A trigger happened this evening while I was at a restaurant with Mom and Dad.

As I started a pass through the buffet section, one of the teenagers from this incident (NSFW), now in his mid-twenties, recognized me and walked up to me. He asked, “Hey, Mister Chips, do you remember me?” (In a previous life I frequented local bulletin board systems with the handle Mr. Chips. That carried over to a vanity license plate that I maintained until 2007.)

His face now resembles that of a sysop from those days; I doubt that that sysop looks the same now. Nonetheless, I replied, “(Name redacted)?”

Then he said, “I’m (name redacted). You lived across the street from us back in (subdivision redacted).”

I turned white as a sheet, turned around, and walked away. As far as I could tell, he did not say anything else, he did not make any threatening or defamatory gestures, and he did not follow me. It is always possible that he may have matured in eleven years’ time and put those ways behind him, but I was not about to take any chances. I returned to my table and fixed my eyes on my beverage glass, taking pains to avoid potentially provoking anyone with eye contact.

My paranoia was up. I became afraid of getting harassed at the table; fortunately, it was next to the well-trafficked servers’ station. At no time did I hear his party raising any sort of ruckus. Still, once I noticed that they had departed, I worried that they might vandalize our car—after all, Mom was in a wheelchair, so that sharply narrows the field of targets. Even if they didn’t, they might try to use the license plate to find out where we live. I also worried that they might lie in wait to ambush us as we left the restaurant.

As you probably have deduced by now, I survived the meal, the car is untouched, and we are all home. I hope that nothing more comes of this encounter. Please forgive me for taking a while to rest assured.