Guns and Records

Some of you might stop reading this blog after this story, and I’m OK with that.

If this is the first post you’ve ever read on this site, let me give you some information.  I’m a DJ in a small Dallas bar.  I play hip-hop, reggae, Baltimore Club, and some rock mixed in.  Sometimes people tip me when I’m playing music they like, or when they want to request a song.  The bar I play in is small, dark, and weird.  The bartenders are an eclectic group of guys, and I draw an eclectic group of people on Saturday nights.  A lot of the people that come out on Saturday are people that have been there before, and like what I do.  Of course there are the people that happened to show up there early and are digging my music and hang around.  This story is about one of the latter people.

Towards the end of the night (about 1:20am), a girl approaches the booth to make a request.  One of my friends is usually standing near the entrance of the DJ booth and heads off most “requesters”.  This time, it was my brother.  He talks to her, sees she has money in hand (which is a good way to get your request played).   She sticks the money out towards me, and my brother hands me a piece of paper with a song title on it.  I assume it’s her request, and I direct her to put the money in the jar I have handy for tips.  She puts the money in the jar, and goes away.

Two songs later, I play the song on the piece of paper.  As is the norm, I only play 2/3 of the song (since that’s where I usually mix out of a song and into the next one), and go on to the next tune.  The girl that had previously tipped me to play her song re-approached the DJ booth and started talking to my brother.  My brother looked bewildered and reached into the tip jar and retrieved her money.  She took it.

As she turned to walk off, I yelled to get her attention.  She turned back, and I said (loudly over the music), “Are you kidding me?!  Did you just take your money back?!”  She looked as if she was trying to think about how to explain what she had just done.  “I played your song,” I said.  Her mouth moved, but nothing came out.  She then thrust the money back towards me.  “Stick it up your ass! I don’t want your fucking money!  You don’t do that,” I yelled.

She turned away again, and walked back to her friends.  Keep in mind that the place is pretty busy, and full of people.  I’m fucking mad now.  If there’s a golden rule of bars, it’s DON’T TAKE YOUR TIPS BACK.  I’m assuming that the piece of paper with the request on it wasn’t hers, and someone had made a request to my brother at the same time she walked up.  So, maybe I hadn’t played her song.  Who cares?  You making a request isn’t a contract.  And, above all, YOU DON’T TAKE YOUR TIP BACK.

Two songs later, it was last call.  I usually get on the mic and do the usual speech- “Did you guys have a good time tonight?  It’s last call.  I’m not playing hip-hop anymore.  It’s time to get your last drinks, etc.”.  Except this time, my speech was different:

“Did you guys have a good time tonight? “  (Cheering from the crowd)  “My name is PappyFromJersey, and I have to point someone out in the crowd tonight.”  (More cheering)  “There’s a girl here that thinks it’s OK that if she tips me to play a song for her, and I don’t play it then she can come take her money back.”  (Rising boos and jeers from the crowd)

I point her out, and one of the barbacks shines a flashlight on her.  Cries of “Fuck you, bitch”, and “What?! Who did that?”  come flying out of the crowd.  All attention in the place is on her.

“I think I did a good job for you people tonight, did I not?”   Everyone cheers.  “If I didn’t play a request for you guys, then I’m sorry.  But, please don’t throw anything at me and certainly DON’T TAKE YOUR MONEY BACK!”   The cheering was almost deafening.  I went on to play my usual last call selections that get people out of the bar (Slipknot, Rage Against The Machine, System of a Down, etc.).  I normally get back on the mic when the lights come on to help speed up the process of emptying the bar.

“Alright people, the lights are on.  It’s time to go.  Thanks to all of you for coming out.  If that girl that took money out of my tip jar is still here: I hope you get AIDS.”

At that, the crowd that’s still left is laughing and smiling.  15 different people come over to tell me that I did an awesome job and put money in my jar.  I thank them all, and start packing up my shit.  At this time, a short Hispanic girl approaches me.

“Excuse me, are you the DJ that just said he hopes some girl gets AIDS?”

“That’s me,” I said.

“Do you know anyone who’s ever died of AIDS?” she says.

“No.”

“That’s an awful thing to say about someone.”

“OK,”  is my reply.

“Why would you say something like that?”

“Because I hope she dies of AIDS.”

“What if someone hoped your Mom gets AIDS?”

“I’d ask her what she did to make someone so upset.”

“It’s sad that you have no love for your own mother.”

“Where are you going with this?  What’s your point?”

I should have just turned my back by now, but curiosity got the best of me.  There’s a group of my friends forming, and her boyfriend that’s standing behind her is getting really uncomfortable.

“Are you from Texas?” she asks.

“No.”

“Then how can you represent Texas with that kind of attitude?”

“I never said that I represented Texas.”

“You’re a horrible fucking DJ.”

“Really?  What makes you say that? You’re still here at the end of the night.”

“Because you said you hoped that girl got AIDS!”

“What does that have to do with me being a good DJ or not?”

“Because you’re supposed to have compassion for people!”

“What does having compassion for people have to do with being a DJ?”

“You’re an awful human being.”

“How long have you known me?  A couple of hours?  That makes you an authority on what kind of human being I am?”

At this point, a couple of my friends were trying to get this girl to shut up.  She looked willing to take them all on, so I turned around and kept packing my shit up.  I took a bunch of shit from two of the bartenders about the AIDS comment.  I pointed out that we worked in a weird, dark bar where the bartenders eat broken glass and spit fire during the night.  I also pointed out that if no one had complained about my statements, then we wouldn’t be talking about it.  They had no reply.

I’ve never claimed to be the nicest person in the world.  If you reach into my tip jar to get your money back because you were unhappy with my performance, then I’m going to wish AIDS on you.  I won’t touch you or even call you names.  I’ll just hope that you get AIDS.