Prentiss

Monday

A new bistro, simply called “B”, opened near my home. I have a work-from-home job, and always go somewhere for lunch. It had a pretty patio, built out of a light-colored wood, and looked quite sturdy. The building itself was made to look like a large mansion-style home. Two bright red doors for entry and exit faced the parking area.

I pulled the entry door – festooned with a cheery sign reading, “Come on in!” – and walked into the ordering area. To my delight, this place had old-school chalkboards for the menus, rather than the high-tech flat-screens that seem to be at most corporate places now. Off to my left hung a sign over the service counter, “Order here!”, so I stepped over there.

Momentarily, an order taker stepped over. He appeared to be 20 or 21, wasn't sure which exactly. Beautiful blond tresses hung comfortably off his head, just long enough to touch his upper shoulders. He had what many would probably call “baby face" – no creases, no mustache, no facial hair, and a very slightly round face shape. Two grayish blue eyes looked back at me, along with a smallish nose, and a mouth that looked like it smiled – genuinely – a lot. He instantly struck me as friendly and approachable.

His general vibe struck me as that of an upbeat, sensitive, gentle, dapper individual hailing from a wealthy family. Given that the city in which I live has what could be considered an ivy league-level university, it's entirely possible this guy fit that pedigree and was still going there, doing this gig for beer money. All this was packaged in a red polo shirt with a white collar.

“Hi!” I began.

“Hi,” the order taker replied brightly. “What I can I get you?”

“Let me get the pot roast special with mixed veggies and a root beer,” I said, checking the menu board once again.

“Great choice,” the order taker said. “Anything else?”

“Nah, that'll do it,” I concluded. “I'm hungry but not ravenous.”

“Well, this will fill you up for sure,” the order taker said, punching my order into the POS. “Seventeen eighty.”

“Wow! An exceptionally thrifty figure,” I said with a touch of mock pomposity.

The order taker laughed an open-mouthed smile – such lovely teeth he had! I fished my wallet out of my pocket, removed a debit card, and held it to the payment device everyone seems to have now.

“Great,” the order taker said, waiting for the payment authorization. He reached for the receipt off the printer and handed it to me. As he did, I looked at his name tag.

Prentiss. His name was Prentiss. The receipt confirmed it: “Cashier: Prentiss” it read.

Prentiss sounds like a bit of a blue-blood name, so the ivy-league association in my mind didn't seem far off. He looked at me with a slight smile.

“Do you work in public television?” he asked me, point-blank.

Public television? Wow. I've been thought of as a lot of things, but not something quite that niche. I have watched more than my share of public TV, though, from documentaries to British sitcoms. Maybe that's what he was picking up. Or maybe it was my four-year degree – I didn't attend an ivy-league school, but I did go to a great state university. It was excellent in everything…except football.

“That's an interesting question,” I replied. “I haven't, but goodness – I imagine it would be a rewarding experience. Why do you ask?”

“You just have this presence, the way you speak. It's really cool, I like it.”

A comedic image of me doing pledge nights flashed across my mind. I chuckled.

“Umm…well, thank you…” – I pretended to search for his name – “Prentiss. Thank you, Prentiss,” I said, smiling.

I told him my name, extending my hand to shake. His hands were SOOOO SOFT. I had to believe this guy had never done anything remotely blue-collar in his life. And they felt so warm – not just in terms of temperature, but energy. He was a warm person.

“Well,” I said, breaking up the oh-so-lovely handshake, “I'm gonna grab a seat. Nice talking to you!”

I went and sat down at a table in view of the service counter, occasionally stealing looks at Prentiss as he helped other customers. He smiled a lot, and it was sweet and kind, not phony.

That’s when the finger-wagger in my head ran into the center of my mind.

“Oh, come on, man! THAT'S what’s getting you juiced? You HATE 20-somethings! You're always grousing about how irresponsible they are, how they're airheads, have no ambition, no plans, no nothing. THIS one probably still has his training wheels on.”

“But daddy, I love him,” I joked to the finger-wagger.

“Get a grip! What are you, past 40 now? I'll let you do 30, but…but not…THIS,” the finger-wagger pronounced, and then disappeared.

I ate my lunch. Yeah, the finger-wagger was probably right. But it's been a long drought…I mean a LONG drought. I could stand at least a little bit of eye candy, even if it was just here.

In the quiet of my mind, I decided to give chase.

Just for the fun of it.

Tuesday

I was pretty famished when I walked into B this lunch hour. Business meetings online ran longer than usual, so I was taking lunch later than I usually do. The plus side was that it wasn't as crowded.

I surveyed the menu chalkboard and decided on my entrée for the day. Then I stepped to the empty counter. Prentiss emerged from around a corner, his face brightening with a smile when he saw me.

“Hi, you!” he said playfully.

“Aries,” I replied in an equally playful but deadpan announcement, pointing a finger at him.

He grabbed his mouth with both hands the way one does when one is either amazed or horrified.

