At the Door

Oh f*ck. He’s asking for I.D.

I don’t have any I.D. Somebody told me I.D. wasn’t going to be a problem. I know I didn’t make that up. Like 94% sure. If I knew I was going to have a problem I would have dressed differently. I would have put on the I-can-drink-legally quota of eye makeup and I wouldn’t have let my hair get so messy. Sh*t, I must look like a 6th grader. Damn this humidity for making my bangs frizzy.

What’s my birthday? He wants to know my birthday.

What is my birthday? Why can’t I remember my real birthday? It’s actually really weird that I can forget that. Did I have a stroke or something? Doesn’t matter, moron, because your real birthday makes you 19. Just use your sister’s birthday. You’ve been using it for years. Right, yeah.

October 5th—

That’s your birthday, you idiot! Glad you remembered that, you buffoon. Really, are you retarded? Just use your sister’s year then. Pull it together. Say 1984! 1984!

1984.

Wait, but today is August 8th and your sister’s birthday is January 9th—

How old does that make me? He wants to know how old that makes me.

Well, if she’s 23, but my birthday is on the other side of today’s date (do people say that? The other side of a date?) so that makes me—

Sh*t. I just heard that silence. I heard it. The guy must have heard it.

Yep, he heard it.

Just turn around. The jig is up. No reason to linger. Go on home now. I think there’s some pudding in the fridge. Maybe you can find a rerun of The Cosby Show. Maybe one with Kenny. Bud.

Seriously, though, take a math class.