‘I won’t back down. That’s the job’

It’s a weird gig, this waiting around for someone to get drunk and do something stupid.

Sometimes there are fights or arguments that could turn into fights, but mostly there is just anticipation. Something might happen. There are hundreds of people and lots of alcohol, after all.

The club, or “party venue”, as the promoters like to style it as, is the biggest on the island. On this Monday night, despite reports of possible thunder showers, more than 700 people will come to Snorkel Park in Dockyard.  

Club management declined to reveal how much money is to be made off such a crowd. There are tourists, there are cruise ship workers, there are locals. Peter Clark and Andrew “Archie” Smith are here to maintain order. The duo have had their own nightclub security operation —– they eschew the label “bouncers” — for five years.

Crew of 16

Tonight, as the heads of KJ &K Security Services, they are supervising a crew of 16, who are charged with maintaining some kind of order — or at the very least peace — inside the sprawling Snorkel Park grounds. They have multiple security accounts across the island and employ about 30 on a part-time basis.

Mr Clark, a 48-year-old Englishman from Paget, first came to Bermuda as a chef more than two decades ago and now works in sales during the day. Mr Smith is a 40-year-old Bermudian from Flatts, who says if he wasn’t running a security business he’d like to drive an 18-wheeler around the U.S. 

“Driving through the Rocky Mountains, can you imagine that?” he asked.

If you can imagine something weird and/or violent occurring at a nightclub, chances are these two have not only witnessed it, but had to kick the weirdness and/or violence right out the door.

“There’s nothing we have not seen,” said Mr Clark.

Mr Smith has been stabbed six times during his years as a nightclub security guard. He keeps coming back for more.

“It’s just like falling off the horse. You have to get back on the horse,” he said. “People always ask me ‘Why do you look so angry?’ It’s because I’m a serious person.”

He shows me how he approaches a patron who is upset — with open hands —- and stresses the importance of giving people personal space. Call it dancefloor diplomacy.

Anyone who has been to a nightclub, is familiar with the scene. There is loud music, scantily dressed women and men trying to talk to the scantily dressed women.

At the entrance to Snorkel Park, guys are patted down. Girls are not. They have to check in large bags, though so there’s no swinging weapons on the premises. 

One of the security guys mentions that local licences feature a misspelled version of the word “Bermuda”.

“That’s how you know they’re not fake,” he said.

Mr Smith takes a couple of guys — all security are in red polos — and does some rounds of the dance floor and various bars on the premises to establish their presence.

‘Ambassadors’

Mr Clark ticks off the ideal nightclub security employee: someone who is tough but fair, trusting, friendly and personable when need be, but unafraid of a fight.

“We’re ambassadors for the business, but if we have to throw down, we’ll throw down,” he said.

Mr Smith sums up the crux of the job: “We can never be found to be in the wrong.”

I relate to the feeling. A lifetime ago, I did similar work at a large and notorious club in the western part of Boston. I have the usual reserve of bouncer stories: a guy with David Luis hair tried to stab me with one of his car keys after we kicked him out. A dude in a polo two sizes too small punched me in the face after we caught him spiking a drink. On Halloween, I witnessed Superman fight a brain surgeon over the affections of Jessica Rabbit. The brain surgeon won. Even the brain surgeons are tough guys after enough Jager.  

Mostly, though, I found the gig to be boring. You watch muted Sportscenter highlights and try to make small talk with people who are getting progressively more intoxicated.  For me, this was not fun. Then, usually at the end of the night, someone decides to be a tough guy. Someone bumps into someone. A spilled drink. An insult directed at a girl. There are no good reasons after 2 a.m.; rest assured no one is  bloodying their untucked button-downs over Israel-Palestine, globalization or the pros and cons of universal health care. I give the guys at Snorkel Park credit, though. They seem to genuinely enjoy themselves. 

Many deny being bored; Mr Smith goes a step further, he says that boredom can be a good thing, because that means no one is acting up.

I go around and ask the guys what’s the most disturbing thing they’ve ever seen. Most of the answers involve lots of bloodshed or detailed instances of public sex: the type of stuff that is not going to make its way into any marketing campaign from the new Tourism Authority.

Someone shows me footage of a recent brawl on Front Street. Another bouncer mentions the New Year’s Eve glassing that left a woman’s face bloodied at Pier Six. There are no fights tonight. A short white guy in an orange shirt apparently stole a bottle from behind the bar. Somehow the bottle has been retrieved, but not the guy. He apparently has vanished into the night air. Other than that, the mischief is kept to a minimum.

‘Slow nights’

“The slow nights actually are the ones with most drama,” said Julani “Burger” Smith, a 27-year-old who grew up in Paget. “The ones where there aren’t a lot of people here. I don’t know why. That just seems to be the way it is.”

Another security guy, Lekan Scott, a 25-year-old from Southampton who boxes and practises martial arts, says he loves to fight and relishes confrontation. He tells me a really involved story. I catch snippets, but at times the putrid Avicii mix is drowning him out. The crux of the narrative appears to be that he loves to fight and he doesn’t back down from anyone. This is to be a theme amongst the security guys.

“I come from a Viking-type family,” he said. “Vikings! My people are trained to fight. Born to fight. I’ve fought people my whole life. That’s my passion.”

He then shows me how he goes about corralling someone and hustling them out of the club.

Leo Richardson, a 42-year-old from Hamilton who runs a boxing gym during the day, had a different take. “Do I like to fight? In the ring, yes. Outside the ring, Nah, man. I don’t like that,” he said. “But I won’t back down. That’s the job.”