Why exaggerate when you can lie?

Andy sat next to me at the bar at Lovejoy's ($2 pint specials, every night). Andy always sits next to me at the bar at Lovejoy's. It's not a gay thing. It could be though, if the lighting were right.

"How about those Mets?" Andy asked. Hell, I don't know. How about a fuckin' Guinness?

Like a hippie at a pool table, I was laying in wait for the bar owner, Chip. (His last name is Tait, which I would have mentioned earlier if it didn't rhyme with "wait.") I had recently written an article for the Austin Chronicle and used him as one of my sources, so naturally I wanted to apologize. In the article, I wrote "he stood on top of a bar stool." That's somewhat exaggerated. I should have written "he stood on the side of a bar stool," not on top of one like a Flying Wallenda (All dead, by the way. Did I use this hook last week?)

Finally, Chip slipped (will the rhyming ever stop?) into the bar for a moment and I collared him. Metaphorically, that is, cause I'm pretty sure he can kick my ass. He's done so twice before.

"Chip, did you see the article? Was it okay?" He had that I-don't-need-this-shit-right-now look on his face, while I offered my mea culpas. "I was more impressed by this week's column," he said. "And since I know you, I think I can tell which parts you exaggerate."

Really. Well, let's find out.

Chip says:

"I hire women and small men as bouncers, because you never know when they might turn on you."

In the early 1990s, I worked down the alley from Lovejoy's at a club called Chicago House. I was the resident sound man, bartender, upstairs manager and sole tenant. It was a great place to work and a better place to live. If the building had a shower, I might be there yet.

Chip used to drop by Chicago House for some of the shows, and every time he did I hit him up for a job. He always refused, but he never said why. Long after I had retired my Lovejoy's jersey, he admitted that he had had some reservations about hiring me, because I was a friend. I bought that story for about five minutes, until I realized he had hired every other friend he had ever made in his life, sometimes importing them from his native Maryland.

Maybe he just didn't want to hire me, specifically. Maybe he had reservations about employing a five-foot-seven, 145-pound, 40-year-old guy to work the door of his 20-something bar. Or maybe he didn't want to hire me for reasons I must never know. The point is: Who the fuck's exaggerating now?

Chip says:

"It's my bar, so I get to play linebacker."

During my tenure at Lovejoy's, I was required to use physical force on only two occasions. True, I did use physical force several other times in the course of my employment, but only for my own amusement. It wasn't like, you know, required.

The first of the two legendary incidents took place after I refused to allow a guy to bring his underage girlfriend into the bar. Not only did she fail to produce the proper ID, she refused to offer sexual favors in exchange for admittance, so, according to the rules laid down by the boss, I had no choice but to deny her entry. The couple left disappointed. An hour later, the guy returned alone, sat at a table near the door and glared at me.

And that's fine. People glare at me all the time, usually when I'm driving. But at one point, he spit his beer on the table. I walked over to him and reminded him of Lovejoy's rule #39, All Patrons Must Swallow. I went back to my bar stool near the door, but five minutes later he spit beer on the table again. I walked to the table, took away his beer and told him he had to leave. He took a half-hearted swing at me, so I snared him in a wrestling hold and started to drag him toward the door.

I thought I was doing a good job. Chip disagreed.

The next thing I remember, I was sprawled on the floor, still gripped on my original agitator and clueless about what had just happened. Legend has it that Chip raced across the room and tackled us to the floor with the zeal of an NFL linebacker.

"You're going to jail tonight, Butt Boy." Chip yelled, and told the bartender to call the police. "You're my bitch now." I so wanted to be back at my bar stool near the door.

It's common knowledge that the secret building where the police hide between patrols of downtown Austin sits across the street from Lovejoy's. Unfortunately, the phone number is unlisted, so you have to call police headquarters to get any help. The cop shop's only three blocks away from Lovejoy's, but in real time that's about 30 minutes. Or so we found out.

Entwined on the Lovejoy's floor, Chip, Butt Boy and I waited for the police to arrive. And waited. And waited. Then waited some more.

Chip finally said, "Did he hit you?"

"No, not really. He swung but he missed."

"Do you want to let him go?"

"Very much." I wasn't injured. But I could use a drink.

We let him go and never saw him again. Not that we'd ever notice

Chip says:

"Athletic cups are not required of employees, just strongly suggested."

The second physical incident caught me completely off guard. Against my better judgment, I let a hippie into the bar, even though I was pretty sure he was broke and possibly homeless. This, of course, violated Lovejoy's rule #1, which states: All Patrons Must Have Money Or Know Someone Who Does. But I recognized him as a street musician and thought, "What harm could he do?"

Plenty, it turned out. With malice aforethought and conviction beyond belief, the hippie marched straight to the far pool table, grabbed a cue stick and started wailing away on one of our regular customers. It was as if he were born for this moment. I sat a minute transfixed, incredulous really, until I finally gathered my scattered marbles and made a mad dash across the room. I caught the hippie in one of my now-famous (to you) wrestling holds and lugged him toward the door.

This time, Chip approved of my methods. He came over and helped me drag the offender out the door. But, Chip being Chip and all, he improvised. He decided the hippie needed a good swift kick to the groin, a little memento of his Lovejoy's experience, so he let his cowboy boot fly with the zeal of an NFL place kicker. And much like this year's NFL place kickers, the boot sailed wide right and caught me squarely in the nuts.

And that's why I sit next to Andy at the bar. Smaller feet.

Chip might dispute this last story, and swear it's nothing more than the exaggerations of a writer desperately trying to hit deadline. In truth, I can't say I remember all of the quotes verbatim and every little fact in its smallest detail, so if Chip claims he only kicked, say, one of my testicles, I'm not going to quibble.

But if what he says is true, I'm pretty sure he hit the right testicle, which still pains me to this day on cold winter mornings or whenever I masturbate.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.