The International Writers Magazine: Club Bitch - From Our Archives

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Kits Gangsta Bitch • Heather Neale Last week, in the midst of loud music, boozing dancers, and a burly line-up of club bouncers, I received my first Vancouver-based death threat. Lucky for me, it came from a wimpy, ugly, insecure, white-trashy blonde chick who I could have pinned down in a heart beat had I needed to. (Not that I would sacrifice my new manicure for her…) But there you have it: Thursday night at the Tokyo Lounge.

I showed up following a brief and utterly enjoyable beer-drinking session at the Marine Club on Homer. My friends and I were hanging out there, grooving to a handful of skeleton toting indy punk bands, and laughing at ridiculous jokes that only we found funny. When the beer mugs were drained and the tunes dissipated into the air (or maybe it was the amp screeching to a malfunctioning halt- I can’t remember), we commuted in a parade of cabs over to Reggae night at the locale on Alberni and Thurlow named for our Japanese urban friend. There, we shook it up on the dance floor between jager-bombs, lifting one knee and then the other repeatedly like clumsy soldiers. I felt like I was in the gym doing step class high on pain killers.

It was not until the end of the night, as I was exiting the place, that the trouble started. I was quietly leaving, trying not to grab the attention of some cling-on guys whom I wanted to ditch, and there in the frame of the exit door, stood a scrawny guy with his hat on backwards, one arm raised against the wall as if to hold himself up. He was staring me straight in the eye. I smiled nervously because he was in my way and proceeded to try and pass him when he blurted out, "Why are you looking at me?" Confused and mildly offended I said, "Well maybe because you are standing in the doorway directly in front of me…" He repeated, "No, I mean why are you looking at me," he insisted. I shrugged my shoulders unsure of how to respond but before I had a chance to say anything, a rancid voice piped up from behind me.
"Yeah, you ugly bitch, why are you staring at my girl’s boyfriend? You’ve been staring at him all night…what the f#$@?" I had never seen this guy before, so I was flabbergasted at the accusation- but little did I know, this is how gangs set you up for death. Right then, she shoved me into the wall with all her might. (Note to this rude young woman: go to the gym before you try to take me on honey.)

In that moment, an adrenalin rush the size of GM Place welled up in my chest and I felt an incredible urge to kick her in the jaw. I even shocked my normally-peaceful self! ‘Ugly bitch’ kept running through my brain and all I could think about was how she was extremely inaccurate. I’m not a canine and while my ugliness may be a subjective thing, I hardly felt the claim was warranted after I made a concerted effort to brush my hair that day. It was dismissive, rude, and highly unoriginal. The least she could have done was come up with a more witty insult after all. Enraged, I retorted (in gangsta speak): ‘Oh no you did-ent, don’t go dissin’ on me girl. Kick yo’ own ass to the curb. Yah, that’s right dog."

OK, OK, maybe it was more like, ‘waaaa’ as I ran back inside and hid behind the bouncer, but before I left, I did manage to get the last word in. I said, "Oh go home you….." and the last word started with ‘H’ and ended with ‘O’. That there, that was grounds to run.

When a friend later pointed out to me that this kind of interaction is exactly what gangs do before they kill someone, (and highly un-Kits-like I might add) I got a bit freaked out. Packs of girls or guys pick on someone for no reason, and then gang up and beat the living potatoes out of them - or just stab them to death on the spot. And that would have been me if I had pushed her back. Her girlfriend got all up in my face and said, "you look at him again and I’ll kill you." Meanwhile, comebacks were swarming my brain, but I knew better than to utter them out loud. Here’s what I wanted to say though:
"Looking at his ugly mug would kill me on its own you idiot."
Or "Yah? Well, maybe it’s ’cause he can’t take looking at you anymore fat-face."
Or even, "You’ll kill yourself with that breath baby- go find a toothbrush and then come back and talk to me."

Either way, I would have been in for a serious scrap had I not kept my tongue to myself. And it’s a good thing I did because now I can live to tell the story. Bottom line is: don’t let them beat your pride down, but once you’ve said your peace, RUN.

© Heather Neale Nov 2004

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Heather is a working journalist and reviewer in Vancouver BC

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