Chaperone.

Tonight, while hanging out with Mitchell the 19-year-old cute guy (whom I ran into), Ronald (who kept leaving me alone with Mitchell or walking ahead so that I was alone with Mitchell ... and also kept asking Mitchell if he had a girlfriend) and Mitchell's two teen friends (who were both gay but couldn't tell me if Mitchell was ... though they think he might be ...), I had a lot of fun doing the passive-aggressive flirting thing. I have Mitchell's phone number now, even though he never clarified whether he was gay. But I don't think, even if Mitchell liked me (and he laughed at my jokes, even the gay ones), that anything's going to happen there.

Because Mitchell found out just how old I am.

It happened like this.

The youngest kid there was named Andy. And he was gay and insecure, and occasionally he said bizarre, random things. But I, being an idiot, asked Andy to say aloud what year he was born.

"1988," Andy said. He's 15. (Those of you who know I felt are sitting at your computers now, saying, "Damn ...")

So Ronald and the girl who was with us were both 3 when Andy was born. And Mitchell was 4. And I was 12.

Upon hearing it, Mitchell said, "Geeeeeeeezzzzzzzzzz ..." And I went from "cool, cute guy" to "a creepy old man who hangs out with the teenage Ronald at the mall."

Later, Ronald was talking about the "modest proposal" of cannibalism as a means to help the homeless. I mentioned "Soylent Green." Not one of them knew what that was, and trying to explain "Soylent Green" to people just makes you sound random and crazy.

And I felt OLD. Ancient OLD. Like, what-the-hell-am-I-doing-in-the-mall-on-a-Friday-night-when-I'm-30 OLD.

The teens, aside from Ronald, probably felt like they'd spent the evening with the Rosetta Stone (if they knew what that was).

The situation did not improve when I accompanied everyone outside while they smoked. (Mitchell smoked something called Twists, which somehow have an orange flair mixed in the tobacco. I said to him, "Ooh, citrus-flavored death." The whole thing reminded me of my ex Jerry the Arsonist's favorite clove cigarettes.)

Soon it hit 9:05 outside the food court, and the security guards amassed where all the teens were smoking. And the guards told us to get to our movies - if we were going there - or to get the hell home.

"The mall's closed, so you guys need to go," a guard said to all of us.

I was sitting on a bench, not doing anything.

And I said hello and tried to shake the guard's hand when he walked up. He was my age, yet he just stared at my hand.

I've worked at that mall for about four years (Good God), and I'm generally nice to security guards.

Surrounded by teens, the guard looked at me like I was some kind of idiot.

"I work at the store right there," I said to him. "It's still open."

"I don't care," he said.

"But I'm 27 years old," I said to him.

And I - Dear God, why ... - pulled out my driver's license.

"IT DOESN'T MATTER," he yelled - YELLED - at me, looking at me like I was some kind of punk.

And, at first, I thought the guy was some kind of flagrant dickhead, though I also realized he couldn't give me special treatment. And that I was a tool for expecting it.

But, come on ...

Don't kick me out of the mall for sitting there, talking to kids. I'm almost 30 years old. And I'm there watching movies than that late every weekend. But I was standing with kids, so that made me "trouble."

Meanwhile, my attempt to argue reason with the security guards didn't really win any points with Mitchell and his friend. They were used to the treatment. But I'm OLD. So I was OFFENDED.

I went to the cinema, and I lost track of Mitchell, though I did try to call him to find him after a few minutes. I figured the group, which was a bunch of kids and me (like I'm their chaperone ... because I'm the one who tried to argue reason with the security guard).

But I never reconnected with Mitchell. And I was no longer in a good mood - because the security guard tried to kick me out of the mall for "loitering."

So after checking the movie times, I started out of the mall, but that same security guard was standing by the escalator.

I looked at him. He looked at me.

And I said, "Look, I'm sorry for what I did."

He said, "It's OK. You shouldn't take it so personally."

I told him that I was just taken aback by the whole thing, that I'd called security before to get rid of kids ... but I'd never been on the receiving end of it.

"It's not serious," he said. "I just have my job to do."

"I'm Benjie," I said. "I've worked at Barnes & Noble for four years, and this is the first time I've been reprimanded for loitering. It startled me."

His name was Matthew. And we talked out our differences like adults. But I still think he's a dickhead for yelling at me.

I think I really need to hang out with people my own age. Away from malls.

Because, all through the evening, I seriously couldn't figure out what I was doing there. I'm not supposed to have anything in common with them. I shouldn't even hit on Mitchell, cool though he is.

I can't be hanging out with 15-year-olds.

I'm their peer, for Chrissakes'. I'm the grown-up they should rebel against.

What the hell am I doing? Aren't there people my own age? Can't I relate to them even a little bit?

I feel ridiculous.