True Life: Undercover and Underage

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Ahh...my favorite time of year is just around the corner. I'm anxiously awaiting the arrival of March 5^th , not because I want to get stupid drunk and make a complete ass out of myself, but because I want to bust the hell out of all the deviant underagers that think they can outsmart me. I'm the last girl you want to meet at a bar and it's not because I'll give you gonorrhea (although I might, who knows [Editor's Note: She will.]). I will make you trust me. I will make you fall in love with me. And then I will make you fall 300 bucks in the red and spend the evening in a paddy wagon with your fellow degenerates. I am THAT girl; the one who infiltrates bars and directs the cops towards the kids who have yet to reach puberty but are holding vodka crans. My name is Lindsey and I work undercover in bars to bust underage drinkers.

I keep pretty busy throughout the year, combing through every bar in pursuit of particularly nervous-looking victims. I see every sleeve-pull intended to camouflage bare wrists. I laugh when I hear girls debating about whether the old guys in the corner are cops or their next sugar daddies. I prey on floppy young boys anxiously twirling their hair through their fingers. It may sound cruel, but here's how I see it: if I can't drink, you can't drink. I'm one of the few that actually respects the law by rejecting societal norms and refusing to consume alcohol until I am of legal age. So until my 21^st birthday rolls around, I will track down those who think that they're above the system, Dog the Bounty Hunter style.

I know that it all sounds glamorous, but being a narc isn't easy. Instead of using my ravishing good looks to get notches in my bedpost, I use them to fool unsuspecting youngsters into sharing a drink with me or revealing the bold, black "U" stamped on their hand. Someone has to teach these kids a lesson, and not a day goes by that I'm not thankful that it's me. Sure, sometimes I have to forgo the chance for a good bed-rock in the line of duty, but it's for the greater good. And although my life is usually full of hate mail and burning poop on my stoop instead of friends and voluntary social interaction, I have but one bright spot in a sea of depression and self-loathing: Unofficial.

On this day, I eagerly wake up at the crack of 7 a.m., throw on my most padded bra, cut a revealing slit in my "Unoffic-ILL" shirt, and hit the streets. Immediately I spot some hoodlums suppressing giggles between sips out of their flashy commuter mugs. I quickly flip open my wallet and demand they cough up some IDs and remove the lids from their mugs to allow me to get a good whiff. Thankfully, they're too drunk to notice that I just flashed my I-card. Once I confirm that their mugs are, in fact, filled with whiskey (Canadian Club to boot, traitors) and they are a ripe 18 years old, I quickly walkie talkie to the men in charge that we have a situation at 4^th and Green. That's two perps off the street, out of the hospital, and miserable on their first Unofficial. And it's only 8:00 a.m.

The rest of the day proceeds in a similar fashion. I bust people sneaking beers on the back of the bus, stealthily hiding behind poles when cops roll by, and even sippin' sizzurp in their parked cars! The young folk will absolutely stop at nothing to get their fix on this revered holiday. Unluckily for them, I will stop at nothing to make sure they are taken out of the public eye and heavily fined for their wrongdoings. Hopefully these drunkies realize that I'm doing them a favor; I'm sparing them from regrettable hookups in the alley behind Hometown Pantry, consumption of an excess of 10,000 calories in their walk down Green Street, and potentially getting hit by a bus. By the end of the day, I'll have helped the cops round up hundreds, if not thousands, of overly confident outlaws.

Although I may not get properly recognized by the people I "help" (because I instead get tormented), I have the satisfaction of knowing that I had an impact on their lives. On Unofficial alone, I'm able to prevent at least two deaths and raise millions of dollars for the broke-ass city of Champaign. That's quite the feat for a glorified tattletale and on this one day of the year, I can confidently say that my accomplishments rival the efforts of the entire campus community combined. All in a day's work.

 

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