‘S’ for “Social Capital”
Until my twenty-first birthday, I had no less than seven fake IDs. Some were decent representations of me, some were crap. My first fake was a sorority hand-me-down I acquired freshman year. Three generations of Kappas had been successfully getting into Reno bars with this ID, and I hoped to continue the tradition. The ID was of a plump Hispanic woman named Yolanda Gutierrez. Yolanda outweighed me by thirty pounds and had a mass of wild maroon curls. Her expression was of being in a continuous state of shock, so over-plucked were her eyebrows.
I lost Yolanda one night when she fell out of my boot in a parking lot. I had been too lazy to carry a purse, so I had just stuffed my money and the ID into my sock. Alas, when I tumbled on the asphalt—those speed bumps come out of nowhere!—Yolanda popped out, never to be seen again.
After Yolanda there was a series of three IDs from a girl named Lauren. I didn’t look like Lauren in real life, but in the small license photo it passed. Same eye color. Hair color. I memorized her address, her birthday, her zodiac sign. I was a big enchilada now, because I was actually using someone else’s identity. It was a real ID, just not me. This is a felony, whereas having a fake is a misdemeanor. For a variety of drunken reasons—climbing a trellis outside a club, army crawling across a dance floor, waking up at some guy’s house and rushing to pull on my jeans as to avoid awkward goodbyes and morning breath—I lost my Lauren ID three separate times.
After Yolanda and Lauren, I had a series of IDs that were me, but fake. The first two came from some guys I knew who had set up an impressive fake ID factory in the basement of their fraternity house. They were pumping out dozens of IDs a day, and making a cool profit. One such ID got taken away downtown trying to convince a security guard I really lived at #4 W. Penny Lane, Strawberry Fields, USA, as the frat guys had printed as my address to be assholes. The second frat ID was confiscated at The Ceiling, a sports bar I don’t even remember being at. By all accounts of those who were present, the bouncer didn’t appreciate drunken Erin telling him, in defiance that her ID was a fake, that he was a “Turkey on a power trip—don’t you know people at the Gap wear headsets too!” The frat guys got busted shortly after that; their factory was uncovered and they were brought up on felony charges.
Finally there was the fool-proof gem. Through a friend’s ex-boyfriend, I learned there was a guy at Harvard, a real computer hacker genius, that you could send $150 bucks to along with a passport photo and he’d send you the perfect ID. I took the photo at Target and eagerly mailed it along with a check for $150. On the FOR: section of the check, I wrote For cocktails, entertainment and increase in social capabilities. Within a week, my Harvard saint sent me the perfect fake ID: crisp at the corners, sticker lined up sharply, clear photo, and—the ultimate bonus—a real hologram.
That ID and I went everywhere. We got into every bar, every club. It even passed to a cop once. I got in places even of-age people didn’t get in. Until one night, as per an evening of martinis, whiskey shots and Jäger bombs, I ran my mouth like an asshole and got it taken away.
I had handed the ID to a bouncer at The Misty River, a bar with a nautical theme, and he started questioning me. “When’s your birthday? What’s your address?” I was passing flawlessly, until he asked “What’s your sign?” Ah, a common question any good underager is prepared to answer. I was feeling a bit sassy at the moment and so replied: “I don’t believe in astrology, I follow existentialism.” Which doesn’t even MAKE SENSE! I had been learning about Emerson and Thoreau in my Humanities class and I’m pretty sure I just wanted to use a big word to sound smart, but instead he rolled his eyes at me and said, “Get outta here.” Damn! The Best ID Of All Time gone forever!
I went back to the Misty River recently, where my friend Mitch now works. I sat down at the bar, which looks like a ship’s hull, and ordered a Jameson on the rocks. Mitch grinned at me. “Guess what I found?” He disappeared behind a door for a minute and came back with something in his hand. “Look familiar?” It was The Best ID Of All Time! It was still there! It had been several years, but the Misty River still had my fake ID, along with many others the manager apparently kept around to sell back to people to make a side profit.
I looked at my picture on the ID. My hair looks smooth and freshly washed. My eyes are bright, my smile wide and happy. I was the type of girl who would spend hundreds of dollars just to get in. To be where the party was. The fun, the action. I was the type of girl who had been excited about all life had to offer. I looked at that little square picture, and I was proud of my former self. I gave The Best ID Ever to a friend’s sister who looked enough like me to get by with it. I felt like I was passing the torch, and I hoped she would do it justice.
