A Picture Is Worth A Thousand Words
It was relatively early in the night, and I stopped by the front door to call Boyfriend, just for shits and giggles. We finally broke down and purchased a cell phone, after three years of "living in the dark age," and my ringtone is "Sun up girl," which Boyfriend likes to sing as "shut up girl."
Cute, I know.
Standing at the front door was a gentleman, mid-fifties, and he didn't look very happy. For that matter, neither did the door guy, Champ.
"I want to know exactly what you want to see," the older man was saying, placing both of his hands on the counter and looming in at Champ.
"Dude," Champ started, "it's State law. You have to show me your drivers license if you want to come in."
This, regardless of how ridiculous it may seem, is true. State law requires that anyone in a private establishment have a valid photo-ID and a membership card. Apparently this guy thought he was special.
"Just tell me what the fuck you want to see on my drivers license," the man re-iterated.
"It doesn't make a difference anymore," Champ said, "because you're not coming in anyway."
"The hell I'm not," the man countered.
"The hell you are," Champ responded.
While this little "my penis is bigger than your penis" debacle was taking place it reminded me of an incident that occurred about a year ago, when I was filling in at the front door one night.
This guy came to the front door. Younger, early twenties, and showed me his ID. The ID pinned him at over 21, but the photo looked a bit off. I debated it, but let him in anyway.
Mabye three minutes later another guy came to the front door. He showed me his ID and, you guessed it, it was the same ID as the previous guy.
I snatched the ID up from the counter and opened the door to the club, yelling for Raymond.
"Hey, see that guy over there?" I pointed to the corner of the club, by the fishtanks.
"Yeah," Raymond said, peering in that direction.
"I need you to go get him for me."
"Hey, can I get my ID back?" The voice came from the front door where the second guy was waiting, fidgeting.
"No, hold on a minute," I responded, putting one finger in the air.
About that time Raymond had returned with the first guy.
"Show me your ID," I demanded, holding my hand out.
The guy looked at me, then looked up at Raymond, reached into his pocket and pulled out another ID, this one showing his age at a young ninteteen. Raymond took it from him and examined it in the light.
"No," I said, "your other ID."
"Um," he stammered, fishing in his pockets, "I don't have another ID?"
"The one you showed me to get in here. The one that looks exactly like this," I proposed, showing him the ID of the second guy, still waiting at the front door.
It was about that time that a girl walked in, apparently with the two guys.
"Hey, what's going on," she said, looking around the front door.
"ID problems," her date mumbled.
I left Raymond with the first guy and walked back into the front room.
"Can I see your ID?" I pointed at the girl.
She fished in her wallet, pulled out a drivers license, and handed it over to me. I looked at it and let out a sigh.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said, shaking my head.
"What? What's the problem?" The girls voice had risen about an octave, and she was starting to reach over the counter, apparently trying to recover the ID.
"This isn't you," I stated, flatly.
"Um, yeah. It is," she responded, shaking her head.
"All right," I said, "then show me your nipples."
"What?"
"The girl in this picture," I said, pointing, "is my friend Jennifer. We got our nipples pierced at the same time. You are not my friend Jennifer."
The girl was getting anxious now, fingering her purse while stammering for something to say.
"Look, that's my ID," she finally responded.
"Then show me your nipples," I said, smirking.
Raymond walked through the door, followed by the first guy.
"All of you, get the hell out," he boomed, "and don't ever think of coming back here and pulling this shit again."
The trio turned to leave. Before they got out of the door the second guy turned back around.
"Wait," he said, "I need my ID back."
Raymond gave him his best "you're out of your mind look."
"You can pick up your ID's at the police department tomorrow," Raymond said.
The color drained out of the second guy's face, after all, his was the only valid ID of the bunch.
I snapped back from my daydream just in time to hear the older gentleman say "I'll see you in court," before stalking out of the club.
I gave Champ a look as I hung up the phone.
"Why does everything have to end with someone wanting to sue someone else?"
"That's just what you say when you've run out of options, I suppose."
Champ chuckled and I headed back into the bull-pen, ready to get the night over with.
Cute, I know.
Standing at the front door was a gentleman, mid-fifties, and he didn't look very happy. For that matter, neither did the door guy, Champ.
"I want to know exactly what you want to see," the older man was saying, placing both of his hands on the counter and looming in at Champ.
"Dude," Champ started, "it's State law. You have to show me your drivers license if you want to come in."
This, regardless of how ridiculous it may seem, is true. State law requires that anyone in a private establishment have a valid photo-ID and a membership card. Apparently this guy thought he was special.
"Just tell me what the fuck you want to see on my drivers license," the man re-iterated.
"It doesn't make a difference anymore," Champ said, "because you're not coming in anyway."
"The hell I'm not," the man countered.
"The hell you are," Champ responded.
While this little "my penis is bigger than your penis" debacle was taking place it reminded me of an incident that occurred about a year ago, when I was filling in at the front door one night.
This guy came to the front door. Younger, early twenties, and showed me his ID. The ID pinned him at over 21, but the photo looked a bit off. I debated it, but let him in anyway.
Mabye three minutes later another guy came to the front door. He showed me his ID and, you guessed it, it was the same ID as the previous guy.
