Too 'gangsta' to bust a move
| The
New Hotness
By
Chhun Sun
The Collegian |
Waiting in line for something
is a pain. You just want to get it over with so you can get to the front
of the line.
I always have that attitude, no matter how long or short the line is.
That was the attitude I had when I was in line to go into On The Rocks
on Thursday of last week.
The upscale nightclub was having its weekly College Night, and supposedly
it would take its strict dress restrictions down a couple of notches,
allowing people, for example, with surfer shorts and sandals to enjoy,
for the most part, a classy club.
I was dressed in a striped brown and white collared shirt with a black
sweater on top. My pants were blue jeans with a slit on each cuff. I did
not make the slits. They were made that way. And to top off my casual-looking
outfit, I had on brown-checkered shoes. I thought I was dressed with a
statement, as if to say, “I might look like a professor, but I also
have style.”
When I made my way toward the entrance, a security guard stopped me.
 He asked me to unroll my pant legs. I did. Then he asked me to pick up
my pants. I did. He wasn’t happy with my adjustment, so he asked
me to pick up my pants again. I did, only this time I had them up to my
ribcage. Then he asked me to tighten up my belt. I did. Then he asked
me to tighten my belt once more. I did. But he wasn’t happy.
“Come on, tighten it up,” he said.
“I did,” I said.
“You need to tighten it up or you can’t go in,” he said.
At this point, I felt like I couldn’t breath because my belt was
so tight around my stomach. Then the security guard looked at the bouncer
and said, “What do you think? Should we let him in?”
“I don’t know. His pants are cut at the bottom,” the
bouncer responded.
The security guard decided to make me go home and change. Once I came
back, he said, I could just make my way to the front of line. I thought,
“Heck no,” considering my home is about a 20-minute drive
from the club.
When I told one of my friends I was heading home for the night, a guy
asked, “What? They didn’t let you in?” I said, “Yeah.
Because of my pants,” showing him the slits.
The guy said, “Look at me. I got in and I’m wearing shorts
and sandals.”
I didn’t want to put up a fight with the security guard, mostly
because I was scared to get him riled up.
Provoking him might make him
cause permanent blindness with his bright flashlight.
The next day, my friend told me he had spoken to the owner. He said the
slits in my pants looked too “gangsta,” a term used to label
people who are prone to violent behavior, such as starting a fight or
shooting up the club.
If you look at me, I’m the furthest thing from gangsta. (When a
colleague jokingly asks me to punch her in the arm, I can’t even
do it.)
But my friend said the owner advised him the next time I run into that
kind of situation, talk to the owner and he’d let me in. Nah, I
don’t want the special treatment.
I can’t return to a business that treats its customers unfairly.
If you’re going to turn someone away for looking like he’s
going to shoot up the club, then you should tell the guy with the surfer
shorts he can’t enter, for fear he might take a surfboard and ride
on top of people like a wave.
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