can you see the real me

The Real ID Act of 2005 is a United States federal law that standardized requirements for driver's licenses and identification cards issued by US states and territories in order to be accepted for accessing US government facilities, nuclear power plants, and for boarding airline flights in the United States. State certification for Real IDs began in 2012 (seven years after the acts implication. Thanks government!) and sort of slowed down immediately (Thanks, government!). My home state — Pennsylvania — received its Real ID certification in 2019. Earlier this year, the US government issued this very stern warning: "Starting May 7, 2025, a federally accepted form of identification — such as a REAL ID, U.S. passport, or military ID — will be required to board domestic flights and enter certain federal facilities" — delivered with a "we ain't shittin' around this time" immediacy. 

My driver's license comes up for renewal in August 2025. I just renewed my United States passport last year, replacing the one that I was issued in 2013 and served me well through many cruises. In order to obtain a passport, I had to supply a federal government agency proof of my United States citizenship, a photo identification, a 2 inch x 2 inch photograph of myself offering the blankest of blank expressions, a completed DS-11 form (including such information as my height, eye color, occupation, other names I may have used in my life and my Social Security number) and a check for $130. Because I currently possess a valid United States government-issued passport, guess what I really don't need? That's right. A Real ID. 

Be that as it may, I decided to gather all of the required documentation and get myself one of them there Real IDs. The Commonwealth of Pennsylvania (just like our friends Kentucky, Massachusetts and Virginia, Pennsylvania is technically not a state) requires the following physical, original hard copies to be presented and examined by one of their crack authentication experts before they feel comfortable in handing over a Real ID. A typical "expert" employed by PennDOT (Pennsylvania Department of Transportation, our DVM, if you will) is usually identified by pants that are too short, revealing droopy, grayish socks inserted into well-worn sandals, a threadbare shirt that sports a plastic pocket protector overstuffed with pens, markers and highlighters of all sorts, a head of unkempt hair and pair of glasses whose lenses are held together by surgical tape. The female counterparts display housecoats similar to the ones my grandmother wore in the late 1970s. Both male and female employees wear an official-looking lanyard, resplendent with keys, magnetic swipe cards and various other clear plastic-sheathed identification — along with some sort of "milestone of employment" pin or a funny little plush clip-on animal. These folks are tasked with scrutinizing the various forms of identification presented by hopeful Real ID applicants. They are the final word on who passes muster and who gets booted on a technicality. They wield a lot of power considering they look as though they all got dressed in the dark, and remained there for the rest of their career. I read and re-read the requirements and assembled (what I surmised) was a valid selection of pertinent identifying papers from the list on the PennDOT website. I grabbed my passport, my Social Security card, a W-2 form from my most recent tax return and a physical paystub from my last paycheck. The last two are to prove my legal residence in Pennsylvania. I could have presented a utility bill or a vehicle registration, but those items are (and have always been) in my wife's name. Aside from a W-2 and a paystub, I can't really prove that I live where I claim to. Of course, I have my nearly-expired driver's license, too.

Real IDs are not offered for immediate receipt in every outlet that PennDOT maintains throughout the Greater Philadelphia area. The only one close to me is about 22 miles away. They offer unusual office hours to accommodate people who work for a living. The only day I could clear without interrupting my work schedule is Saturday. That is also the only day that everyone else in the Delaware Valley finds convenient. Hoping to outsmart to average person, I decided to get to the PennDOT facility a few hours before their 8:30 AM scheduled opening. So, early (re: 6 AM) on Saturday morning, I drove out to the King of Prussia PennDOT office. Imagine my surprise when I pulled into the parking lot to find a line of at least 30 people already queued up at the entrance and snaking into the parking lot. Some had come prepared with collapsible camp chairs. Others brought a book or Kindle. Some sipped coffee from take-out cups and others poked around in a crumpled bag for a doughnut or breakfast sandwich. I hadn't seen lines like this since Beanie Babies were sending avid collectors and harried parents into a frenzy. Folks were chatting as though they were stuck in a slow-moving line waiting to purchase concert tickets or experience a particularly popular theme park ride.

