Like so many parents, my mom and dad put together a “baby book” for me, complete with photos of my infant and toddler years, notes on my first words, a copy of my preschool “diploma,” and other keepsakes. So one evening when I was about 22, my girlfriend and I were going out to see some live music, and I couldn‘t find my ID anywhere. I thought of the baby book. “Well, there is that,“ I thought; “hard to fake that!“ So I brought it along.
We got to the night club, the Key Largo just off West Burnside, and there was a small line of people to get in. We waited and finally got to the front. “I.D. please,“ the front bouncer said. I was ready with the book. “Well, I don’t have my I.D.; I couldn’t find it,” I began, trying to project just the right combination of unassailable authority and humble subservience, “but I do have clear proof of age right here ---” I pulled out the creamy white baby book with the depiction of three frolicking bunnies and the words “a Record of Baby Days“ emblazoned on the front. He looked down at the book, then back up at me, not sure how to react. I gave him no time to ponder as I opened it to page one, holding it kind of off to the side so we could both look at the pictures together. “Now see here?” I pointed. “These are my footprints from when I was first born, and you see the date, 1961? And here’s a lock of hair from my first haircut, March 1962, it says it right there.” I showed him the “Graduation From Babyhood” certificate from Paul’s Barber Shop with the little packet of baby hair stapled onto it. The line was starting to get longer behind us. “Now this is me with Santa -- and look what’s printed right here on the edge of the photo: ‘12/18/62.’ Clearly I can’t be more than 2 years old in that photo. And now here...
By this point the bouncer was feeling under some pressure to move things along. Maybe that’s why he suddenly interrupted me (rather rudely, I thought) with a thunderous, “OKAY, ENOUGH! I get it!….Just….GET INSIDE!“
We went in and had an enjoyable evening. It had all gone quite smoothly.
I noticed a few people who’d been behind us in line furtively pointing in our direction and snickering. But I didn’t mind. We had accomplished our goal. And besides, I had been systematically desensitized from any feelings of personal pride or social humiliation long before that.
Inane vignettes on shit you can thank God didn't happen to you
