When you don’t get served a beer, even though you look old enough and like the blonde girl on your license, you know you have a problem.
My license is expired- in a literary sense that is. It’s dead. It’s life is over. It’s broken. And my procrastinating nature finally got a kick in the ass last night.
Several months ago I left my license in my back pocket like a usually do. I must have sat on it wrong. It cracked. Over time, the little crack spread. Now, the license is basically in two halves, held together only by the small end of the plastic card that is still in tact. Since the license is cracked, the plastic coating is also peeling. It’s hideous. But it’s still my license. It’s me.
I’ve gotten into bars just fine until last night. I was at a national chain restaurant and I won’t say which one because I don’t want to get anyone in trouble, but the bartender said that he could not serve me. I explained to him how it just broke in half and that I have my change-of-address card too to prove its me. He took both to the manager, but came back: the answer was still no.
We were only at the bar at this place waiting for our table to come available– we just wanted a beer. But since we had plans to go to two bars afterwards. Dave was getting peeved. “You really need to get this taken care of. We may as well just go home,” he said.
“But, I always end up knowing someone. It’ll be okay,” I reply.
The bartender asked if I wanted to see the manager and I said I did. Lo and behold, out came a woman I used to work with. She said she couldn’t serve me.
“But you know me!” I pleaded.
She gave me a much-needed lecture that I really need to get this taken care of and that it truly was illegal for me to be served. I listened. I will go to PennDOT this week, or even do it online. I guess you don’t need a new picture- they keep them on file. That’s cool. But the bottom line is, I was able to get served. It was just ironic that I knew the manager.
Things always seem to work out for me, but I know that my luck will run out one day and there won’t be a cool bouncer or an easy-going manager that knows I really am almost 30. At the next bar, the bouncer laughed at my license, but let me in. Later, at a dance club we went to, the door guy swiped my license in one of those machines and said, “Damn, girl. This is in rough shape….”
I mean, it almost makes me want to keep it as a fun conversation starter. Imagine the stories I could make up of how my license broke:
–I broke up a bar cat-fight. I lept into the pile like a hero. We rolled to the right and rolled to the left, and I finally got the two girls off each other. I came out a little torn up and so did my license, but the drama is over. The girls are best friends now.
–The bartender accidentally locked his liquor cabinet keys in the liquor cabinet. Patrons were thirsty and getting angry. I picked the door with my license and saved the evening, although some damage was done to my lock-picking tool. I got a free Mojito out of the deal.
— We were sitting at a wobbly table and our beers kept sliding around. I did a MacGyver and placed my license under the uneven table leg to stop the table from moving. During the course of the evening, the table was bumped a few times and the license cracked.
— I was at a bar with Jack Bauer and the gang from CTU when a terrorist came into the bar– he had a suicide bomb. I was almost killed and escaped, but left my license on the table. Jack went back into the the burning bar to save my license. It was a little banged up, but he said that if any door guy ever gave me a problem to call him.
— A haggardly old woman was working the door at the bar. Jealous of my youthful-29, she snapped my license in half. “You’re half my age you young bitch,” she’d say.
To to the manager last night and all those who served me the past few months, thank you for taking my driver’s license. I will get it fixed. Until then, looks like I should drink at home.