If you’re full of malarkey, you’re not getting in

He sits in front of Malarkey’s Irish Pub on its most popular nights.

In his left hand is a counter and in the right, the latch to the

roped-off entrance.

Those who don’t know any better call him a bouncer. His bosses

call him the head of security. His friends call him Richard.

Richard is an intimidating presence. For the most part, he is

unsmiling and stern, without being overtly rude. His sits on a stool,

usually in jeans and a T-shirt, with his large biceps bulging out

from underneath.

He has no problem telling groups of beautiful people they must

wait 50 minutes for even the chance to get in. He has no problem

telling guys that the girls have priority. And he has no problem

keeping people in line.

I have seen Richard peel the lamination off of fake ID cards and

tell little girls to “go home and play with their Barbies.” I have

seen their boyfriends get extremely agitated by this act and try to

act tough.

Apparently, people don’t realize just how large Richard is when he

is sitting on his stool because as soon as he stands, at his full

height of 6-foot-3, the argument is over.

While the youngsters are walking away, many of them shout

not-so-nice comments, including disparaging remarks about his

profession.

“[Expletive] you, you $8-an-hour bouncer,” they yell at him.

“You’re too stupid to get a real job.”

This makes Richard smile. His lips curl up in one of the biggest

grins you have ever seen. His blue-gray eyes squint up and his cheeks

reveal dimples. He then laughs out loud because only he knows the

absurdity of these statements.

“I only do this for spare change,” Richard said during a lull in

the usually steady crowds.

His regular income is from successful Internet businesses -- a few

of which he just sold for an undisclosed amount. It would not be

proper to print exact figures (he’s too humble to give them to me,

anyway), but Richard has bought a house in Huntington Beach, which he

is fixing up to rent or sell.

He is also trying to sell his beachfront home in Newport Shores.

After a little more probing, I learn that this outwardly menacing

man is a quiet, sincere person who enjoys reading at home,

all-you-can eat sushi and surfing. He talks to me about the Pilot’s

coverage of the war in Iraq and tells tales about his service in the

Navy during Desert Storm.

“Man, I remember those sand fleas. What a pain,” he said.

Although he works in the thick of the Newport Beach “scene,” he

could live without it: except for that extra pocket change.

Why take the abuse? Why not just stay at home and save yourself

the stress?

It’s a fun job for the most part, he said. His bosses and

co-workers are great. He has a good relationship with the police and

meets a lot of interesting people.

Sure drunk, rude, spoiled kids are a pain in the rear every now

and then, but they’re not enough to make him quit. That would be

weak. Those people are like gnats that he just swats away.

I saw him at the Newport Beach Police Appreciation Breakfast,

sitting there in a suit and tie, representing a successful Newport

Beach business that supports and appreciates law enforcement.

His grins were abundant as he worked the room, shaking the hands

of various officers he has worked with over the years. They

reminisced over fights they’ve broken up and stumbling drunkards that

had to be escorted from the establishment.

From the looks of it, it seemed the Newport police were just as

happy to have Richard in charge of security as Richard was to have a

strong police presence in the community.

(Oh, yeah, did I mention his father was a retired Los Angeles

Police officer?)

But outside of the wildly popular bar, his grins are less

frequent. The chit chat is held to a minimum, and Richard is there to

do his job.

You’ve got to be an extremely polite, regular customer to see the

lighter side of him, and unfortunately for him, there aren’t that

many out there.

It’s funny that of the hundreds of 20-something’s who stand

outside the wildly popular establishment, vying for Richard’s

attention, few of them realize they could get it if they treated him

like a person, instead of an “$8-an-hour bouncer.”

Oh well. Their loss. But it does get mighty chilly out there at

night, waiting in line for over an hour. Bring a jacket.

* LOLITA HARPER writes columns Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays and

covers culture and the arts. She may be reached at (949) 574-4275 or

by e-mail at lolita.harper@latimes.com.