Prologue: Heat Wave

The weather on the weekends is persistent in its attempts to make me quit working outdoors. I wore long johns for four straight months, and — pants made tight enough as they are — it wasn’t very comfortable. Working outside for four months of sub-zero, below freezing and other frigid temperatures between 30 and 40 degrees aren’t what I call fortuitous. Do people drink, of course? Are they nice? Less than normal. Are they young? Fuck no. Young people don’t like cold weather. Teenagers and 20-year olds want warmth and good vibes, which is why my fake iD numbers were so low in the winter.  As soon as the temps rise above 40, I see a massive increases in numbers. Four this night, six the next weekend.

Then bitter cold returns.

Back to zero. One, if I’m lucky.

The teenagers? They’re out there, huddling together like penguins in the Antarctic. But they’re not waiting for the bar. No, they’re impatiently pregaming White Claws before the molly to kick in so they can dance, dance, dance in their fishnets and leotards, waving their weird illuminated orbs.

And then it finally happened. One solid weekend of sun. A bright sun, as well. One that bakes everyone underneath. Hydration is mandatory, sunscreen handy, and sunglasses. Oh, sunglasses. We all feel better when we “have to” don our shades. Pity us cold-weather winter soldiers. We don’t see the orange fireball too often.

And on this heat wave, there was a man. Skittish, full of anxious energy, and waiting for a score, unwilling to be defeated.

Chapter 1: Adderall Andy

Andy didn’t need a fix right now. He needed it three days ago. Heroin? Smack? No, nothing that goes crackle or pop into his veins. Andy needed Adderall.

Cash on hand: $40, or maybe even $45, if the sellers were lucky.

Full disclosure, I still have no idea what Adderall does. I assume it’s a kind of pep pill like speed or some other after-school-special drug meant to keep people focused.

But Andy already seemed laser-focused. Does Adderall calm you down if you’re already acting strange? Again, I’m not going to Google this. I enjoy living in the dark about drugs.

Andy made his first move on MoHawk, our lovely bartender. His offer was a firm $40. Andy stepped outside to do this, like a real gentleman or something. I guess my black gloves, aviator glasses and stature were too intimidating for him, so naturally, he asked the badass with a mohawk for his hookup.

Unsurprisingly, it was a hard no.

But Andy was still on the prowl.

Twenty minutes later he asked a group of four at a tabletop.

“Hey, guys, what’s up?” he said. Without waiting for their response, he added, “Listen I’ve got $40 for some Adderall if you have some.”

Just out loud. Right in the open. Wait, not entirely. He did whisper and cover his mouth for the $45 offer.

OK, Andy, you’ve got some cajones on you. And I can say cajones because it was Cinco de Mayo, Americans’ favorite Mexican holiday that isn’t a major Mexican holiday.

Betwixt the sea of Corona mass commissions and tequila sun salutations, Andy danced from table to table asking for the sweet, sweet pill. How much Adderall comes with a $40 payment? Enough, apparently.

His fourth table would be his last, however, as the ante increasing by a firm five dollars made me mad for some reason.

Not that solicitation of drugs isn’t the only thing getting my goat. It’s that Andy thought the kicker for someone giving up their hard-earned(?) focus fix* was an extra $5.

*Fine, I Googled it.

I took a full Euro step and met Andy before he could turn and walk away.

Andy is 5-foot-9, and I am not. The sun is now in my eyes. But not Andy’s. I really can’t see him, so I don’t know how his face turns when I yelled.

“If I hear you offer money for drugs one more time I will throw you in the street!”

I saw a figure sheepishly move into the bar. A few minutes later he settled his tab and hurried out. I knew Andy paid up in cash, no doubt recounting it as he walked outside, thinking how many pills he could buy for the remaining $36.

Chapter 2: Amor Ciego

Cinco de Mayo is an excuse for white people to drink heavily and not celebrate the military accomplishments of Puebla, Mexico in 1862.

That being said, if drinking is what you must do, then drinking is what you shall do. All day long. All evening long.

