Fear.
I got my first fake ID when I was thirteen. Back then it was just for cigarettes (only nineteen), but every time I walked into the store I was scared out of my wits. For those of you who don't know I was about six feet when I was twelve. I don't think my height was the convincing factor for the men behind the local bodega, I think he just wanted to make money off me. I tried to compensate for my fear. I'd talk to the guy behind the counter; try to strike up a repertoire... or something. Still, every time I could feel the heat on my face of his scrutinizing look. By then it was already too late, I had crossed the Rubicon.
From the second I approached the door I'd feel a sudden pain in my chest, right around where I figured my heart might be. The kind of feeling you get right before a test you know you haven't studied enough for. My strategy was always right in right out. No fooling around; no pretending to look at things I wasn't going to buy. No suspicious behavior. I think I failed every time. There was always something. A new guy behind the desk. A white man chatting with the clerk. Is he a cop? Maybe just the owner. Just as bad either way. Wait, pretend you're interested in skittles? or charge right in and give your spiel. What year was I born in again? '79? Chirst, what if he notices the expiration date is wrong? Or swipes it. By the time I was done worrying I had already made my purchase and was blocks away.
It never got easier either. By the time I was fifteen my ID hit twenty one and I moved up to beer and liquor. I've had a sordid relationship with harder drugs, but liquor was always the preferred alternative.
I hope my mother doesn't read that last sentence. Too late now. No point worrying, just have to push on. Get it out and go.
In retrospect it seems as if those first three years really prepared my for the later trials of grubby liquor stores and sleazy men behind their counters. I'm willing to bet that more than one of them pegged my for underage right off the bat and charged my extra. I would have gladly paid the price to reduce the fear. In all fairness it wasn't entirely unwarranted. In the seven or so years I used a fake I only got caught once, but that was more than enough. It was like the avalanche that had been chasing me my whole life finally catching up with me. For someone who will risk life and limb in a bar brawl, my friends find this characterization of my fears very amusing.
Two hundred and seventeen more days before I will finally reach twenty one. With the end in sight, ever trip to the liquor store brings forth the question: When its all over and done, will I still feel this pain? this fear? or will it finally be laid to rest?
Taken from: The fears of Jim Tzenes
I got my first fake ID when I was thirteen. Back then it was just for cigarettes (only nineteen), but every time I walked into the store I was scared out of my wits. For those of you who don't know I was about six feet when I was twelve. I don't think my height was the convincing factor for the men behind the local bodega, I think he just wanted to make money off me. I tried to compensate for my fear. I'd talk to the guy behind the counter; try to strike up a repertoire... or something. Still, every time I could feel the heat on my face of his scrutinizing look. By then it was already too late, I had crossed the Rubicon.
From the second I approached the door I'd feel a sudden pain in my chest, right around where I figured my heart might be. The kind of feeling you get right before a test you know you haven't studied enough for. My strategy was always right in right out. No fooling around; no pretending to look at things I wasn't going to buy. No suspicious behavior. I think I failed every time. There was always something. A new guy behind the desk. A white man chatting with the clerk. Is he a cop? Maybe just the owner. Just as bad either way. Wait, pretend you're interested in skittles? or charge right in and give your spiel. What year was I born in again? '79? Chirst, what if he notices the expiration date is wrong? Or swipes it. By the time I was done worrying I had already made my purchase and was blocks away.
It never got easier either. By the time I was fifteen my ID hit twenty one and I moved up to beer and liquor. I've had a sordid relationship with harder drugs, but liquor was always the preferred alternative.
I hope my mother doesn't read that last sentence. Too late now. No point worrying, just have to push on. Get it out and go.
In retrospect it seems as if those first three years really prepared my for the later trials of grubby liquor stores and sleazy men behind their counters. I'm willing to bet that more than one of them pegged my for underage right off the bat and charged my extra. I would have gladly paid the price to reduce the fear. In all fairness it wasn't entirely unwarranted. In the seven or so years I used a fake I only got caught once, but that was more than enough. It was like the avalanche that had been chasing me my whole life finally catching up with me. For someone who will risk life and limb in a bar brawl, my friends find this characterization of my fears very amusing.
Two hundred and seventeen more days before I will finally reach twenty one. With the end in sight, ever trip to the liquor store brings forth the question: When its all over and done, will I still feel this pain? this fear? or will it finally be laid to rest?
Taken from: The fears of Jim Tzenes
posted by jim at 9/04/2005 01:09:00 AM
2 Comments:
I think the whole point was my irrational fear of possible punishment. Coupled with the possibility of it being there even when I was 21, I was pointing out how we are conditioned to follow the law.
Sociology has long ago realized that the social penalties (what I meant by punishment) of certain actions do not correlate with the legal ones. What's more it is those which determine our conditioning. And I think even you follow some of them out of fear of social repercussions.
Post a Comment
<< Home