The end of the gym story: This morning, I had my driver's license in my hand, held it up and out to the lady and just kept walking. Richie held his up and started walking ... and she barked, "Hold it! I have to check both of you in." Sheepishly, we walked back to the desk. Richie was closer; he held out his license and she pored over it, then handed it back and told him to have a good workout. I handed her my license and while she was staring at it, she demanded bruskly, "What's your birth date?" I told her; she handed it back and I went on my way. She. was. looking. right. at. my. picture. (Gritted teeth.) Which has my birthdate printed underneath it. Minor power; major attitude, ya know?
Richie apparently made a scene at the desk on his way out yesterday; demanded the manager's phone number; she scribbled an 800 number; we got home and he called it. It rang, Verizon picked up, ran a short ad and disconnected. Richie finally talked to someone (in Jamaica) and she said that was not the corporate practice. She must have told someone in the States, because a guy called Richie. Who said she had no authority over local franchises. And, yes, we do have to show our driver's licenses.
Incidentally during check-in this morning, an entire spin class flashed their driver's licenses and trooped right on up the stairs.
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