Spring Break is officially here for the local school districts, as evidenced by the unusually large influx of teenagers into my restaurant. Which, of course, means hamburgers all around. having your ass ridden for nine Coke refills, and a sad pile of coins left on the table in their wake. And it doesn’t matter how old you are, really — even the greenest of servers knows you’re in trouble when your guests start asking you how much the lemonade costs. Joy.

But today, one such table gave me pause. Three of them. Couldn’t have been any older than 14. Accompanied by a disproportionate number of Macy’s shopping bags, it was a guy and his two lady friends — clearly a gay-in-training and his two fairy godmothers. Of course I didn’t think this immediately, but all it took was his smooth-as-cream demeanor as he ordered a virgin strawberry daiquiri and I knew I was in for an experience. Really, it made me sad I don’t have a younger brother.

He reminded me of a younger me in a lot of ways, but instead of responding with the requisite embarrassment that usually accompanies being confronted with one’s unedited self, my mind went in a different direction. I felt like I knew his future, the furtive glances in the locker room, the crushes on girls that were merely diversion methods, hours of repeated careful scouring of the browser history to remove any traces of gay pornography. The prayers. The lies. The anger. I wanted to warn him. I wanted to take him aside, look him squarely in the face, and say, “You are beautiful as you are. Spare yourself years of self-loathing and misguided penitence and accept this hand you’ve been dealt. Anyone who dares make you doubt yourself is a liar.” I grabbed a quick glass of water, went into the back, and stared at the clock for a few moments.

Had someone said this to me when I was 14, it would have changed my life, if only I had the ears to hear it. I needed to know God didn’t hate me. I needed to know I wasn’t going to hell. And unfortunately it would take another eight years for this to happen. As an apparent consequence, every time I see a gay teenager, my stomach tightens at the thought of what I should never have had to give up. Because no one should be forced to sacrifice their adolescent years on the altar of fear. This is not to say I regret the events in my life that have molded me into the cynical, sardonic son of a bitch I am, but I do feel that instead of hypocritically dispensing self-denying conservative Christian ideology, my high school and college years could have been better spent dishing with the girls over the boys we liked. You know, a little more truth and honesty. I was a terrible liar anyway; it’s not like I was that good at hiding. I was the flute section leader in the marching band and made flags for the colorguard in my spare time, for God’s sake.

I was still thinking this as I cashed them out, placing their change on the table and thanking them for coming in. I watched him swish out the door with his bags and his hags, mused on the fact that he’s going to be a hot bitch when he gets older (and that those poor girls had better get used to a lifetime of being surrounded by witty male friends who bat for visitor), and wished him a good life.

Until I noticed that bastard left me 37 cents. Queen, please.

Filed by Trevor at 8:32 pm under Social Issues, Gender Identity