I've missed you! I told you if you were good I would tell you the other stories of my run-ins with the law. You've been good. Here is story number 2.
When I was in high school, I got a fake ID. Now this ID was a great one, because it was a real ID that an older friend of mine gave me. Her name was *Jamie, and we worked at Garden Botanika in the mall together...
*Names have once again been changed to protect the identities of those who might be thoroughly embarrassed by this story.
Since I was shorter and younger than most people in my high school class, I felt the need to to make up for what I lacked in height and age with smack-talk. I used to throw around real zingers like, "I have a fake ID. I'm so cool." and "Do you have a fake ID? Didn't think so."
After we graduated from high school, my friends *Heather and *Maria moved out of their parent's homes and into an apartment together. One night, at a small gathering of friends there, I began running my mouth about my awesomeness due to my fake ID. No one believed that I had actually used it, and a bit of teasing ensued. Heather also had an ID, and we decided to teach everyone a lesson in being very cool. We left those suckers at home to play Mario Kart 3 and headed out like grown ups to TGIFriday's. She drove, because I wasn't allowed to have a car, and now I'm beginning to understand why.
Friday's was a place we had many fond memories of. Throughout high school would go there and order breadsticks and ranch, and maybe a loaded baked potato, and have refill after refill of Cherry Coke and tip horribly. After working in the service industry, I now realize that every single employee probably hated when we would come in and had our faces seared forever into their memories. This however, did not occur to us at the ripe old age of 17 and 18 as we saddled up to a table in the bar. We pulled out our cigarettes and immediately began smoking them to look older and cooler.
We had no idea what to order and when the waiter finally came over, I heard myself blurt out the only cocktail name I knew. I ordered a Long Island Iced Tea. Years later, having bartended for a living, I know how much of a red flag this is to a bartender. Only idiots order Long Islands. And I mean that in the nicest way possible, in case you like drinking them (Mom). A Long Island is an immediate indicator of an amateur drinker. If you don't know, a Long Island consists of an ounce of Vodka, and ounce of Gin, and ounce of Tequila, an ounce of Rum, an ounce of Triple Sec, some Sweet and Sour mix, and splash of coke. A standard drink only has 2 ounces of liquor total. Long Islands are disgusting, they make you VERY drunk, and 10 times out of 10 they make you vomit. No one who has any respect for a cocktail would order one. But we did.
I would like to take this moment to remind you that I looked like this at the time:
The waiter obviously was not fooled, however I am convinced that he wanted to mess with us, so he pretended like it was all good. He turned to leave, without even asking for our ID's and we released a huge sigh of relief. He quickly turned back around and asked, "Oh by the way, do you want top shelf?"
We had no idea what this meant. (In case you don't know, top shelf means you use the very best and most expensive booze, so our cocktails would have probably been about $25 each.) We panicked. We composed ourselves. We said "Duh, of course we do." He looked at us for a moment and then said "I'll just need to see your ID's." Heather pulled hers out and handed it to him, keeping her face shrouded in plumes of white cigarette smoke. I did the whole "I can't believe you're carding me, I'm so shocked, thanks for making me feel young" thing.
He giggled to himself and then said he'd be right back with our drinks. What he returned with instead, was the manager, who promptly told us to hand over the fakes and then leave before he called the cops. We took one look at each other and then bolted.
Now, remember when I told you I'd been doing a lot of smack talk? Well Heather and I knew that we could not return to her apartment after fifteen minutes having gotten busted. We'd never hear the end of it. The only logical thing we could come up with was to buy some wine coolers from a convenience store and then drink them until we smelled boozy enough to show our faces and pretend that we'd just had the night of our lives at a real live bar. And that's exactly what we did.
We picked out an assortment of yummy looking Bartles and James products, purchased them nervously using our ID's for the very first time, and then drove around our quiet little town until we came across a new neighborhood development that was still under construction. We drove slowly through it until we found the perfect spot. Two giant industrial sized dumpsters were parked at the end of the unfinished cul-de-sac and the spot between them was a perfect fit for her car. We turned up the Tom Petty and cracked open two bottles. Just as we were clinking the bottles together in an excited cheers, just before the sweet taste of that Fuzzy Navel hit our lips, bright lights flooded the inside of the car. The Po-Po had spotted us.
The rest is a bit of a blur because panic set in and tears started flowing but I do know that they made us pour every single one of those bottles out on the ground. I also know that because I was still a minor, they made me call my mom. She. Was. Pissed. She had to come down to the scene and take my stupid ass home. I don't remember exactly what happened to Heather, but I don't think she went to jail, and I don't think her parents had to come. Technically, we hadn't even consumed any of the alcohol, we just possessed it, and I think that's what saved us from a lot more trouble.
That night could have gone down in so many terrible ways, but I'm happy to say that a lot of good ended up happening instead. We were lucky that the bartender denied us and the police found us when they did, because they saved us from making an even bigger mistake by drinking and driving. Also, because of that night, I wrote one of my favorite jokes that I do in a stand up set about my mom. And, I learned the most valuable lesson of all: Long Island's are for idiots.