I don't drink alcohol. I used to, when I was much younger. I never used a fake ID, like a lot of my contemporaries. To be honest, I didn't think it was necessary, as the legal drinking age in New Jersey was 18 when I turned 18... and New Jersey was just a short drive and a ten-cent bridge toll from my house. Prior to that, I drank in several New Jersey establishments that almost never asked to see anyone's ID. As long as you laid low and didn't draw any attention to yourself, an underage drinker, like myself, could happily be served all the cheap beer they could consume. And — save for a few harrowing, cringe-worthy incidents — my friends and I knew our limits.
In the summer of 1979, I turned 18. Just after graduation from high school, a couple of friends and I spent a few days in Atlantic City. After securing a room in our favorite shitty rooming house, I headed out to make my first
legal purchase of alcohol at a liquor store. My friend Alan would not turn 18 for another month and my friend Scott had to wait until the following January, but Josh was here to make sure their alcohol consumption was free-flowing and uninterrupted. We approached the front entrance of Chelsea Liquors and I pulled open the door. Alan and Scott stayed behind, peering through the glass of the front window like two puppies waiting for their owner to return with treats. Chelsea Liquors was a long narrow store with a main aisle flanked by cases of beer and bottles of hard liquor. I slowly strolled along the aisle grabbing two six packs of Genesee Cream Ale (a favorite beverage at the time) and made my way to the counter at the rear of the store. Two older men, around my father's age and looking just as stern, stood on the other side of the counter giving me the once-over as I dropped the beer on the faux Formica countertop. One of the men muttered, "ID?" and I confidently pulled my little wallet from my back pocket, extracted my driver's license and presented it to the man to silently answer his inquiry. In my mind, I puffed out
"Read it and weep, motherfucker. As of yesterday, I have graced this planet for eighteen years." In reality, I said nothing, as I was too nervous to form any words. Besides, no words would never make it past the enormous lump in my throat. The man examined my license from over the top of his glasses. He looked at me, at my license, at me again... then handed my driver's license back to me. I paid for the beer, grabbed my purchase and began to make the thirty-five mile walk back to the front door. I half-expected to be chased or have sirens go off or have the front door suddenly get blocked by automatic bars descending from the ceiling like in a James Bond movie. But —
no — none of that happened. I was
legally permitted to purchase alcoholic beverages in any amount under the laws of New Jersey. And that is exactly what I did. And from that point forward, I did it a
lot.
On occasion, on a weekend evening with nothing to do, a friend and I would borrow my mom's car and drive across the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge with our destination being the reliable old Roger Wilco liquor store, a long-time fixture on Route 73 just over the Pennsylvania-New jersey border. Here, we would purchase a single quart of Ortlieb's Beer for eighty cents and return to my Philadelphia home to consume it. The whole deal, including the 10 cent bridge toll in both directions, cost a buck. Not bad for a little Friday night entertainment. Yeah, yeah, I know, crossing state boundaries with alcohol is strictly
verboten. But it was the 70s. We were stupid and, most importantly, we never got caught.
On the night before Thanksgiving 1983, I stopped drinking. By this time, I had reached the legal drinking age in Pennsylvania and took full advantage of the situation. My friend Scott and my friend Sam decided that we would see how much alcohol our bodies could tolerate. We found ourselves at the bar of The Dickens Inn, a British-themed pub in the historic section of Philadelphia. Here, we downed a few beers while we engaged in conversation with a couple of British sailors who were stationed on a ship docked on the Delaware River. We tried our darndest to keep up with their drinking, but our lightweight Northeast Philadelphia Jewish sensibilities were no match for their hard-drinking, seafaring ways. Soon, the bartender began plying us with shots of peppermint schnapps and beer chasers. Those sailor
literally drank us under the table. I say "literally," because that where I ended up — under the table. To be more accurate, I wound up on my ass at the bottom of a flight of stairs. I was carried out of the place by Scott and Sam and loaded into Scott's car, but not before I was warned: "If you puke in my car, you are walking the rest of the way home." To Scott's satisfaction, I waited until I got home to throw up my guts. And with a houseful of people arriving for Thanksgiving the next day, I managed to crawl out of bed just as the last guests were leaving. I missed dinner while I prayed for sweet death to alleviate the throbbing in my head.
And I officially retired from the ranks of drinkers.
A few nights ago, Mrs. Pincus and I hosted the 38th annual
"Night Before Thanksgiving" dessert party at our house. Over the years, the guest list has changed considerably from family to friends to our
son's friends, most of whom seem to enjoy the festivities and being included more that anyone else. My son and his friends like to drink alcoholic beverages and, in recent years, I have purchased whatever was requested. This year, my son asked for a selection of Downeast hard cider, something I had to write down for fear I'd forget what I was looking for when I went to the liquor store. Since I work in New Jersey and pass the aforementioned Roger Wilco on a daily basis, I would pick up this Downeast stuff on my way home. A day or so before the party, I pulled into Roger Wilco's parking lot. I grabbed a shopping cart and entered the store. The place was enormous. Of course, I had not been inside since I purchased that eighty cent bottle of beer over forty years ago. There was an entire
other room filled with Home Depot-like shelving stocked with beer, ale and cider in colorful packaging. It was very overwhelming. I asked a salesperson for the location of Downeast cider and he led me down an aisle past a few shelving units, pointing out the small boxes on an eye-left shelf. I would have never found it on my own. I loaded three 9-packs (who ever heard of a
9-pack?) into my cart and went back to check out. I snaked my way through the queue line and up to a young lady at a cash register. She greeted me with a half-smile and I placed the three boxes on the counter. Then, to my surprise, she asked me for ID. "Excuse me?' I said, knowing damn well what she just asked, but I needed to hear it again. I am 61 years old. I have a head full of.... well, not full.... but what's left of my hair is white. And sparse. And thin. Unfazed, she asked again. "ID," she said. I tried to stifle a laugh as I pulled my wallet from my back pocket and fumbled to remove my driver's license. Suddenly, I was transported back to Chelsea Liquors and that guy peering over the tops of his hornrims at my Pennsylvania-issued identification. That lump in my throat had even returned. I passed my license to the young lady — who couldn't have been older than twenty-one. Without even
looking at my license, she handed it back to me and said "Thanks," punctuated by a snap of her chewing gum. Just like all those years back in Chelsea Liquors, I thought to myself:
"ID? ID? Young lady, I am nearly as old as this building!" But, of course, I said nothing. I paid — a lot more than two six-packs of Genesee Cream Ale cost. I put my purchases behind the back seat of my car. Crossing the state line with alcohol is
still illegal, though.
But are they really gonna stop an old guy who doesn't drink?
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