“Oh my goodness! How'd you know?” he said, laughing. “I usually think I'm a hard read, but you're the first person who's nailed me, ever!”

“It has to do with your energy,” I explained. “You're very warm, and Aries is a fire sign. It's also pretty impulsive, and I kinda detected that from your left-field question yesterday.”

“That is a really good trick,” Prentiss marveled. “What can I get you today?”

I placed my order for the food and drink and produced my debit card once again. The printer issued the receipt, which he handed to me with, remarkably, another surprising question.

“Can we go out? I really like you.”

My eyes must have widened to twice their diameters because Prentiss laughed. “I'm sorry…but I mean it, I'm serious, do you wanna go out with me?”

I smiled, and in a split second ran through a thousand calculations a second as to what was going on, and a column of pros and cons. Finally, I found some words.

“Well, Prentiss, I'm very flattered, but one, we just met for the first time yesterday, and two, I am older than you, by quite a bit.”

“I don't care,” Prentiss said with a big, warm smile. “My people sense is rarely wrong, and I'm getting very positive vibes from you. Guys my own age are dummies, and they have no brains. I want more. You don't have to answer now, but I really do mean it. I'm going to go check on your order.”

He stepped away. I took a deep breath.

How often does THIS happen? A sweet, friendly hottie comes on to me AND makes the first move? That's like matching at least four numbers on a lotto card, for cryin' out loud. My general luck with men has sucked, absolutely sucked. They're lazy, they're egotistical, they're bigoted, they have zero education, zero ambition. And now someone the exact opposite of all those doesn't just cross my path, but throws himself in my lap?

The finger-wagger came out seconds later.

“Dude! He's just angling for a bigger tip! Don't fall for this! He's in the fucking service industry, man! And fuck, he's not even…finished yet!”

I shot back to the finger-wagger, “Uh-huh. And when was the last time anyone outside the service industry – or any industry – paid me some mind? I'm not saying I'm gonna accept, but I'm at least gonna think about it…”

“At 21, just how socially sophisticated do ya think he is,” the finger-wagger continued. “Do you honestly think he understands the dynamics of gap relationships? Most guys your age are authority figures to him – teachers, cops, priests, relatives. Emotionally, I'm SURE he can't be fully baked!”

“Well,” I said to the finger-wagger while watching the “Get Your Order Here!” area, “That may be true, but there are PLENTY of guys in higher age brackets who are just as unsophisticated, unaccomplished, un-lots of things. Not one of those has stroked my ego the way Prentiss has, not one.”

“Okay,” the finger-wagger said, “then let's assume he likes you enough to want to meet his folks. You telling me they won't shit a brick when they see it's YOU?”

“Again, a valid point, but I'm so freakin' bored waiting for someone sweet and hot. If you're in cahoots with the universe, you might wanna shake a leg and have it scare me up someone more ‘age appropriate', big shot.”

A bell rung at the pick-up counter. My order was ready. I walked over, the finger-wagger still nagging me.

“Think about how nasty, how evil things are politically right now. Just think about it. You telling me you could face the general public with someone like that with you? You know people are gonna assume you're a guardian or boss or something, man. And don't get me started on if you give him a kiss…”

“I'm going to eat, shut up,” I growled in my head, in reply.

Wednesday

Lunchtime came on time for me today. I went over to B and surveyed the menu chalkboard again. I saw a fried seafood dish with fries that caught my attention. Decision in mind, I stepped to the counter…

…where someone else was taking orders. No Prentiss. Not today. I guess he was off. That's the thing about service jobs, a schedule can be really chaotic.

I sat down at a table and waited, a bit let down. Two straight days of nice discussion, and nothing today. Good food, but nothing else except me and my thoughts.

I pondered what Prentiss might be thinking today. Was he thinking about me at all? Was his pass an idle thing? Was he indeed just playing the field, testing his charm, his agency in social matters?

And did he actually hear me when I told him I was older than him? I mean, infatuations can cause a person to go blind and deaf to glaring warning signals. But he seemed so…so smart. Surely he’s not doing this entirely on impulse. I like to think I have something going for me, but to a 20-something? Really? Society loves to cluck their collective tongues at himbos and “dirty old men", with nearly equal contempt for both. I might be able to ignore that, but what about him?

Maybe he just wants a sugar daddy, I considered. In my field I'm paid well, for sure, it's a white-collar field. But I'm not, like, a super sugar daddy. I'm not banking 250 grand or higher. That's what I would consider a “real" sugar daddy. I'm more like…aspartame.

Thursday

A thunderstorm squall line passed over my neighborhood around lunch, leaving the air cool and misty. I got a little wet going from my car to the service counter inside B.

I went back to what I ordered on Monday in my mind. Not having seen Prentiss since Tuesday, I didn't feel quite as strongly.

Until I saw him again.

“Hi, you!” he said in his now-trademark, cheery voice, a big, beautiful smile on his face. Oh, to see those flaxen locks again. Day made.

