I was sitting at my desk in my dorm room, trying to get some work done, when my roommate George bounced in.
“Check this out,” he said, offering me a card. I took a look at it. It was someone’s Illinois ID Card.
“That’s my fake ID,” he explained. “I’m going to use it to get into the bars.” While I was only a college freshman, I figured out the scheme on my own. I tried handing it back to him, but he waved me off. George closed his eyes and rattled off a number.
“They try to fake you out,” said George. “I memorized the number in case they ask.” I was impressed. George was not exactly the brightest bulb and memorizing a long string of digits had probably taken him quite a lot of time. I’d never seen him so excited. It was all he could talk about. He told me what bars he was going to hit, what he planned to drink. I didn’t see what the big deal was; he already drank a lot without being able to get into bars. But I kept my opinions to myself. After dinner, he took off with a couple of his friends. I went out for a bit myself and was rather surprised to come back and find George sitting on his bed.
“I thought you were going to hit the bars,” I said.
“I did,” he replied. He told me they waited in line outside one of the many drinking establishments in Campustown. He had tried chatting up a couple of girls (to no avail) and finally got up to the head of the line. The security guy took his ID card and gave it a once over and asked what his number was.
“I thought you knew your number,” I said.
“I did,” said George, “but then he asked me my name.”