We both have the same mind. And time and time we have so much to share
“I’m a college student,” he says, and then follows my eyes as I look at the high school letter jacket that says “Nick ’07.” “Almost,” he finishes, giggling.
Earlier in the afternoon, he had come to see “Dreamgirls” at the theater, and when he handed me the ticket, he asked me if I’d seen it. “Of course, “ I said, “It was very enjoyable.”
“I have the original cast recording with Jennifer Holiday, and I just can’t believe that Jennifer Hudson is better than her.” He stated, sure of himself.
“Well, Jennifer Holiday is a legend, and since she made the role famous when it came out originally, it will be hard for anyone to be compared to her.” I am not really doing anything but making idle chat waiting for the next person to buy their ticket so I can rip it and tell them which way their theater is. I don’t normally work at the movie theater on Mondays, but someone called off, and I had the day off my regular job because of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
“Well,” Nick said, “I’ll tell you what I think of it,” and he walked to see the movie.
I hadn’t even thought of the conversation when suddenly, two hours later, he is standing next to me, gushing.
“It was so much better than I’d hoped it would be. Jennifer Hudson was perfect in the role.”
“They waited so long to make it, I’m sure they knew how to cast it.” I say this not to make conversation, really, just because I didn’t know what else to say.
“Beyonce was good, but she can’t hold a candle to Jennifer Hudson as a singer.” He seems to hesitate, not sure what else to say. “I can’t believe they are pushing Jennifer for the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, she clearly is a lead.”
“Oh,” I say, “I didn’t realize that is what was going on.”
There is an awkward pause, and I’m hoping more moviegoers come by so I can tear their tickets and this kid won’t hang around.
He looks at me shyly, eyes not quite meeting mine. “We could go somewhere and talk about the movie,” he says, and then much quieter “or anything else.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I don’t know what is going on, but I am not comfortable, not the least because I am more than twice his age. So I decide to state that fact. “I am too old for you,” is what I say, because “You are too young” seems silly or maybe hurtful.
“I don’t mind.” He says, and the crack in his voice is almost heartbreaking to hear. I am impressed that he is this brave, and saddened that it is for not. “I like older men,” he continues with a stronger voice, almost singing it. And that is when he says “I’m a college student,” and then forced to add “almost,” with his giggle.
“I was in college before you were born,” is all I can come up with to reply, smiling at him and shaking my head.
“Well, let me have your number, and I’ll call you about the movie.” He somehow makes this sound less desperate than I imagined.
I want to tell him to run away from all the older men who will use him for a quick fuck as he hopes to find someone worthy of him. I want him to know more of the world before he rolls around, sweaty and naked, with some guy just to be able to understand that it is about age & experience sometimes. I want him to fall in love and have his heart broken, just to learn that it can be mended and he can love again.
But I don’t want to be that person. “I don’t think that is going to happen. But I’m sure I’ll see you when I work here.”
He smiles at me and walks away slowly. He stops, comes back and from his wallet pulls out some paper, picks up the pen on my desk and writes on it, and hands it to me. “If you want to call me sometime you can,” he says and walks away.
I am a bit flush with the excitement of someone flirting with me, someone so innocent that they don’t mind the 20 years difference, someone who is so new to this that they look past my flaws that are, to me, glaring. And I am saddened that I won’t be able to look at myself without seeing these perceived flaws that prevent me from being myself.
I look at the paper, and he has written his name with a big smiley face on it. Clearly, he is too young and wide eyed for someone as jaded as me. He needs to go to college and fall for an upperclassmen who will treat him well for a while before breaking his heart. Or maybe that first one will work out, and I am just a cynical old queen.
As I leave an hour later, walking through the hallways where the theaters are to exit near my car, I rip up his number, dropping little pieces in each of the garbage can. I am excited that someone was brave enough to do that, to put themselves out there, for me. But I won’t be the man to break this kids heart. And with more than 20 years between us, that is how it would end.
Good luck Nick. And good luck to me.
Earlier in the afternoon, he had come to see “Dreamgirls” at the theater, and when he handed me the ticket, he asked me if I’d seen it. “Of course, “ I said, “It was very enjoyable.”