Fast forward three hours. It's just after 10 p.m., and a barnstorm of humanity bursts out of the front door. We’re still in spring, so 10 o’clock is pretty dark. Suddenly a younger, taller DJ Qualls emerges, face full of optimism and joy. He is trailed at the hand by a hopeful paramour who he has undoubtedly not yet seen in fresh light.

The woman grabs him from behind and exclaims, “I'm so ready for you."

He turns around, in part to hide the beer underneath his sweater, but also to glimpse this seductress.

A half second later he’s darting down the street, with beer sloshing down his underwear and fear in his eyes. Undeterred, the woman who looked like Danny Trejo without a mustache took off running in the opposite direction. Love just wasn’t in the cards.

Chapter 3: Stinko de Mayo

Three hours later, a man started peeing on our patio fence.

Not discreetly, either.

Full butt pants around ankles.

When he was finished (I wasn’t interrupting him), he asked to come back inside. Except, we didn’t get him this drunk. He just walked across the street, dropped trough and started peeing. Like he’d done it a million times.

He asked once more to “come back inside,” only to be offered another resounding, and emphatic, "NO."

"But I know Phil."

"Sir, who is Phil?"

"I know Phil. You can let me in. He knows me."

"Sir, I have zero idea who Phil is. Nobody named Phil has ever worked here."

He sat on this for a hard second. Where did Phil go in his time of need? I also want to point out that, while I use many pseudonyms for friends and subjects alike, Phil is not one of them.

"Well,” he started innocently, “what did I do wrong?”

"You peed on the bar!"

"But ... Phil is cool with it."

"WHO THE FUCK IS PHIL!"

"Whoa, man. No need to yell. Phil will sort this out. Just call him."

A handful of places come to mind where this man was vastly over-served, yet none of them attach to a Phil. Was Phil someone inside? Was Phil Andy’s real name, and this is a case of pistaken identify? Does Adderall stop someone from free peeing in public? Is that why it costs so much (or not enough)?

"So, how long until I can get in?"

Go away. For sanity’s sake just leave me alone.

"Never."

We did this dance three times.

Not the when can I go in bit. The Phil bit.

That’s four times where I was told Phil absolutely exists and that Phil was perfectly fine for peeing on his bar.

Yes, Phil owned the bar. The land of the bar. Managed the bar. Bought the physical iron bar his friend drenched in hot urine. Best friends for life, he and Phil.

One the last time around, the man simply gave up before asking to go inside before attempting to walk right in. I stuck and hand out, thanking every deity and entity from the top down that I remembered to take my gloves out of the dryer before work.

Chapter 4: ¡Ay Dios Mio!

Fake ID No. 395: The Gift

I asked if she was sure about this.

"Yes."

"Do you have a backup form of ID?"

She handed me a Visa Gift Card.

There are no names on Visa Gift Cards.

This was not a bribe.

Fake ID No. 396: Practical Magic

A friend piped up from behind her, asking what the problem was.

The mathematician before me chimed that she was barely 25. As in, just turned 25.

Wait, what now?

"Well, I'm practically 25,” she corrected me, and also herself. “Let me in."

"How old are you, exactly?"

"Fine, I'm 24, but I'll be 25 in a few weeks."

"No, you're 23 and will be 25 in 19 months."

Her friend asked how she was going to get home. I don't know, Megan, have better friends.

Fake ID No. 397: Knowledge Isn't Power

This guy had one of the worst Photoshop jobs on a somewhat clean Ohio ID. It was a no-doubter that I immediately put into my pocket.

"But I know the address," he said.

"That's cute."

Per Google Maps, his family home is a lovely Subway outside Cuyahoga Falls.

Fake ID No. 398: Anti-Social Media

I think I met someone from the witness protection program. She must've been. She claimed to have no social media profiles. No Facebook, Instagram, Twitter, Snapchat (even though it was still on her screen). No email. Almost.

"I use my work email. There are a bunch of different addresses on there."

"And what about Snapchat?"

"Oh, I use my friend's Snapchat. We share. Her name is Katie."

"Are those Katie's email addresses as well?"

"Yeah. She does … business on my phone.”

These aren't the kids who eat tide pods, but they've thought about it.