Busted: My Name is Jason. I’m From Maryland
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Well. I just got the email – steps are being made to put together the 10 year high school reunion in the spring of ’06. I’m fucking terrified. Not because I put on some weight or lost a shit load of hair. This has nothing to do with expectations or whose dick is bigger or anything like that. I am terrified because I have NO IDEA how many people from high school have been reading this site. I know some have stumbled across it. I know some talk it up. As far as I know, my entire graduating class has checked this out at least once.
That’s some scary shit right there.
___________________
I got my first fake ID at 19. I was home for winter break and Mary, Jackie and I went into the Village to pick up some fakes from a guy that’s supposedly good and cheap.
Cheap – yes. Twenty bucks for a fake ID.
Good? Well, about as good as you’d expect a twenty-dollar ID to look.
I wish I still had it, honestly, I wish this story didn’t involve the ID getting taken away – I wish I could scan it in and show it to you all so you can truly appreciate how ghastly this laminated piece of shit really was. But, alas, you’ll have to settle for a description.
It was from Maryland, for starters. It didn’t really look like a Maryland ID, though – it looked like a fake Maryland library card or some shit. It was just this solid blue color that said “Maryland” across the top in a very plain looking font, my 19 year-old smiling mug plastered on the left and my name and fake Maryland address to the right. I don’t remember the address but I do remember Mary and Jackie were my next door neighbors and that wasn’t at all suspicious when we went out together.
The best part about the ID was the white trim that went all around it – like the thing was belted out on a laser printer but the borders weren’t set right. As if the fact that the design looked nothing like a Maryland ID wasn’t enough the trim made it beyond impossible to use – and by beyond impossible I mean downright embarrassing.
But it worked on occasion. Mainly in bodegas and liquor stores where they didn’t care how shitty it looked as long as I looked too young to be a cop. In Boston it wasn’t such an easy pass – I remember one time the guy at a liquor store in Kenmore Square just sort of gave me a “Come on, dude” look to which I told him he’d never have to sell me liquor again but please let me get this bottle of wine – he gave me the pity purchase.
Clubs, however, were a completely different story. I always needed to walk in with a group of people and pretend I wasn’t shitting my pants with fear of getting caught – the ID usually got an extended look, an occasional request for back-up, but almost always it ended up with the dude simply not stamping my hand or giving me the band – the dreaded under 21 admission – or as we liked to call it, the “getting no ass tonight” admission.
I never tried it in a strictly 21+ place, not in Boston at least, just wasn’t worth it.
Then one day we all went out to Jillian’s. Jillian’s was a place I eventually ended up working at, there were a series of stories already dropped on this blog here, here, here, here and here. This was before my employment days however and, not knowing the bouncers, I held out my fake ID and prayed for the stamp.
The bouncer looked at it, looked at me, and then called the other bouncer over. The other bouncer looked at it and laughed. The original bouncer looks at me, smile on his face, and says:
“Are you fucking kidding me with this?”
“What?”
“This is the worst ID I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s real.”
“It’s not real. I’m from Maryland. I’ve never seen an ID that looks anything like this. Where’d you get this, seriously?”
Him and the other bouncer are just laughing it up, by the way. The people in line behind me are having some chuckles as well.
“New York.”
“Fuccckkkkk. I hope you didn’t pay a lot for this.”
I’m sort of laughing now, too. It’s kind of funny, I can appreciate a good joke, and the set-up was too rich to pass up.
“Nah – like twenty bucks.”
Everyone fucking loses it. I’m laughing to. Even my friends at the top of the stairs who were pensively waiting to see my fate start to laugh – this ID has been the butt of many jokes for so long it’s amazing that it took so long for something like this to happen.
I stop laughing, though, when the bouncer puts it in his pocket.
“Can I have that back?”
“No. I’m keeping this one.”
What the fuck do you say to that, you know? You technically committed an offense, he can get you into some serious trouble, and are you really going to fight for your twenty-dollar piece of shit ID?
“Can I get in?”
“No. Not tonight, pal.”
I hate being called pal and if it wasn’t for the fact that the bouncer was huge I might have maybe told him that as I walked away.
