He reminded me of a guy I went to school with who had a wispy wanker's moustache and sweaty hands and who reckoned his dad had a "porn bunker" underneath his rumpus room containing porn so hot it had to be smuggled out of the Netherlands sewn into the trouser lining of morbidly obese desperadoes who were coerced by organised crime syndicates into acting as porn mules. Another glance and I realised it was him.
And this time he bloody saw me looking.
"Oh, Christ," I muttered, then I said, "Oh, Trev, it's you!"
Next thing his still-sweaty hand was shaking mine and I was examining his wispy mo' and his acne scars and the stupid fucking baseball cap he had shoved backwards on his head. How old was this guy? Thirty going on twelve?
"Scooter!" he said. Nobody called me Scooter anymore, not even my brother who was the one who ran over my left testicle with his scooter in the first place.
"Trev!" I wasn't feeling that exclamation mark. "How've you been?"
"Farkin'..." he began, and went on in that vein for a couple of minutes. He'd been "farkin' skatin'" but the "farkin' cops" had confiscated his board, "the cunts."
"Cool," I said. To fit in I tacked on a half-hearted, "farkin' cool."
"Yeah," he said, "nah."
He shuffled awkwardly and to be honest so did I. I almost felt ashamed of how straight-laced and mature I must have appeared in contrast to the overgrown teenage boy in front of me. It was as if Trev had aged but not matured, still sixteen inside that gangly, smelly body.
What common ground did we have? We could reminisce, but about what? The time some year nine boys flushed Trev's head down the toilet? The time he punched me in the face because he felt like punching somebody and I was closest? The time I inexplicably invited him to my house for dinner and afterward he told me my mum's cooking was "disgusting"? The revolting-even-for-a-teenage-boy masturbation habits he should have kept to himself but didn't?
I surreptitiously wiped my hand on my trouser leg.
"How are things with you?" Trev spat a shiny green dollar of mucas onto the footpath.
"Good," I said. "Good. Just, ah... working, and spending time with the family. That sort of shit."
I fucking hated myself for saying that, for trying to ingratiate myself with this person for whom I felt no affection, no respect, nothing whatsoever. At least Trev was unpretentious: he seemed ok with his foulness, seemed even to enjoy it.
There was another awkward silence. I motioned vaguely down the road.
"Well, better be off! Nice to see you again, Trev."
Again he grabbed my hand, shook it, held it tight. He had an impressive grip. Maybe his dad did have a porn bunker after all.
"See ya, Scooter," he said, lighting a poorly rolled cigarette.
Then he asked if I could "lend" him twenty dollars. I gave him five and without waiting for a response flagged a passing taxi.
As we drove off I gave Trev a genteel wave through the window. He held up my five dollar note and mouthed something. I can't be sure but I think he called me a motherfarker.