I snatched the ID up from the counter and opened the door to the club, yelling for Raymond.
"Hey, see that guy over there?" I pointed to the corner of the club, by the fishtanks.
"Yeah," Raymond said, peering in that direction.
"I need you to go get him for me."
"Hey, can I get my ID back?" The voice came from the front door where the second guy was waiting, fidgeting.
"No, hold on a minute," I responded, putting one finger in the air.
About that time Raymond had returned with the first guy.
"Show me your ID," I demanded, holding my hand out.
The guy looked at me, then looked up at Raymond, reached into his pocket and pulled out another ID, this one showing his age at a young ninteteen. Raymond took it from him and examined it in the light.
"No," I said, "your other ID."
"Um," he stammered, fishing in his pockets, "I don't have another ID?"
"The one you showed me to get in here. The one that looks exactly like this," I proposed, showing him the ID of the second guy, still waiting at the front door.
It was about that time that a girl walked in, apparently with the two guys.
"Hey, what's going on," she said, looking around the front door.
"ID problems," her date mumbled.
I left Raymond with the first guy and walked back into the front room.
"Can I see your ID?" I pointed at the girl.
She fished in her wallet, pulled out a drivers license, and handed it over to me. I looked at it and let out a sigh.
"You've got to be kidding me," I said, shaking my head.
"What? What's the problem?" The girls voice had risen about an octave, and she was starting to reach over the counter, apparently trying to recover the ID.
"This isn't you," I stated, flatly.
"Um, yeah. It is," she responded, shaking her head.
"All right," I said, "then show me your nipples."
"What?"
"The girl in this picture," I said, pointing, "is my friend Jennifer. We got our nipples pierced at the same time. You are not my friend Jennifer."
The girl was getting anxious now, fingering her purse while stammering for something to say.
"Look, that's my ID," she finally responded.
"Then show me your nipples," I said, smirking.
Raymond walked through the door, followed by the first guy.
"All of you, get the hell out," he boomed, "and don't ever think of coming back here and pulling this shit again."
The trio turned to leave. Before they got out of the door the second guy turned back around.
"Wait," he said, "I need my ID back."
Raymond gave him his best "you're out of your mind look."
"You can pick up your ID's at the police department tomorrow," Raymond said.
The color drained out of the second guy's face, after all, his was the only valid ID of the bunch.
I snapped back from my daydream just in time to hear the older gentleman say "I'll see you in court," before stalking out of the club.
I gave Champ a look as I hung up the phone.
"Why does everything have to end with someone wanting to sue someone else?"
"That's just what you say when you've run out of options, I suppose."
Champ chuckled and I headed back into the bull-pen, ready to get the night over with.
posted by Jennifer at 4:58 AM
9 Comments:
OUCH!! Pierced nipples? I know it's not uncommon, but nice college girls that write like you do have pierced nipples? Hmmmm. Maybe the event would be worthy of a blog...
So did you ever ask Jennifer how her id was replicated?
I love your stories. I've read all the archives and I check all the time to see if you've posted a new one.
Back in the day I was only 17 when I joined the Navy. By the time I got out of boot camp and reported to my ship home ported in Long Beach, CA, I had turned 18. So going into town to get a beer was an exercise in itself. Downtown Long Beach was a battle between bars and tattoo parlors for space. Of course the drinking age was 21, and I LOOKED 18.
But the girls working the bars worked with us. We would go into the bar and order a beer. They would pour the beer, sit it on the bar in front of us and ask to see our ID. When we would give it to the bartender (usually a good looking lady) they would turn around to check the date of birth. We would drink the beer before she would turn back around and say, “Sorry, I can’t serve you.” So we would leave. After two or three chug-a-lugs at different bars, we were relaxed and ready for the night – which usually ended up being a movie. But the ladies of Long Beach were real cool with us kids.
Witty, as always. You tell a great story.
I imagine ID drama happens a lot at clubs. I never mind showing an ID at the door. Hell, I'm mid 40's. But I do get a sphincter pucker when they take my driver's license and run it through a scanner/copier? It's happened a couple of times and by the time you object it's too late! No one wants to think that a strip club has photographic evidence of them being there!
Show me your nipples? LOL
I love it!
The exact same thing happened to me a few years ago when I was working in a big club, as the ID was coming across the bar I recognized the photo and tossed it behind me.
"Tell Terry she can pick her ID up here tomorrow. Now beat it."
The poor, frightened girl slunk away. The next night, when Terry came in for her ID, I just had to ask.
"Why didn't you just tell her to stay out of the bars you're a regular at?"
Seriously.
PS - What's up with the dude in the towel?
my boyfriend used to bounce at a club and one night this relatively young looking girl wanted in and he knew there was no way she was 21. She handed him an id and it happened to be the ID of a girl he had grown up with. she tried arguing with him forever and just wouldnt get it thru her pretty little head that he knew the girl she was trying to be. what a dweeb.
I know I'm commenting an old post, but I've just been catching up on your archives (excellent writing, btw)
This reminded me of once when a friend of mine worked in a liquor store, and had a clearly underage guy hand him his very own ID out of his wallet that had disappeared from his car three days before. Oh, the stupidity. :) Thought you might get a giggle out of that.
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