One thing about managing a coffeehouse is that you get to be a pretty good judge of character. If you're gay like I am, sometimes that judgment can be clouded by good looks. But if all works out, a hottie can turn out to be a great add to a place.
Evan strolled in one afternoon when it wasn't busy. I was sitting at a table in the back, reading a magazine. My place had a "help wanted" sign in the front window, which Evan was holding.
"Hey. You looking for baristas?"
It was a high, nasal, "homosexual" voice, the kind of voice that marks a gay man who could never be anything but.
I looked up, and there was this kind of wiry, svelte guy in front of me, wearing a pink button-down shirt, blue jeans, and very large-rimmed, round glasses. He had thin lips and hazel eyes, kind of a narrow face. My cultural ignorance suggested to me that he might be from Swedish lineage.
Me being gay, he didn't strike me immediately as the kind of guy who turns heads in a night club, but there was a kind of nerdy appeal he gave off. I like nerdy hottie guys.
"Ummm, yeah," I kind of stammered. "What's your name?"
"Evan," the blond said, extending the skinny hand to shake that wasn't holding the sign. I reached back and took it in mine. It was surprisingly soft, almost what one would expect of a woman. But there was no nail polish anywhere.
"Oh, I can take that for you," I said, holding a hand up to receive the sign. Evan handed it over.
"So....ummm...what were you looking for? I mean, like, how many hours were you wanting?" I asked.
"I don't really need that many. I'm in college. Just wanting to make a little extra money."
"Nice. What's your major?"
"Speech communication."
"Hmm...what's that?"
"Anything involving speech or speaking," Evan mentioned. "Teaching, debating, presenting, all that. It can be used as a foundation for other fields like law."
There was a bit of tartness in how Evan spoke. Some people can't hide who they are. Still, it didn't bother me.
"Very cool," I replied. Then I told him when I could use him most, and it was several nights a week, the last hour of operation. Essentially, closing time. Basically from 9pm to 10pm.
"I could start tonight if you want," Evan offered.
"You have experience?" I asked.
"Yep. I was a shift leader at another coffee place, one of the chains. Got tired of the bullshit so I got myself in school to learn something else, but I still like coffee. I'll pick up whatever you've got."
That was encouraging.
"Sounds great," I said, extending my hand to shake, again. Ohhh, that soft hand of his. "See you around nine."
Simply put, Evan was pretty amazing. He got along well with customers, took orders and requests well, and always seemed to have this kind of studious vibe about him, even though this was "just" coffee. He was a big flirt, too -- something that seemed to charm customers. At a couple of points I thought I didn't deserve to have him.
But as I worked with him over the nights that followed, I would notice something else about him. I found that he wore loose-fitting shirts that often billowed loosely in the currents of the AC system, revealing fleeting glimpses of his skinny, slender body. Perhaps I'd see a little strip of his lower back once, a bit of his front belly another time. If he wore a button-down shirt, he'd often undo several buttons, allowing a portion of his creamy, flat chest to show.
