Patrick and I talk about....nothing.

In not sure if an entire conversation can be a non sequitir but this one qualifies.
I had arrived, hot, thirsty and sore, in Hasty, Colorado, the smallest functioning town I have yet seen, I think. A post office and a grocery store, and not much else. After buying a bunch of food at the store, I headed to the local park, where a nice new pavilion would be my home for the night. As I arrived, I noticed a basketball court next to the pavilion. I had not even fully settled into a sitting position when a four wheeler driven by a young man pulled up. He had a basketball strapped down with bunjies and was going to shoot baskets. Or so I thought.
He looked over at me.
“Where’s your car?”
Patting my cart, I said, “THIS is my car.”
“How’s you get here?”
I walked.
“From where?”
“Tybee Island, Georgia.”
“I know where Georgia is. Do you have weapons?”
“I’m well protected, lets just say that.”
“Do you have a knife?”
Yes.
“Have you ever shot a gun?”
Yes.
“My dad’s got a sawed off shotgun. Have you ever fired a machine gun?”
Yes, I said, lying.
Wow, were you in the army?
No.
Oh, it was just you and your friends fooling around?
Something like that.
“Ever drive a big rig?”
Yes, I said, lying again.
“How many gears did it have?”
Ummm, eighteen, I said, fumbling around for a reasonable answer.
“Ok, my friend’s dad drives one with fifteen gears. “
He finally shot a few baskets.
“Why are you walking across the country? Does your wife yell at you?”
Laughing out loud, “Something like that.”
“OK…well, have a good trip.” He then stuck his basketball back under the bunjies and fired up the four wheeler.
"Do you want to buy a Ford? I have one for sale for five hundred dollars!"
"No thanks, I cant afford it."
"Its a standard."
OK.
He gestured to the four wheeler.
“This is an automatic,” he said, showing me the levers that put it in gear. He started to pull off.
“Wait, what’s your name?” I yelled to him.
“Patrick Crozier,” he shouted. “Im fifteen years old.”
And then he was gone.
Huh?