Drift Reality

“Hey!” the husky bouncer shouted as my friend and I walked into Nick’s Riverside Grill. “You have to stand in line like everyone else!”

The Caucasian boy looked like he was about twenty years old, with shaved hair, cargo shorts and a bright yellow t-shirt.

Turning around I looked back towards the spot from where we had just entered into Nick’s Riverside Grill and saw two groups of people milling around next to each other.

“What line?” I asked.

“The line that’s at the front,” he answered in a combative tone that made me wonder if he was about to try and start a fight with me due to the fact that I had failed to recognize his “line.”

We followed the man back to the entrance, where we took out our IDs.

I handed mine to the bouncer, who held it up and began scrutinizing it as though he were the gatekeeper to the Pentagon and I was an Arab, wearing robes and a turban.

“What is your date of birth?” he demanded.

It had been around five years since I’d been asked that question and I balked for a moment as a grin appeared on my face.

“Date of birth?” I asked. “Umm…March 10, 1978.”

He must have construed my bemusement for doubt, for he then asked me for a “second form of ID.”

Looking through my walled, I pulled out a credit card.

“I have a CVS card also, in case you’re interested,” I added.

He began glaring at my credit card with the same piercing gaze he had used on my drivers license.

Looking at his arm, I noticed he had a tattoo of the ‘ol red, white, and blue. Turning back up towards me, he handed me the ID back and turned to my friend.

“You,” he blurted to my friend.

After this initial irritation, we actually settled down and had a fairly nice time at Nick’s Riverside Grill, which is a pretty decent place if you can get past the people who work there on the weekend nights.

Gazing around, I couldn’t help but note the yellow t-shirted bouncers dispersed throughout the crowd, all sporting shaved heads and cargo pants - as if they were co-marketing for Abercrombie and the Aryan nation.

Later, while grabbing a drink, I noticed as my bouncer friend from before approached the bar and began jovially telling one of the bartenders about how he had “beat the hell” out of some poor jerk the previous night.

Shaking my head in disgust, I turned towards another bartender and asked for my tab. “Wei,” I said in response to his inquiry for my last name. A short while later, he returned, holding my bar tab.

As I scanned it, an Asian guy standing next to me asked for his tab. “Yang,” he stated when the bouncer asked for his last name.

I just gave you guys your tab the bartender responded, nodding towards me.

“He said Yang,” I stated. “My last name is Wei.”

Realizing his mistake, the bartender went to retrieve Yang’s tab.

“This guy’s getting his Asian last names confused,” I said, turning towards the Asian guy standing next to me.

The bartender returned shortly with Yang’s tab, turned towards the two of us, and said, “So, where are you guys headed?”

“We’re not together,” I responded. “You’re getting your Asians confused.”

He looked at me blankly, as if not sure what to make of what I just said, and walked away bashfully.

I turned towards my check and signed, when all of a sudden, the bartender returned and shot back, “That’s a pretty stupid thing to say.”

“Yeah, it is a stupid thing to say,” I answered and walked away from the bar.

I hadn’t sat down for two seconds when one of the Aryan nation members walked up to our table and said, “You guys have to get out of here. Now.”

We downed our drinks and left.

The moral of this story is that the people who work at Nick’s Riverside Grill on the weekends are morons. Weather permitting, the waterfront is an amazing place to go out in DC. Just make sure you have no expectations of polite service before you go.

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