At the liquor store where I work, we are required to ID everyone – and I do mean EVERYONE – who wants to purchase alcohol, and anyone who comes in with them. Failure to do so is a fireable offense, bottom line. It doesn’t matter who they are or what they look like; if Jesus and Noah and Methuselah walked in and Methuselah didn’t have an ID, and I sell Jesus and Noah their drinks, I’m fired.

In comes a VERY wrinkled fellow with the most gorgeous head of grey hair I’ve ever seen, complete with a well-trimmed beard. He strides into the store, picks out a few drinks with the most practiced of ease, brings them to the counter, and starts pulling out cash to pay with.

Me: “ID, please.”

Customer: “Are you f****** kidding me?!”

Me: “Sorry, store policy. I cannot sell alcohol to anyone without an ID, or I’m fired.”

Customer: “Are you f****** kidding me? Look at me, I’m obviously old enough to drink.”

Me: “Then you can show me an ID, and we’ll be good to go.”

Grumbling, [Customer] storms out of the store. I set the drinks aside in case he comes back in (not the first person who’s done this), and sure enough, he arrives with his wallet.

Customer: “Here. Here’s my f****** ID.”

I don’t have words for the bafflement I feel when I look at the ID, and this guy is freshly sixteen as of yesterday. I look between him and the ID for a couple of moments, and it’s the same wrinkled, grey-haired fellow in the photo as is standing before me.

Me: “…I’m sorry, I can’t sell this to you.”

Customer: “You f****** liar! You said you’d sell me the drinks if I brought the f****** ID!”

Me: “And you said you were old enough to drink, so I think we’re even.”

[Customer] swears at me a couple more times and storms out of the store, and I leave the drinks aside to be put away later.

I’m still trying to figure out if it was an exceptional makeup job and fake ID, or if I’d just gotten a visit from Benjamin Button.