Spoiled
There’s one thing I really wanted when I hit 1,000 — to celebrate with the person who gave me the ID.
Because it’s fun?
Because it’s taunting?
Because why shouldn’t they join in?
All of the above, and maybe a few reasons in between.
I didn’t really give numbers 99-104 a chance as they were much closer to the voting age than the drinking age and that photo would really have been in poor taste. I don’t think 200, 300, or 400 got photos, but 500 did.
He was a great sport. Said (whether or not it came true) that he’d hang the certificate I gave him diploma style in his NMU dorm room.
Then there’s 555, who is sort of on video after I released his ID to the heavens via helium balloon.
No. 600 tried to hide her face behind the only XS tee we had leftover from some bygone shirt delivery. I took a Devil Filter Snapchat with No. 666, and alternatively added a halo to No. 700.
Nothing for 800.
The guy at 900 received a copy of Tony Hawk Pro Skater for the GameBoy Advance and a Tech Deck. He was very enthused about what was happening.
But 1,000?
She was a poor sport.
Presumably because I was the first person she ever met that told her no.
1,000
Her last name was unique, so it was easy to find her online, not that I needed to for extra verification. The creator of her California ID includes a weird feature where there’s a razor thin white line around the head. If you’ve never seen one like it before it might trip you up, but if you’ve even seen one like it before it stands out to the extreme.
While I’ve heard pregnant women can look like they’re glowing, I erred on the side of catching my 1,000th ID instead of stealing an expecting mother’s driver’s license.
She was Elle Woods before law school. Tall, thin, blonde, straight A’s one can easily assume. Athlete at a Federalist Era New England college. Built for runways and art galleries, high society and million dollar wardrobes.
But right now she’s outside with me and an amuse-bouche of random douche before I called for everyone I knew to come outside and join in the celebration.
All I wanted was a picture. I even told Elle that it’s not a big deal. It’s only a fake ID. She’ll remember this part far more than getting into some dive bar at 11:30 pm the Friday after Thanksgiving.
She stood, wafer thin, while her friend pulled on her black patent leather jacket to go to the night club down the road. Elle stared on, uttering only soft pleas to get the card back.
“I won’t go in.”
“Yes. But this is a big deal,” I said, attempting to give her the consolation gift bag prizes I handed out to the preceding 20 odd people I took fakes from the last few months.
Her friend, a hybrid feminine Tilda Swinton and masculine Timothy Chalamet amalgamation, swatted the bag from my hands as he kept pulling her farther away from the bar.
Yes, they thought, this will be the fierce drive they need to storm the casting director’s office of Zoolander 3.
“I…I…” she repeated before giving in and turning away.
The patio now full of friends, curious patrons and confused onlookers wanted the woman to come back and share in the revelry. We had giant numbers, noisemakers (that were absolute trash), small confetti poppers, push-pop sized poppers, and champagne bottle poppers that set off Mount St Helens eruptions of brightly hued tissue squares.
Upon seeing Elle’s retreat our bartender, Banshee, yelled out to her.
“Stop being being butthurt about your fake ID and come celebrate with us!”
It was a valiant, though ultimately fruitless attempt at getting a photo finish with No. 1,000.
An opportunity spoiled.
1,001
About 15 minutes later, a decent group came walking up. Streamers, confetti, and other strewn war-torn party materiel lined the sidewalks. A woman stood forth and asked what happened, I was about to make a Rip Taylor joke but knew nobody in the bar’s half-mile radius would even understand the reference. To the three of you reading this that get it, you’re welcome.
No, I said they were celebrating me, as I just got my 1,000th fake ID.
She looked puzzled, as did her friends. I heard one of them say something to the effect of, “you do that for all of them?” No. Just the big ones.
Anyway, they stepped over what confetti they could and came into the bar.
Except the woman who asked what the celebration was for, as she had a fake ID.
I mean, that’s a prime fumbling at the goal line play if I’ve ever seen one.
“Oh, what are you cheering about?” Irony.
An night out spoiled.
999
I almost let 999 get by me. Well, he did get by me and into the bar, but he wasn’t able to drink before I asked him to come back outside.
The woman he was with was a semi-regular. Twenty three or 24, past college. Though now I’m suspecting a Tinder huntress on the prowl. After all, she wore a leopard print jacket to a dive bar on the busiest bar night — and stayed after her date’s ID was taken.
I was alarmed by the ID for two reasons. One, it was a UK Driver’s License.
I don’t see these very often, so I looked it over and one thing stuck out, but the rest didn’t set off any red flags. And he was with someone a couple years past college age.
So, I let him pass.
But that one thing.
Which, admittedly I don’t think is a thing, Maybe.
But, don’t they all have like two middle names?
Not none, right?
He had no middle name, Jack Reacher style.
I googled him.
Phew, I saw. He really was English.
And a soccer player.
Oh, what team does he play for?
Huh, college team.
Well, not out of the ordinary. I used to report on high school, college, and minor league soccer. I’ve seen plenty of international names on rosters.
That’s weird. It says he’s a sophomore.
I run back into the bar, frantically looking for Tesco Jack Reacher. I find him and he follows me outside. I ask him for the ID and he willingly hands it over. At this point he’s trying to bring up the fact that’s he’s English, which again, I’m not disputing.
What I’m pulling up is his seldom used — and now protected — Twitter account where his dad posted a “Happy 18th Birthday” message to his son … last March.
He quickly ran off yelling, “You could sell that and make a bunch of money!”
A young mind, well truly spoiled.
