Friday, May 19, 2006

Legalese

Last night outside the Annex I watched two large and particularly imposing bouncers confiscate a fake ID belonging to (at my estimation) a nineteen year old girl. If there is any bouncer on the Lower East Side who does not tolerate chalked, photocopied, faked, forged, or otherwise fudged licenses, it is the guy who stands outside the door at the Annex. He's a man who knows his IDetails. I've been legal for nearly three years, and I still feel like I'm doing something wrong when he scrutinizes even the barcode on the back of my license. The other guys who work security there are equally impressive; one is a massive mountain of dude good at being the silent strong-arm type, and the other looks eerily, astoundingly like Ice-T, with the same facial hair and everything, and he always wears a suit like Ice-T does on Law and Order: SVU, which makes me think he cultivates the resemblance, all of which has nothing to do with the fact that they'll take your license and flag down the next passing cop car faster than you can say "the birthdate's on the top...right there...I swear...", but it makes the scene that much more enjoyable when you can add the original Cop Killer himself.

Anyway, so. This girl, this clearly underage girl, would not let things go. If you're caught, leave. End of story. Fork over another sixty bucks to someone's older brother for another ID and do not attempt to get into the place that caught you until your children are in preschool. I used to work the door at a bar (of sorts) and contrary to the belief of many an eighteen year old, I did not suffer a cognitive disorder that rendered human faces an unrecognizable jumble of features. Bouncers remember. The Annex bouncer, for example, will probably tell the story of last night's thwarted adolescent drinker to everyone, and she will become "that girl who kept yelling JUST GIVE ME MY FUCKING LICENSE BACK AND I'LL FORGIVE YOU." And then he'll laugh, because she's probably still mad, and he's laughing, and she might never figure out why the forgiveness of an underage chihuahua of a girl isn't a big enough prize to break the law.

Being under twenty-one at ten o'clock on a Friday night is a drag, broken occasionally by brief a crapshoot for inebriation. I remember that. But when the house takes all, lose with some grace; you'll hit twenty-one soon enough, and when you do, you'll regret telling the guy still guarding the door to the place you still want to enter that your parents are lawyers, and you'll call them. You will. Right here. Now give your fucking license back and you'll forgive him.

The bouncer in possession of the fake ID wasn't without a sense of showmanship. Not the kind to stay silent until the police arrived, he paced up and down the block showing the ID to every interested party of legal age and threatening to get in fights with the girl's companions. I saw the thing, and it was, truly, a bad fake. I mean, not as bad as the military ID an eighteen-year-old once tried to assure me was valid as he bought an armful of Heinekin 22 oz.ers for a waiting band of puberts. But this was bad. And still she kept up with the yelling and pleading for the ID back instead of making a hasty retreat and bitching over a (perfectly legal) frappucino.

It made for some great curbside entertainment, which of late for me has been lacking. I'm getting lots of gross and crazy (man farting on subway giving me a thumbs up; man on sidewalk outside bar yelling, I swear, "So, she's playing with my wang under the fucking table, and that's that!") but very little self-centered and foolish, my favorite flavor of sidewalk ridiculosity.

Inside the bar with the grown-ups was less exciting than all the commotion on the curb, but the Stolen Transmission party is a nice place to hang out. Even when it smells like a foot. Which, mysteriously enough, it did last night. And when strangers aren't accidentally landing punches on my person, which happens more often than it should. Whenever I go to a show, a party, or basically anywhere outside my bed, it seems like other people's fists are drawn to my body with a gravitational force outside my control.

Last night some guy got really excited about something, which caused his fists to come crashing down very quickly into my back, which caused me to yell "ow." He said "Sorry, I didn't mean to punch you." Then I said, "That's okay." Then he said "Actually, I did mean to punch you." Then I said, "Then you better watch it," while making a fist in his face. Then he said "I meant to punch you really hard." And I said, "Ha, okay, I got it." Then he said "Seriously, I'm just about honesty, I was trying to hit you really fucking hard." And then I said "I'm going to go wait outside."

Because the only thing funnier than punching a stranger is prolonging your weird, borderline threatening jokes about it. What's the moral of my story, here? I don't actually know; I got in late, it's 4:15 on a Friday, and coherent thinking is falling far below breathing and keeping my eyes open on the list of tasks my body is trying to accomplish. Strangers, please keep your blows open-palmed as I somnambulate my way home.

2 Comments:

Anonymous nicole - yeah that one said...

ha - that bastard...i think he was coming on to you, but you should have clocked his ass anyway.

8:49 PM  
Blogger DMo said...

To this day, my fake is taped to the wall of the "ChoiceMart" liquor store on Mass Ave. in Boston.

3:13 PM  

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