I took my place behind a teenage girl and a woman I assumed was her mother. They sat in separate chairs and occupied their time by scrolling their cellphones and munching on something they kept pulling from their own Dunkin Donuts bag and shoving into their mouths. I overheard a man a little ahead of me tell another that he had gone to the previous night's Phillies-Yankees game in New York. He explained that he got home so late that he just stayed up all night because he knew he'd be coming here early. He also added — without any prompting of inquiry — that the new Yankee Stadium is like a domed stadium without the dome. (I'm still not sure what that means.)

No sooner did I take my place in line, people began pouring out of cars and queueing up behind me. Within minutes, there were fifty, sixty, seventy people behind me. Every so often, I turned to check the progress of the line. There must have been nearly two hundred more anxious Real ID hopefuls ...maybe more that that. 

Several employees scooted between the folks in line to punch in a code and get into the building to start their workday. About thirty minutes before the posted opening time, in a very un-government office fashion, a few employees appeared alongside the line to inquire each individuals plans and to distribute clipboards equipped with the proper forms to be filled in while we waited. It was a surprisingly efficient course of action.

After a while, a sad-looking agent approached me. She was holding a plastic bin filled with clipboards and she had just finished telling a woman in front of me that the papers she brought to prove that her married name was indeed her name were, in fact, invalid in the unwavering, unforgiving eyes of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania and her, as its sworn representative. The woman, expressing her anger and disappointment, asked plaintively: "So, I'm done here?" The sad-looking Commonwealth agent coldly replied: "Unless you have the proper, required form." The woman angrily folded up her chair and stormed off to her car. The agent asked for the purpose of my visit today. I replied that I'd like to get a Real ID, as I fished around in my wallet for my Social Security card. She asked for my passport or birth certificate. I handed over my passport, even taking care to open it to the page with my photo and printed information. As she examined my passport, she asked for my Social Security card, which I happily presented.

She scrunched up her nose as she looked at my Social Security card through squinted eyes. "What's this?," she questioned, pointing an accusing finger as the prominent letter "M" on the card, comfortably wedged between "Josh" and "Pincus." I applied for and received my Social Security card in 1972 when I was 11 years old. My brother, four years my senior, had just been hired for his first job which required a Social Security number. My forward-thinking, always pragmatic mother, filled out a form for me at the same time. For reasons only known to my mother (dead 34 years now), she entered my name as "Josh M. Pincus." I have never ever ever used my middle name or even my middle initial. Ever. My middle initial does not appear on any other piece of recognized and accepted piece of identification in my possession. But there it was, on my Social Security Card, just above my stupid little boy's signature. "It's not on your passport," she announced with a slight tone of disdain in her early-morning voice. "I realize that.," I said, "It is not on anything! I never use it." "Well," she began to get indignant, "it has to match exactly." I stared at her. I wasn't about to get into an argument with a government worker who only knows the script she memorized on Day One of her employment. Much like a Terminator, government workers can't be bargained with, can't be reasoned with. They don't feel pity, or remorse, or fear. And they absolutely will not give in to your feeble excuses. It became pretty clear that I was not getting a Real ID today. At this point, the sad-looking agent moved on to the next potential applicant and I was told to — in no uncertain terms — "Hit the showers, rookie. You're throwing beachballs." Although I offered my US government-issued passport — a document that will guaranteed me admission to any country on this planet — it was about as useful as a used Kleenex to this certified agent of the Commonwealth. Dejected, I walked over to my car.

On my drive home, I silently argued the pros and cons of a Real ID to myself. I really don't need one. But now, it's me against the state... er.... Commonwealth. I was determined to get one just because that sad little woman told me I couldn't. I called my wife and related the events of the events of my morning. By the time I got home, she had already located my birth certificate, compete with my full middle name, not just that troublesome "M." I'm going to try again next Saturday to get a Real ID.

Even though I really don't need one.

Footnote: Oh, by the way, what does that pesky "M." stand for? It stands for "none of your goddamn business."

www.joshpincusiscrying.com

liquored up and lacquered down

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?

www.joshpincusiscrying.com