Every morning, at 7 a.m., I resume my shift as security guard at the front gate of Club Pali, the most exclusive establishment in L.A. You can’t just walk in here. You need a working current physical student ID. None of those Infinite Campus fakes.

I’ve been manning this door for six years. Every day, minors try to sneak in, claiming they “go here.” Please. You think I can’t tell a forged student ID from a real one? I cut them up on sight.

By 8:25 a.m., the line stretches down Ocean Avenue all the way to the Sunset Strip. The crowd skews young.

A freshman pleads with me. “I forgot my physical ID. Can I just show you my Infinite Campus? Please sir, I have a math test first period,” he whines.

“Math test?” I check the clipboard. “I don’t see them on tonight’s setlist.”

Mrs. Saxon witnesses this encounter and looks concerned. “You know this is not a club…right?” she says. “Then why is there a dress code and ID requirement?” I contend. She walks away, muttering something about not getting paid enough for this. 

Inside Club Pali, it’s chaos. Fluorescent lights flash. Audio Sounds Beats (ASB) DJs play Fight Song x Passing Period Bell Remix. There’s bottle service in the cafeteria. At least, I assume. I’ve never been inside, but I once heard a student say they took trigonometry. Sounds illegal.

Then, it’s lunchtime, and some seniors leave. They must be going to the Pink Pony Club in West Hollywood. 

I do crowd control outside the VIP basement area. 

At 3 p.m., everyone leaves. They must be going to Rocco’s.

I lock the gate, take one last look at the empty quad, and nod. Some say I take my job too seriously. But I am the last line of defense between Pali and the streets of Santa Monica. This city sleeps easily because I don’t.