“I have the original cast recording with Jennifer Holiday, and I just can’t believe that Jennifer Hudson is better than her.” He stated, sure of himself.
“Well, Jennifer Holiday is a legend, and since she made the role famous when it came out originally, it will be hard for anyone to be compared to her.” I am not really doing anything but making idle chat waiting for the next person to buy their ticket so I can rip it and tell them which way their theater is. I don’t normally work at the movie theater on Mondays, but someone called off, and I had the day off my regular job because of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day.
“Well,” Nick said, “I’ll tell you what I think of it,” and he walked to see the movie.
I hadn’t even thought of the conversation when suddenly, two hours later, he is standing next to me, gushing.
“It was so much better than I’d hoped it would be. Jennifer Hudson was perfect in the role.”
“They waited so long to make it, I’m sure they knew how to cast it.” I say this not to make conversation, really, just because I didn’t know what else to say.
“Beyonce was good, but she can’t hold a candle to Jennifer Hudson as a singer.” He seems to hesitate, not sure what else to say. “I can’t believe they are pushing Jennifer for the Best Supporting Actress Oscar, she clearly is a lead.”
“Oh,” I say, “I didn’t realize that is what was going on.”
There is an awkward pause, and I’m hoping more moviegoers come by so I can tear their tickets and this kid won’t hang around.
He looks at me shyly, eyes not quite meeting mine. “We could go somewhere and talk about the movie,” he says, and then much quieter “or anything else.”
I don’t know what to say. It’s not like I don’t know what is going on, but I am not comfortable, not the least because I am more than twice his age. So I decide to state that fact. “I am too old for you,” is what I say, because “You are too young” seems silly or maybe hurtful.
“I don’t mind.” He says, and the crack in his voice is almost heartbreaking to hear. I am impressed that he is this brave, and saddened that it is for not. “I like older men,” he continues with a stronger voice, almost singing it. And that is when he says “I’m a college student,” and then forced to add “almost,” with his giggle.
“I was in college before you were born,” is all I can come up with to reply, smiling at him and shaking my head.
“Well, let me have your number, and I’ll call you about the movie.” He somehow makes this sound less desperate than I imagined.
I want to tell him to run away from all the older men who will use him for a quick fuck as he hopes to find someone worthy of him. I want him to know more of the world before he rolls around, sweaty and naked, with some guy just to be able to understand that it is about age & experience sometimes. I want him to fall in love and have his heart broken, just to learn that it can be mended and he can love again.
But I don’t want to be that person. “I don’t think that is going to happen. But I’m sure I’ll see you when I work here.”
He smiles at me and walks away slowly. He stops, comes back and from his wallet pulls out some paper, picks up the pen on my desk and writes on it, and hands it to me. “If you want to call me sometime you can,” he says and walks away.
I am a bit flush with the excitement of someone flirting with me, someone so innocent that they don’t mind the 20 years difference, someone who is so new to this that they look past my flaws that are, to me, glaring. And I am saddened that I won’t be able to look at myself without seeing these perceived flaws that prevent me from being myself.
I look at the paper, and he has written his name with a big smiley face on it. Clearly, he is too young and wide eyed for someone as jaded as me. He needs to go to college and fall for an upperclassmen who will treat him well for a while before breaking his heart. Or maybe that first one will work out, and I am just a cynical old queen.
As I leave an hour later, walking through the hallways where the theaters are to exit near my car, I rip up his number, dropping little pieces in each of the garbage can. I am excited that someone was brave enough to do that, to put themselves out there, for me. But I won’t be the man to break this kids heart. And with more than 20 years between us, that is how it would end.
Good luck Nick. And good luck to me.
posted by Mike at 5:53 PM
2 Comments:
I wish you would have told me to rip up my number.
What was the caliber of gun was I holding to your head?
And I told you to be a friend to the person you got your phone number, not knowing what his intentions were. Once his intentions were clearer, you needed to reassess the situation.
I am certain, from being there, what Nick’s intentions were, and I didn’t want to be a part of it.
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