Indicative of the illegitimacy of proper identification cozied in the wallets of the youthful “of-aged,” I dreamt myself at a watering hole I’d become familiar with merely on the external. Its coordinates are proximal to my house. Inside, I felt timorous in contrary to my intrepid bar hopping and rampant identity theft. Upon ordering a beer that I deemed tasty according to the elaborate tap, the bartender prompted me to prove my legality. When I handed over a card, it read New York State across the top as it should’ve, but the amplification below was empty. She handed back the blank card, and the beer I’d ordered. I searched vehemently through tiny notecards of information, looking intently for the one that I’d deemed most suitable, surpassing the one with my own information scrawled across. As I frantically searched for “legitimacy” I realized, at once, that the bartender had not required me to do so. A blank card was returned to me without inquiry, and my beer sat in front of me simmering to room temperature.
This bar operated on nothing more than a loosely sewn facade of legality, a charade at best. I sipped on the beer that was, in fact, delicious, reveling in my newfound proclamation of content falsehood. A blank name, a faceless underaged drunkard with a barstool and a few faceless friends.