“Hi!” I said back. “Have a good day off?”

“I wish I could say it was more fun, but it wasn't. Had a lot of chores and errands to do. You know how it goes.”

“I absolutely do,” I replied. “I…noticed your absence yesterday.”

Prentiss slightly tilted his head at me with a slightly goofy smile. He batted his eyes twice playfully.

“So…” he started. “Did you…think about my proposition?”

“I'm…still thinking about it,” I managed. “It's not a no, I promise. I mean, listen…people are just…people can be so judgmental, Prentiss. I think you're pretty amazing, and ballsy for even just asking me at all…”

He continued to look at me.

“Let me place my order,” I continued.

His smile faded slightly. I saw it fade. I instantly felt a pang of guilt. I gave my order and paid. Then I took a seat and watched the pickup counter. Prentiss had gone in back. I didn't see him.

Out came the finger-wagger again.

“Looks like someone had a change of heart,” it began.

“You didn't help,” I said back.

“I didn't need to. You added up all the sensible information you already knew that he didn't, because he's new to the world, and when you pressed the total button, you saw a negative number. Why are you all pissed anyway?”

“Because I'm dry,” I snarled inwardly.

“Common sense doesn't always feel good, and your guy doesn't get it yet. But he will. Let this bus pass, my dude. There will be others.”

“Did you miss my lament about how long it's been? And how guys don't even see me?”

“Such a drama queen,” the finger-wagger snorted.

Friday

Another payday. I was feeling pretty good, actually, but I usually feel that way on Fridays. They're my favorite day of the week. You know you have two full days to sleep in and even though my business hours are more than acceptable, on weekends I still like luxuriating in my very comfy queen-size bed.

The storm front having passed through overnight, it was now sunny again, fresh, nice, maybe even just a shade on the warm side. Such is spring in my city.

I walked in the front door of B and decided on one of the more expensive dishes, one I had not tried before. I usually don’t do steak at all, and one on the menu was calling my name with sides of garlic mashed potatoes and green beans steeped in bacon and onions.

I made my way to the service counter where Prentiss was waiting, beaming. Again, there was no line so we had time to chat again.

Maybe it was the satisfaction of getting paid, maybe it was the approaching weekend, but I was feeling really energetic, and Prentiss looked absolutely gorgeous to me today. The finger-wagger? Nowhere in sight inside my head. Maybe that was a good sign.

I placed the order and Prentiss handed me my receipt. I found myself admiring his business-issued polo shirt, bright red, white collar, but seemingly cut a little short. The shirt, his blond hair, his soft facial features…I was going to feast two ways today.

“So, tell me about your job,” Prentiss asked, “It sounds really interesting.”

I started with a bit of what might be called an elevator speech, giving the title and the industry it serves, and maybe about 30 seconds in, Prentiss, maintaining eye contact, raised his arms behind his head and stretched, extending his back. As he did, the lower edge of his red polo shirt went up, revealing a rather nice strip of his tender, unblemished belly. It was smooth, hairless, with not the slightest bit of flab to it. And it was bisected by a nearly perfect, oval-shaped innie bellybutton, long and deep enough to stick a quarter in. Before I could stand it no longer, he relaxed to his natural position, the shirt going back down. “Sorry,” he hastily added, “go on.”

Whenever I see such charming and subtle visions, a part of me usually melts while another one bursts into flames. My heart was delighted for the prettiness, my loins stirred by the slightly naughty display of flesh. All this, of course, was on my mind as I was wrapping up explaining what I did.

“…and that’s the hardest part of the process. It's based on existing technology, but it's actually pretty novel.”

Prentiss' face broke out into a big smile, then a slight giggle.

“Why are you looking at me that way?” I asked with what must have been a confused but amused look.

“You didn't hear yourself a moment ago?” Prentiss pressed.

“No, what'd I say?” I already dreaded I'd stuck my foot in my mouth.

Prentiss lowered his volume a slight bit. Then he looked me dead in the eye.

“You said, ‘it's actually pretty navel.’”

Oh, fuck. I'm an idiot.

“Ummm, I think that's my hunger talking,” I lied. It was not the biggest verbal misstep I'd ever had, but with someone I fancied, it…hurt. “I am so, so sorry,” I stammered with a goofy half-smile.

“No worries,” Prentiss responded, still smiling, still maintaining a gaze at me.

Shaken and embarrassed, I excused myself to sit down and wait on my food, with a feeling akin to a called third strike in baseball. I managed to finish all my food, remarkably.

Rising from the table, heading for the door, I cast a glance at the service counter. Prentiss wasn't there. My heart sank. I pushed the door to leave.

Prentiss was standing right outside.

“I get off at six, can you pick me up?” he gently said, beaming.

I smiled back warmly.

“Yes. Yes. Yes, absolutely.” Take that, finger-wagger.

He stepped up to me to whisper in my ear.

“It's pretty sensitive, too…I've been wanting someone to help me play with it.”