The Age Verification Tribunal

Absurd Geometry Field Notes No. 100

We arrived at the bar entirely unprepared for inspection.

This was because we were in a college town, where the established method of entry appeared to be walking confidently toward the door and being absorbed into the building. It did not occur to either of us that we would be singled out for age verification, largely because everyone around us looked significantly younger.

I had even handed my ID to my friend ahead of time so she could hold onto it, which in hindsight was an administrative error.

We were immediately pulled aside.

“ID,” the gatekeeper said.

This request triggered a full internal audit of my friend’s purse.

What followed was less a search and more an archaeological dig. She began checking every pocket, slot, zipper, and hidden chamber known to modern handbag engineering. Cards emerged one by one, each offering a brief moment of hope before being dismissed.

Costco card. Not it.
AAA and A.A. membership. No wonder she’s never available on Thursday nights. Also not it.
Kidney donor card. Admirable, but not it.
O’Reilly’s coupon card. Also not it.

Meanwhile, the line continued moving at a speed not previously thought possible. At some point the entrance process lost all visible structure and became, essentially, open borders. People poured in freely, one after the other, waved through with the confidence of those who had never once been asked to explain themselves.

And they were young.

Not abstractly young. Not “you can never tell these days” young. I mean visibly, undeniably, aggressively young. The kind of young that makes you feel ancient simply by standing near it. At this point, we could have plausibly been mistaken for their parents.

I finally said, “Sir, this is absurd. Look at all those kids. They are perfectly formed in a line carrying lunch boxes and you’re just waving them in like this is a broken traffic light.”

He looked offended.

“Miss,” he said, “you shouldn’t be judging others by their looks. And don’t tell me how to do my job. I decide who is young or not young at this point of entrance.”

This was a surprising statement from a man who had detained us exclusively on visual intuition.

I informed him that some of these individuals appeared to be disembarking directly from a school bus.

He remained unmoved.

At one point, I am almost certain I saw McLovin walk straight into the establishment without inspection.

“That’s McLovin,” I said. “He has already confessed on national television to being underage and using a fake ID. This has been thoroughly documented.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you watch on TV,” the gatekeeper replied. “Or read on the weather report.”

Still, the investigation continued.

Matters became more complicated when an obviously pregnant woman approached the entrance and was denied admission.

“Why are you turning her away?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “she’s pregnant, so the baby is clearly underage, and I don’t want to lose my job for violating protocol.”

He then shouted, “Okay, have a good night,” at the woman, as though this resolved the matter.

My friend returned to the archaeology of her purse. More compartments were searched. More false leads emerged. Entire identity systems were reviewed. Time passed. The venue filled. Somewhere inside, songs began and ended. New surface level friendships formed. Degrees may have been completed.

Finally, both IDs were located.

They were handed over.

The gatekeeper examined them carefully. Then he looked at us. Then back at the IDs. Then back at us again, as though attempting to reconcile two incompatible timelines.

At last, he delivered his ruling.

“You look so young,” he said, “but you are so old.”

And with that, we were admitted.

No apology was issued. We had been measured, misjudged, and admitted all the same.