PERSONAL SAFETY In their heyday, the bars in Sandy Springs drew quite a crowd

In their heyday, Sandy Springs bars drew quite a crowd

STAY SAFE

Steve Rose is a retired Sandy Springs Police Captain, veteran Fulton County police officer and freelance writer. He is the author the book “Why Do My Mystic Journeys Always Lead to the Waffle House?” and the column “View from a Cop.”

Many of you either grew up in Sandy Springs or perhaps frequented the “Golden Ghetto” in the 1970’s and 80’s. There were bars and restaurants open late in the night and in some cases, until the sun came up.

I was a patrol officer during late 1979 until 1988, when I moved to detectives. Cops, to subsidize their salaries, often took off-duty jobs. For me, it was either traffic or security at clubs. I did a little of both but preferred security at the clubs because the pay was better, usually in cash, and the environment was more conducive to a young, swaggering officer.

Each club had its own personality and share of characters, who, like the 1956 movie “The Mole People,” emerged at dark. Bars filled with beautiful people seeking other beautiful people, looking to find love or lust. For some, it was worth the time and expensive umbrella drinks, but for others … they concluded the night throwing up in the parking lot.

Some came to prey on the weak and stupid—a stocked pond on in bars on weekends.

Each bar or club had its own list of characters.

One bar, for example, sat just off the I-285 and the Roswell Road exit. The place was a favorite for college students, proving each weekend that most left those college smarts at the door.

“Officer, we were robbed.”

“What happened?”

“Well, funny story, we were buying a nickel bag from a guy where the steps go up a hill to a parking lot. I gave him the money and he ripped us off. He ran up the steps and was gone!”

“Did he ascend the steps really fast?”

“Yes, I mean he flew up the steps.”

“Okay yes, I know who that is. High school football star and brief college football career. Yep, known him for years.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Kick you out for trying to buy weed behind the bar—that or arrest you for soliciting drugs, your choice.”

“Well, you have to arrest him. I know the law.”

Ah, these poor lads either were first-year law students, notoriously known for misguided and unsolicited legal opinions, or, bless their hearts, liberal arts students. I wished them well as I put them on the street.

I’m sure it served as a learning experience.

Another character was an older gentleman, a known pool shark, who occasionally showed on weekends, in search of cocky and hopefully overserved 21-yearolds, (20 with a good fake I.D.) He offered up “friendly” games that he conveniently lost only to ask for another with a friendly wager of $100 or so with a chance to win back the money he lost. Alcohol-fueled overconfidence soon led to a demonstration of his skill as he ran the table.

Having worked this bar for some time, I developed a simple rule on betting. Although illegal, confidential side bets were common. My rule stated one should pay the bet either in the bathroom or outside and away from the pool tables. If not, the money was mine. The gentleman knew my rule but often, his victims did not. On several occasions, the surrendered money landed onto the table but before he could grab it, I placed the long arm of the law, meaning my nightstick, upon the ill-gotten goods, which moved from the pool table to the server’s community tip jar. The wait staff loved me.

Then, there was Snake, who fancied

himself as a biker. Snake, however, was less than intimidating, reaching only fivenine or so, but with long blond ponytail biker hair and a modest attempt at a beard.

Snake had a couple of tattoos and wore a dirty sleeveless denim jacket, but minus the colors—a strict no-no. He was also minus the Harley, in lieu of which, a Ford Taurus station wagon, driven by his girlfriend, discretely served as transportation to and from.

His agenda was to simply enjoy the night and fill the college kids with fictitious tales of biker conquest. Snake’s only real drawback was that he was a nice guy—even offered to back me up when fights broke out -- but he wasn’t tough like real bikers. No teeth missing, noticeable scar tissue, felony record, that big chain wallet. Biker stuff.

Other clubs I worked included a video nightclub, a product of the new music video generation born of MTV. It featured a dozen or so television monitors playing not only MTV videos but also videos shot by the staff and patrons. It was fun—except on “Nickel Pitcher Night,” a concept doomed from the start with a shortage of pitchers, overserved preppies who never tipped the poor girls working the floor, and arrests. Nothing good came of it and fortunately, for all, it soon ended. As far as the cops, we worked the door in pairs just to keep up with confiscating fake I.D.’s. (Some good, some bad.) It seemed that every week the same core group of patrons, meaning guys, passed through the doors dressed in the latest trendy attire, including white cowboy boots holding tucked-in designer jeans. At 8 p.m., they passed through the doors in hopes this was the night! Unfortunately, for most, it was not the night of nights.

“Son,” I would say, “Don’t give up. Remember, when one door closes, another opens. Now go throw up in the bushes with your friends.”