10
Before I talk about 10, I have to talk about seven. The magical number that wasn’t and what it means to put it past me.
For the last three and a half years, seven was a hindrance. The first few times it was glorious. Seven times in one bar for one night, stopping seven minors felt like something out of a fairy tale. That’s the apex. One ID for every Generation Z version of Doc, Grumpy, Sleepy, Dopey, Happy, Bashful, and Sneezy.
And then it happens again. The fourth time. And the fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, ninth, 10, 11th, and 12th. And on Saturday, March 14th, I thought I was headed for the unluckiest number in all of Western culture, 13. As in, 13 times stuck on the same number. Once I would hit that, I could never get out of the hole.
Lo-and-behold, the eighth arrived just in time. Well, in time as anyone could be hour 11 of a 14-hour pre-St. Paddy’s Day shift before the governor shuts down all services. Who handed me No. 8? Some poor bastard that though he was clever using an out-of-state ID.
I dismantled seven in excellent fashion. One before the bar crawl started. Two and Three in the wannabe Irish crawl. Four and Five by a couple of kids in one group who thought they were hot shit. Six was pure satisfaction. She was trying to sweet talk Cedric and waited in line for 30 minutes before being waved off with minimal effort.
Seven was Illinois. A pricey one, too.
But eight. Oh, eight.
Wisconsin, where I was born.
I knew it was bad and couldn’t help myself from smiling at the guy. Peanut told Sunshine, who was heading inside, to wait up because something was about to go down. Boy, was he right.
“Ladies and gentlemen, from the great state of Wisconsin… this guy’s fake ID!”
I didn’t care at that point if others in line had fakes.
A Wisconsin ID with all the markings of poor craftsmanship, including a tidbit where he lived on 167th Avenue in Madison. If that doesn’t seem off to you, let’s put it this way, Madison’s numbered streets and avenues don’t reach into the double digits.
Over. Done. In the bag. Victory lap.
Crossed the finish line.
Three more hours to go.
Two more IDs to find.
Nine was easy. Too easy. She had to have been still in line when I made my proclamation because five minutes after eight her ID was in my pocket. A no-doubter fake, if you will.
It took me 3.5 years to get to eight and only 3.5 hours to get to 10. The threat of impending doom churned out Gen Z to the bars on the last weekend.
Now to 10.
A fucking trip.
We’re nearing the end of our night. Hour 13 of 14 for myself, plus long shifts for Cedric the entertainer and Suez. Peanut was on a normal night, but it was getting bitterly colder by the minute.
Insert a little bit of Hellfire.
She declines to remove it from her purse and instead goes on a diatribe that she’s 23 and more than old enough for our bar.
The ID wasn’t for someone 23 years old.
And yet you get the drift.
Height off.
Phone dead.
Age wrong.
Name?
Hellfire is with three guys, Nos. 1, 2 & 3. I started walk-and-talking with Guy 1 and try to see what Hellfire is hiding.
“Uh, truth is I just met her tonight and I’m just going along with it.”
Name, unknown. Check. These are the people who will inherit the post-corona world.
I step away from the pack, give the ID game to Cedric and Peanut for a few minutes while I attempt to gain some dexterity in my typing and texting hand. I search google but the name is fairly generic. The Facebook, where I find it. Sure, it’s a generic name, but I find a profile with all the markers — hometown, current city, college, recent photo.
I pull up the profile picture of her full face. I hold my hand in such a way that it obscures to bottom name tags and likes and hearts before I turn my phone around and show her.
Before I can even utter a word —
“I don’t know who that is.”
“What?”
“That’s not me. It’s a very common name.
“But this is Emily Williamson from Portland. You’re Emily Williamson from Portland. The face is identical to the ID.”
“There was another girl with the same name in high school. It’s a very common name.”
“She went to the same college the same year, too? Wow, what a coincidence. It’s time for you to go.”
“Not without my ID, I have to drive home.”
The drive home excuse is always a classic because nobody should drive this late in the game. If you’re still out after 1 a.m. and not working, it’s time to call the Uber or Lyft. You don’t belong on the streets. You are not a raccoon.
Everything about this girl is wrong, and she’s pissing us all off.
Here’s where I lose it, temporarily. Guy 2 comes very close to me. Much closer than social distancing allows.
He brings his mouth to my ear and says, “I’m going to break my fist on your…”
So I chest-passed him five yards and into the light post.
“… wall.”
I did not hear the wall part. It’s an odd thing to say out loud, isn’t it? “I’m going to break my fist on your wall.” I thought he would say face or head, you know, like a fight. A moronic fight, but a fight.
We see a few cops and tell the throuple to flag them down so we can finally be through with this charade. We’re successful in doing so, but by the time the cruiser whips around to our side of the street Guy 3 swoops in and picks up Hellfire by the waist and carries her off into the distance.
That’s a lot of work for 10.
If only we were totally finished with the throuple. Guy 2 heads back around five minutes later. He asks for a cigarette. A stranger abides. Guy 2 rips the cigarette in half and throws it on the pavement, stomping on it repeatedly. He removes a Skoal tin from his back pocket. Takes two packets out and throws the tin on the pavement. Stomping on it repeatedly.
He picks up the broken cig AND the Skoal remnants and throws them in the public trash bin.
Huh?
There are no more stories to tell from our pre-quarantine bar day. We made some money. I set a personal record, as did some bartenders, I’m sure.
I was disinfecting the bar rail, door handles, and any other surfaces I could reach for 45 minutes before our first bar-goers arrived.
And then I did it again when it was time to count money.
I washed my hands. I wore two or three sets of gloves.
My Carhartt face shield for warmth.
I avoided close-proximity touching, touching my face, using our own bathroom, high fives, handshakes, and the most respected bouncer currency, hugs from attractive women. I placed tips in my new-fangled, camouflaged fanny pack/hand warmer my mom bought me the night before. The virus would not get to me, or so I can hope.
They shut down all the bars two days later. All my closest (geographic) friends were suddenly out of a job.
The machinations of a website rolled in my head for 24 hours and I came up with this, saveourservice.org.
A logo, domain, and website set me back my Saturday earnings. It was rougher on Day 2 when setup ran me well into the Tuesday night. I didn’t even have time to drink my Guinness. On Day 3 I got a boost from The Angry Bartender and many, many friends.
It took me three years to get this blog to reach 10,000 views.
And only three days to reach 11,355 for my new site.
I feel like 10 will continue teaching me some new things the longer I’m away from the moonlight.
