A fake ID shouldn’t be necessary
By Daily Bruin Staff
Jan. 11, 2005 9:00 p.m.
Adulthood is no longer a faraway eventuality for anxious (or
alcoholic) college students ““ it’s a decision.
It is a decision I made last week as I crossed into downtown Los
Angeles with the intent of buying a fake ID.
“Is it worth it?” I nervously asked my friend, who
was driving. “I mean, haven’t they been cracking down
on this stuff since 9/11?” I knew that since the calamity,
crackdown on, and penalties for, fake ID possession had multiplied.
Even the university police department has renewed its commitment to
strict preventive programs.
Even so, my friend was confident. “Not at MacArthur Park,
they haven’t,” he said.
Our arrival was unannounced but obvious. We had entered an
economically poor, but culturally rich, neighborhood, status-locked
by our society’s massive regulations and taxation. On 6th
Street, a few free-spirited children roamed unaccompanied by
parents, passing a football to each other, careless of the
sun-warmed rain. From MacArthur Park, we smelled hot dogs and
tamales, and from the tightly packed shops, we heard the festivity
and longing of Hispanic tunes.
If I close my eyes, as instructed by cliche, I can still feel
the energy and activity of that place ““ the creative
potential that might be actualized under a freer economic system.
And yet, I find it hard to believe that “that place” is
indeed the heart of my hometown, Los Angeles.
All eyes were on us. There is only one good reason that a couple
of college kids would drive onto Alvarado Street, and everyone
there knows it. At the corner of 6th and Alvarado, a middle-aged,
mustached man noticed us and gave us that quaint gesture, the
unmistakable rotating wrist.
And just like that, my friend had pulled over, and we were
following the stranger called Pablo toward a one-hour photo shop.
“Are you a cop?” my friend and negotiator asked.
“No. Are you a cop?” Pablo asked in a heavy, almost
incomprehensible accent. It all seemed so comical.
“For you,” he continued, now looking at me, “I
suggest Ohio ID. One hundred twenty dollar.” We meandered
smoothly down to $50, and our deal was made.
The tiny photo shop was crammed with spectators ““
children, grandparents, unemployed adults, the neighborhood dog. I
was told I needed a name. “Rossi,” I announced.
“Vincent Rossi.”
“Ahh, Rossi,” one of them chuckled. “Italiano,
si?” I nodded. “Where you live?” Pablo asked.
“Columbus, Ohio,” I said.
“OK, now picture,” said the small photo-shop owner,
pointing to the blue construction paper posted on the wall. I took
my position and without delay or hesitation, the picture was taken.
No curtains drawn, no doors closed, no precautions observed. The
whole affair was wide open for everyone on the outside to see. It
was so naked and ordinary. They told us to come back in an
hour.
On the record (though not quite for it), it had not occurred to
me at the time that acquiring the fake ID might be the wrong thing
to do ““ my only fear was the prospect of being caught. And,
as I plowed through my noodles in a shack of a restaurant in
Koreatown, I discovered why.
It seems so clear that an individual who can smoke, vote, work,
serve in the military and get married should also be able to drink.
The age restriction on alcohol stands against my rights as a
self-directed individual. These are rights that precede the
existence of any government or law.
But at the same time, I thought that if I were ticketed or
arrested, I would have absolutely no defense. The policeman would
have to (and should) enforce the law that it is his duty to
enforce.
It was the issue of rule of law versus my individual rights.
Ideally, both should be aligned. But in this case, they
aren’t. So I felt at ease exercising my rights and accepting
potential legal punishment at the same time.
These deliberations lasted until the end of the hour, but the
operation at Alvarado Street was not yet finished. We were told to
wait an additional 20 minutes. And after that, 10. And finally, at
long last, I had it right in my hands.
Scannable. Backlight testable. Holograms. Clean picture. Air
bubbles? Just one small one ““ no one will notice that. And so
I was down 50 bucks and up three years as I jumped back into the
car, now in the pouring rain. “Wait, does it bend?” I
asked my friend, as we pulled away.
He took it from me, flexed it, and, in hasty examination ““
snap!
A big, unambiguous crease right down the middle. A surefire
loser. All of this hassle for naught ““ what a waste. But
nothing could be done about it because within a minute we were
already long gone.
The cheap coats, and bargain jewelry and Pablo were now behind
us, and we were back on Grand Avenue, Walt Disney Concert Hall and
fine dining. I was feeling peculiarly content, the buildings now
towering and lavish on this side of town. Even the rain had stopped
here ““ at the sudden border of muddle and metropolis ““
as if to honor my admission into high society, with my deformed ID
as proof.
Hovannisian is a second-year history and philosophy student.
E-mail him at [email protected]. Send general comments to
[email protected].
