters. That chip on his shoulder just gets bigger and bigger with every drink.

The idea of using women is interesting, and I wished I’d thought of it when I was still in the bar and nightclub business. At our nightclub, Crush, in Washington, D.C. we had a team of nine bouncers that looked like the offensive line for the Rams, or at least the Lions. The shortest guy was 6’6. The head of the security detail (as they liked to be called) was a guy named Six Ten, so named because he was six feet ten inches tall. These guys were huge. A few were professional wrestlers, a few were off-duty cops or federal marshals, some were personal trainers, one was a karate student, one was an exterminator for Orkin (and the gentlest six foot eight man you’d ever want to know). We did have a token little guy, Dougie, who was only about 5’8 and was as sweet as a kitten. I think the guys kept him around to send in to situations first as sort of a “This is the best you got?” from unruly patrons before they would go in, en masse, to remove our unwanted patron.

These guys were all huge but they were also well-mannered gentlemen, who escorted ladies to taxis, helped them on with coats, walked my sister and I home and were as respectful as you could imagine. They also knew how to take care of business.

On a busy Friday night, we would have nine bouncers, two upstairs, two downstairs, three at the door and two floating. They wore headsets so they could communicate with each other, though how that was possible over the persistent thump-thump of the dance music I never understood. They had sort of a sixth sense I think. Like good cops, they could see trouble coming and usually headed it off at the pass with a menacing look.

But boys will be boys and fights and ugly situations could not or would not be avoided.

Our bouncers prided themselves on preventing damage to property, to themselves and to innocent bystanders, but they recognized that, like parents who spank, sometimes a little swat on the butt (or the equivalent) is the best way to get the undivided attention of the jerk at the bar. Our bouncers had a roster of moves they employed to remove obnoxious customers and each had a personal favorite.

Eric liked to use the “Come with me please,” which sounds pleasant but entails taking the customer by the hand and elbow and bending the hand downward at the wrist, finger first, until stars appear before your eyes. Others favored the chicken bone, which I’ve seen police officers use and entails bending the arm behind the back then pulling the hand up between the shoulder blades. Works every time.

Almost all appreciated the seldom-used but effective “Watch your step now,” which entailed gently tripping the person as he was led out the door. This was almost always accompanied by a Come with me please or a chicken bone. Mongo liked that combination. He felt the visual of the watch your step really added something, namely a message to the other boys that their bad behavior will not be tolerated.

The watch your step was similar to the “watch your head” and the “Oops, I’m sorry,” both of which entailed gently nudging the customer’s head into the doorjamb as he was being escorted out.

I am sure these moves sound cruel to many readers, but you must bear in mind that the patrons being removed undoubtedly did something terrible and unacceptable in our establishment. Why else would we remove a paying customer? The guy probably grabbed a girl inappropriately, called her an offensive name, called our bar back an ethnic slur, started a fight or something equally offensive. They were a problem, and they had to leave.

Could a female bouncer have talked the problem away? Maybe. I have a friend, a mom, who uses what she calls the “Cave girl” technique to get her six-year-old to do what she wants. The cave girl entails holding her daughter by the ponytail and gently leading her to what and where she wants her daughter’s attention. She said it works like a charm. I should tell Six Ten.