A quickie
Buying a bottle of wine yesterday, I was waiting on line to pay, when the clerk at the liquor store carded the couple in front of me. “Whoever’s paying, I gotta see some ID,” he said. “Sorry–can’t see much of your face with the hat on.” The woman–30, tops–fished out her license, showed him and left with her purchase.
“Now you have to ask me or I’ll be offended,” I joked. The guy smiled and laughed, and rang up my wine. I thought the joke had reached its natural conclusion.
But as I gave him my money, he said, “Can I see some ID?”
“Oh, I was kidding,” I said, chuckling. “You really didn’t have to ask.” Nonetheless, I fished out my license. It all happened so fast, but I did have a second of wondering, maybe he is asking because there’s a chance–however minute–that I could be younger than 21. As an upstanding alcohol merchant, he must trust but verify. Why would he ask otherwise? He knew I’d been joking. I handed him my license, which, since I rarely drive, hasn’t seen the light of day since the last time I had it renewed.
He didn’t take it. “Yeah, I was kidding too,” he said. “Have a nice night.”
Baaaahahahaha! The wine was good, anyway.
Hangovers, when I occasionally had them in my 20s, used to result from the perfect storm of too much drinking, too little eating, and too much fun, followed by too little sleep (sometimes because I opted for sex instead).
