Standing Guard

words by Will Irvine

I never had the makings of a traditional doorman. I’m 5’11, 88kgs, and nowhere near close to intimidating. In high school I was a drama club leader and a star debater. My bench press is embarrassingly low, and I have the menacing glare of a miniature cocker spaniel. Nevertheless, I spent five months of my life last year standing guard outside a popular Courtenay Place nightclub. 

This job was the culmination of a two-year period I spent as a contract security guard. Guards, especially the younger ones, typically view bar work (“doormanship”) as the pinnacle of their work. It’s a line of work that attracts people who view themselves as capable and confident. However, with most shifts involving long periods of standing outside banks, office buildings, and events centres, most guards rarely get the chance to express their machismo. Bar work, and especially club work, is a rare exception. When you’re on the door, you’re given an inflated sense of self-importance that the modern man rarely experiences. Some guards are mature enough to deal with that. Some, as it has become increasingly clear, are not. 

The first thing I remember being told was to never refer to myself as a “bouncer”. This was a title you earned. “You become a bouncer once you’ve bounced someone’s head off the pavement”, my coworker told me. “Those guys are bouncers”, he said, pointing across the street at the admittedly terrifying men protecting the customers of MishMosh. “Until you’re one of them, you’re a doorman”. While he meant well, this interaction was indicative of a wider attitude that permeates the small circle of Wellington guards. Violence, or the ability to carry out violence, is what separates the boys from the men. The illusion of peace is only useful insofar as it can be enforced by slamming someone into a wall.

It’s worth noting, that, at least in New Zealand, security license holders don’t actually have exceptional powers to carry out physical violence. Section 109(1) of the Private Security Personnel and Private Investigators Act, which licenses security guards, explicitly states that “No person, by virtue of being the holder of a licence or certificate of approval, has any power or authority that he or she would not have if this Act had not been passed.” This means that license holders, regardless of their physical size or degree of responsibility, can only utilise reasonable and proportionate force to protect themselves or someone else -- the same as any other citizen. This is the message that’s reinforced in the limited training guards receive before being sent out into the field, although it is often directly contradicted by the “on-the-job” anecdotes you’ll hear from coworkers -- many of whom are older men with antisocial personalities and a penchant for action films and mixed martial arts. Fortunately, while my workplace certainly had its share of assholes, very few of them ever made it to the level of bar work, and the coworkers I had at bars and clubs were by far the most mature and civilised. For our employer, one slip-up could cost them a major contract, so selection was of the utmost importance.

Clearly, though, the message doesn’t get through to anyone. The problem with an occupation based on the threat of violence is that anger begins to boil. For a certain type of person, the frustration with having power in theory but not in practice turns into resentment. Eventually, something is bound to give. A couple of months ago, my friend (and notable Salient contributor) Te Huihui (Huy) was out on the town, visiting another popular club with some cousins who were down for Homegrown. One cousin was denied entry for intoxication, and, as they were walking away, one swore at the bouncer under his breath.

What followed was horrific. A coward punch, otherwise known as a king hit, is called so because it is only ever carried out by cowards. The bouncer slammed his fist into the back of Huy’s cousin’s head, knocking him out instantly and hospitalising him. The bouncer then pushed a female member of the group who attempted to defend her friend. It goes without saying that coward punches are particularly dangerous and horrific. Just last year, a young South African man named Luke Smith was killed by a stranger who coward-punched him for attempting to talk to a girl he was with. Luke’s death should’ve prompted a massive revaluation of the violent culture surrounding town, but things since then have remained largely unchanged.

While the bouncer who assaulted Huy’s friends has since been held accountable, it was only after the victims made a direct attempt to contact outgoing Mayor Tory Whanau. It goes without saying that this kind of violence is exercised all the time on homeless people, older people, and the mentally ill without any accountability or repercussions. 

This kind of macho sensibility wasn’t just present on Courtenay Place, though. Often, older men who I worked with in office and government buildings were using the job as an outlet for their midlife crisis. One man, who proudly told me he sent significant chunks of his income to his “three girlfriends in the Philippines”, was completely obsessed with his own Jack Reacher-style self-image. He was constantly doing pushups in the break room, and spoke in military language despite never having served a day himself. Our beloved sex tourist treated his job (which, to be clear, was standing outside of the Ministry of Business, Innovation, and Employment for twelve hours a day) like a top-secret mission imparted on him by MI6. 

However, for the vast majority of bartenders and their loyal guards, security is characterised by a positive, mutually respectful relationship. Sean, a former long-time Courtenay doorman, told me that “most bars ensure the safety of their [doormen], although some bars are better than others”. Meanwhile, Sarah, a new bartender and current VUW student, said that “I feel unsafe pretty frequently at work, but the situation is always managed really quickly and quite well… I definitely feel more comfortable having security around.” 

Interestingly, the relationship between customers and guards differs massively on the basis of gender. “Women find bouncers approachable because bouncers are approachable towards women”, Sarah told me. ‘Women are generally less violent and less aggressive… bouncers are much more likely to give a woman the benefit of the doubt. They don’t want to hear a man’s opinion, which I fuck with”. 

Security work isn’t all bad. In fact, it’s a pretty brilliant way for people with limited career options to secure themselves a well-paying job with regular shifts. Even in my relatively low-responsibility roles, I was still making a living wage ($26 at the time) and was able to support my studies with only 12 hours of work a week. I could listen to podcasts on longer shifts. I could work nights, which gave me time to study, but more than that, there was a sense of social prestige that came with the role. People, whether rightfully or not, place a certain degree of trust and responsibility in doormen. It’s their responsibility not to abuse it.