For months I used my fake ID to get into bars and clubs. Then it was taken away.
It was a nice run we had, my Fake ID and me. For months, I pretended to be 26-year-old Doug—most places that do card only quickly search for the birth date and typically disregard the actual picture. I had used it plenty of times before and never had an issue. But now it’s all over. We’ve split. It was a nasty breakup.
College night at Woody’s has two entrances: one for the kiddies and another for the adults. After arriving in a group, my friends and I split and waited behind the appropriate sides, planning to meet back at the dance floor.
Fewer than a half-dozen insufficiently intoxicated homosexuals coolly waited in line in front of me and two friends on the 21-plus side, while the loud, sophomoric immaturity of obnoxiously wasted tiny gays stood over at the 21-under entrance. They danced in a fumbled line—while repeatedly shrieking the same Lady Gaga lines way off pitch—before confidently flashing their IDs to a security guard to let them in.
Back in the adult line, a security guard returned my ID, sensing something was amiss.
“Hold on,” said another guard near the door while I was forced to wait just outside. They asked to see my ID again.
I arrogantly grinned and calmly handed it over. He glanced at the ID and gave me a swift double take. I smirked a failingly flirtatious smile. As he compared the face on the ID to my own, he shot another double take.
He held the ID up next to my face, still scrutinizing both, and informed me that the picture on it failed to portray any actual resemblance to the person standing before him.
“What?” I spat out, now looking artificially perplexed. “It had worked a million times before!” I thought.
Didn’t matter that my eyes are hazel, while the man pictured on the ID has brown. Or that I stand at just above six feet tall while the ID says 6 feet 4 inches. And what difference does it make if I turn 21 in less than six months, while the ID says it happened six years ago?
“Do you have anything else in your wallet with your name on it?” the guard asked, already knowing the answer.
“I don’t carry a wallet on me when I go out,” I honestly replied.
“Sorry. Have this person come in tomorrow if he wants it back,” he said as he put the ID aside.
I glared him in the eyes and angrily curled my lips, but politely whispered, “OK, I won’t come here again with it,” and stuck out my hand to embrace the return of my counterfeit license.
He didn’t return it, and instead suggested he should maybe inform the cops, and I could risk getting arrested for identify theft.
My anger exceedingly outweighed any embarrassment I was feeling. I turned around and, pissed off, slowly walked to the underage line, dreading the thought the whole way over, but my friends were already inside.
So in it I stood.
“Hey, next time you smell like alcohol,” the guard told the kid in front of me, “you’ll be turned away.”
The kid, who stood below my nipple, seemed terrified enough to wet his pants. I walked up and, before the bouncer even took my real ID, he said, “The 21 and older side is over there.” I smiled. He apologized after seeing the ID, and I walked inside.
The night did get better. After finding my friends and dancing to a handful of songs, I was having a lot of fun. Then a stranger came up to me and asked, “Are you the guy who got his ID taken away?”
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