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A Requiem For My Confiscated Fake ID

fake ID confiscated

As a young tot growing up in the Texas suburbs, all my friends and I wanted was to be able to go to our local grocer and get a couple pre-recipe change Four Lokos then drunkenly text our ex-girlfriends in the middle of the night because we heard a song off of Drake’s So Far Gone mixtape. Thus, we set out for the internet with nothing but a pocketful of our parent’s money and a heart full of dreams. We stumbled upon the now defunct ID Chief, and the day was saved. We gathered our information and about a thousand dollars and sent it off to China via Western Union, ready to convince every bouncer, bartender, and gas station attendant within a twenty mile radius that we were of age, and that there was just something in the water that made everyone from Arizona look like they were still sophomores in high school.

We had waited over two months, with our vendor taking days to respond to our emails just to tell us that there was something wrong with this, or that, or that there was a Chinese holiday. Many had lost hope. But one day, an interesting package arrived at the doorstep of my parent’s house. Had I ordered a VCR? Why yes, Mom; yes I had. I broke that motherfucker open and feasted my eyes upon a treasure trove of IDs that looked so real they may as well have been shipped from the Arizona Department of Motor Vehicles itself. Finally, they were here.

Over the next couple years, many were confiscated, lost, broken, ditched, etc, but I still had my trusty AZ. I left for college with it, ready to tackle whatever bouncer Sixth Street, Northgate, Midtown, The Stockyards, or The Square threw at me. And I was… until one night outside of Billy Bob’s Honky Tonk (located in The Stockyards, where all of the TCU bars are).

We had gathered in my suite to pregame for the Josh Abbott concert, and I was more than ready to pretend I fit in at “The Largest Honky Tonk in the World.” The line was long for those purchasing tickets, including my pledge brothers and former pledge trainer, but I had purchased my ticket in advance and walked to the short line on the end where a bouncer was taking tickets from those who already had them. Without even a second glance, the ID that had worked perfectly thousands of times over the past few years was pocketed by a large man with a goatee who said nothing more than “you should go before I call the cop over here.” This cruel biker bastard had separated me from the one thing that had stuck by me through everything from those nights drinking with my high school friends in whoever’s house was open, to buying kegs for my fraternity’s tailgates during pledgeship, to stocking my fridge with all the Franzia a freshman girl could ask for.

As the Uber arrived to take me back to my hotel, I reflected on the beautiful times that I’d shared with my trusty best friend. I walked into my hotel after one of the worst nights I’d had in a long time and checked my phone to see that one of the alumni who had traveled to Fort Worth for the weekend as well was in the hotel bar. I stopped in to say hello. Although he was a very successful banker and well into his fifties, I knew him well enough to explain what had happened. He listened intently, told me to quit being a pussy, and ordered me a Shiner. The next couple hours were spent with a mixture of lecturing, stories of debauchery, and advice, ending in us getting so drunk the hotel staff had to help us to the elevator. So now, as I glance at my new NJ ID that arrived in the mail just a few days ago, I hope that I can share the same memories with it that I could with ole AZ.

Rest in peace, you beautiful piece of plastic.

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