When I ended up working at Jillian’s two years later the bouncer in question was still there and I talked to him about the ID incident. He remember it, claims it was one of the funniest fake-ID stories he has and regretfully tells me he likely misplaced the ID but assured me it entertained many of his friends.
That’s something, I guess.
That’s some scary shit right there.
___________________
I got my first fake ID at 19. I was home for winter break and Mary, Jackie and I went into the Village to pick up some fakes from a guy that’s supposedly good and cheap.
Cheap – yes. Twenty bucks for a fake ID.
Good? Well, about as good as you’d expect a twenty-dollar ID to look.
I wish I still had it, honestly, I wish this story didn’t involve the ID getting taken away – I wish I could scan it in and show it to you all so you can truly appreciate how ghastly this laminated piece of shit really was. But, alas, you’ll have to settle for a description.
It was from Maryland, for starters. It didn’t really look like a Maryland ID, though – it looked like a fake Maryland library card or some shit. It was just this solid blue color that said “Maryland” across the top in a very plain looking font, my 19 year-old smiling mug plastered on the left and my name and fake Maryland address to the right. I don’t remember the address but I do remember Mary and Jackie were my next door neighbors and that wasn’t at all suspicious when we went out together.
The best part about the ID was the white trim that went all around it – like the thing was belted out on a laser printer but the borders weren’t set right. As if the fact that the design looked nothing like a Maryland ID wasn’t enough the trim made it beyond impossible to use – and by beyond impossible I mean downright embarrassing.
But it worked on occasion. Mainly in bodegas and liquor stores where they didn’t care how shitty it looked as long as I looked too young to be a cop. In Boston it wasn’t such an easy pass – I remember one time the guy at a liquor store in Kenmore Square just sort of gave me a “Come on, dude” look to which I told him he’d never have to sell me liquor again but please let me get this bottle of wine – he gave me the pity purchase.
Clubs, however, were a completely different story. I always needed to walk in with a group of people and pretend I wasn’t shitting my pants with fear of getting caught – the ID usually got an extended look, an occasional request for back-up, but almost always it ended up with the dude simply not stamping my hand or giving me the band – the dreaded under 21 admission – or as we liked to call it, the “getting no ass tonight” admission.
I never tried it in a strictly 21+ place, not in Boston at least, just wasn’t worth it.
Then one day we all went out to Jillian’s. Jillian’s was a place I eventually ended up working at, there were a series of stories already dropped on this blog here, here, here, here and here. This was before my employment days however and, not knowing the bouncers, I held out my fake ID and prayed for the stamp.
The bouncer looked at it, looked at me, and then called the other bouncer over. The other bouncer looked at it and laughed. The original bouncer looks at me, smile on his face, and says:
“Are you fucking kidding me with this?”
“What?”
“This is the worst ID I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s real.”
“It’s not real. I’m from Maryland. I’ve never seen an ID that looks anything like this. Where’d you get this, seriously?”
Him and the other bouncer are just laughing it up, by the way. The people in line behind me are having some chuckles as well.
“New York.”
“Fuccckkkkk. I hope you didn’t pay a lot for this.”
I’m sort of laughing now, too. It’s kind of funny, I can appreciate a good joke, and the set-up was too rich to pass up.
“Nah – like twenty bucks.”
Everyone fucking loses it. I’m laughing to. Even my friends at the top of the stairs who were pensively waiting to see my fate start to laugh – this ID has been the butt of many jokes for so long it’s amazing that it took so long for something like this to happen.
I stop laughing, though, when the bouncer puts it in his pocket.
“Can I have that back?”
“No. I’m keeping this one.”
What the fuck do you say to that, you know? You technically committed an offense, he can get you into some serious trouble, and are you really going to fight for your twenty-dollar piece of shit ID?
“Can I get in?”
“No. Not tonight, pal.”
I hate being called pal and if it wasn’t for the fact that the bouncer was huge I might have maybe told him that as I walked away.
When I ended up working at Jillian’s two years later the bouncer in question was still there and I talked to him about the ID incident. He remember it, claims it was one of the funniest fake-ID stories he has and regretfully tells me he likely misplaced the ID but assured me it entertained many of his friends.
That’s something, I guess.
Labels: mitc
posted by Jason at
12:43 AM
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