And this completes side A of the Big Bad Jon cassette tape.

Five hundred IDs later and the last one, the big milestone, was quite the payoff from years’ past.

I worked on Wednesday, Nov. 21, the day before Thanksgiving. My 30th birthday. It was cold, but not too cold. Windy, but not too windy. Busy, but not too busy.

The first IDs were a pair of girls using some comically bad real IDs of people that could never have been them even with the most advanced plastic surgery.

A pipsqueak on paper but larger in real life, Debbie needed to shrink five inches to be remotely in the right ballpark. The DMV made a mistake and it should be 5-foot-8, she said. Eight inches is decent amount, but on certain planes of existence an 8 can look like a 0 with improper penmanship.

I have two hands, mind you, and the right palm was handling the ID of a woman who was indeed 5-8. By Debbie’s standard, the two should be equal in height.

Debbie still towered over Amy by about three inches. Amy, wearing three inch heels, was not 5-8.

It took a while to do the mental math but I deduced that Debbie was approximately 5-5 and Amy was in the 5-foot area. That’s a whopping 13 inches off pace, or, the total height difference between me and my brother.

And all of this happened at 8:55 p.m., fewer than 5 minutes into my shift.

It would be a long night in between 499 and 500.

The first hour passes without much hullabaloo.

The second starts with a case of mistaken identity.

Working three jobs, you tend to know people, and then know the people who know those people, or are at least related to those people. This was the latter, as the daughter of one of my colleagues came into the bar addressing me as … Vinny.

Apparently I look like a Vinny.

She knows my name is Jon.

But in her mind, I’m a Vinny, and nothing is going to change that. She made me pinky promise (and lock it?) that I tell her mom she was on her best behavior. A lofty promise to make for someone who was walking into the bar at the time.

Another hour goes by, Birthday time.

My family pops up, chili dogs in hand and clad in their best battle garments.

What else would you call bright blue tees with your baby picture on them? Big Bad Jon turned 30 and was stricken with elation, curiosity, and profound embarrassment.

It’s a good thing I wear a face and neck protector to shield from the elements. I was able to play rosy cheeks off as automatic reactions to frigid temperatures. Or not. Probably not. It was a very endearing gesture.

One more hour and we get a man who is fall-down drunk. He asks why he couldn’t get back into the bar, and we say because he fell down.

“But I hurt my ankle and it was hard to stand.”

"And when did you hurt your ankle?"

“When I fell down.”

One day, this man will decide someone’s future.

The final 18 minutes pass. The bar hasn’t been busy in well over 30 minutes. People are inside having a great time not standing like penguins whilst lining up in the queue and all that remains are a few late-night stragglers.

And Mr. 500. Daytona.

He’s short, maybe 5-6. Affable. Young. Was just out seeing a show. Probably didn’t need to come in for a drink. No indication he drank while at the show. No wristband. No “M” markings. No noticeable levels of intoxication. Not a troublemaker.

Well, one indication he was a troublemaker. His fake was so bad I lit up like a menorah on the final day of Hanukkah, beaming from ear to ear.

And add a mighty yawp.

Finally, it was here. In addition to chili dogs and hot chocolate, my mom also dropped off noisemakers and party poppers.

I reached for the popper first. Then the noisemaker. Then the designated certificate, wrapped with a white bow instead of the yellow, pink, blue and red options. White because of white hat. White because of a culmination of everything leading up to this moment. White because it was literally the only other color that wasn’t yellow, pink, blue, or red.

Peanut was there and joined in on the celebration. Sunshine, a name I’ll tell him the meaning of later, had a popper in his pocket for the occasion but was a few too many steps inside, but still managed to let one off in Daytona’s vicinity.

Daytona was cool about it everything.

“It always works up north.”

Yes, up north. Where any warm body will do. I’m not knocking desolate bars in rural areas, but just because you work in a set piece from True Detective Season One doesn’t mean you have act like the laws don’t apply to you. The choice between classy and trashy has no bearing on ZIP codes.

Daytona agreed to take a selfie with me. Ask me about it and I’ll show you.

He opened up the certificate.

“I’m gonna hang this on my wall.”

A banner moment if I’ve ever heard one.

I started this job in August of 2016. And it was tough sledding the first few months. I remember applying for an additional security job six months later. I put the number of fake IDs confiscated in bold. I thought it was a prestigious number. Sixty five.

Sixty five treated me well. The rewards from just over 10 IDs per month started this blog.

Where you’ve read the tales of terrible tragedies befalling great men.

Wait. I mean grapefaced men doing terrible things, then falling.

My monthly average increased by 200 percent. From just over 10 to more than 20 IDs per month. And that covers months where I wasn’t at work for all but a few shifts. A wedding, a foreign adventure, a concert road trip, basketball games, and milestone birthdays sang me siren songs away from the few feet of pavement I call home for 10 hours every weekend.

The great number is accomplished.

And now I’m hanging it up.

Retiring at 500. For now.

No, I’m not quitting the bar.

But Jordan needed a break from being the best. Temporarily.

I, too, am taking a break from the weekly anthology of fake ID stories. There are other stories to tell and things I want this site to produce. What will the future hold? Find out in Part 2.