‘Trev’s a dude with inteee-gritty’ said Joedon. That’s when Trev cocked his ear to catch Joedon’s croaky voice scraping above the throbbing metal-techno. Trev was carrying a cold slab of Great Northern beer. He had it perched on his shoulder for effect and could feel the chill through his blue Superdry Tee. ‘Speak of the devil, here’s Trev’. Joedon half grinned then winked at Trev. ‘A bloke you can trust to deliver cold beer.’
Through his orange Oakley mirror sunnies Trev quickly eyed the BBQ pack. It was his private habit to determine his place in the pecking order. Somewhere middle, maybe nearer top dog than shit kicker, he reckoned. He always scanned a group to rank his place. The routine had been handed down from his grandfather through his dad. Like a chain of vigilance to tell his current statues, maybe to be used for a future reckoning. ‘Be ready little Trev, someone’s always out to get ya’. It was advice he had grasped and learnt to the depths of his gut. There was no need for surplus words to clarify, Trev knew the lesson. Put up or be put down.
Trev knew he shouldn’t be seen as a vulnerable target. He had done that before and it had not gone well. He knew he should drink a few cold ones then leave, but he had nowhere else to go, nowhere to be side-tracked from his private self-doubts and loathing.
Joedon raised the frosty slab like a trophy and yelled, ‘Who wants a cold one on Treeeev?’. Trev figured he had ratcheted up a notch, even though Joedon had pitched the tenor of eeees up too high. Trev dropped the slab on a makeshift workbench table, causing the pizzas and sausages to jump. One of the older crew members, Dan nodded, to Trev. Maybe a small nod of approval, probably for the beer.
