The man’s name was Bruce, as it turned out, but for our purposes we shall refer to him henceforth as “Mr. Unimpressed.”

If you’ve ever been to even a single scene of mayhem somewhere, you know this guy. He’s the one who, while everyone else is gasping and shouting and clutching at their pearls, will stand on the sidewalk with his arms folded and a bored look upon his face. Why, he’s practically falling asleep over here while all around him are losing their minds.

Mr. Unimpressed is the “seen it all, done it all” master of indifference you will find at every crime scene, every car crash and every warehouse fire on the planet.

It doesn’t matter how big the drama. Aliens from outer space could be engaged in outright war with creatures from the Lewiston canals (you KNOW they’re in there …) and Mr. Unimpressed will just stand there, stolid and unflinching.

“This is nothing,” he will tell you, yawning a couple times to emphasize his point. “You should have been in Rumford back in the day when the creatures from the river got to brawling …”

If it’s a fire, he’s seen much bigger ones. Why, this blaze is a mere Boy Scout campfire in comparison to the stuff he’s seen.

Multicar pileup? That’s nothing. You should have seen the wreck he survived personally back in ’99.

The fact that this cat will never, under any circumstances EVER let you see that he’s wowed by something is why he gets the nifty moniker. Sometimes I’ll stand next to him at scenes of absolute chaos just to see if I might catch him going wide-eyed for the first time in his nonplussed life.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it once more. The absolute coolest part of my current job is mingling with the rabble when things get rocking.

Though people are wildly unpredictable when they get to gathering in hastily formed crowds, there are a few archetypes that a young and devastatingly handsome reporter like myself can depend on.

Like Sir Mark My Words, who knows every single thing about every single subject on the planet no matter how complicated or esoteric.

This guy will tell you the cause of the tenement blaze even before the fire crews have unrolled their hoses all the way.

“Propane heater,” he’ll say. “Mark my words, I seen it before. See that V burn pattern up the front of the building? Propane causes that.”

At the scene of an ugly car wreck, he’ll tell you vehicle speed, direction of travel, reaction times and probably cause before all the rubble has come to rest in the roadway.

Crime scene? Sir Mark My Words has every episode of every season of “CSI” on DVD. He knows what’s what, even if the professional investigators seem befuddled.

“West Coast gangs did this,” he’ll tell you, nodding knowingly. “Only the Crips fire their shots in an east to west fashion like this. Mark my words. This is gang warfare.”

And even when his theories are patently absurd, it’s hard not to take him seriously because he spews them with such conviction.

Only later, when Mark My Words is gone from sight, will you learn that the fire was started by a pot of macaroni and cheese — the elbow kind, not that stupid spiral stuff — left burning on the stove, while the shooting was an accidental discharge.

In every mob that gathers around these scenes of mischief, you will always, without fail, come across at least one Mister or Missus Bait and Switch.

All reporters, big and small, know this dude. He’s the one that will offer up some tiny, insignificant morsel of information about the mayhem at hand just so he can sell you on another idea.

“Sure, I heard the explosion,” he’ll say. “Pretty loud. But what you should really be reporting on is my girlfriend’s new Instagram channel. I’m telling you, it’s going to be big.”

The bait-and-switch types will follow a journalist all over the place just to keep repeating the pitch, stressing that if you, the reporter, don’t get on this story right away, you’ll probably be scooped by TMZ.

When you get back to the newsroom, you’ll find his business card, a couple of flyers and a promotional DVD stuffed into your back pocket.

At these spontaneous crowds, you will find both men and women who talk to you openly like bosom pals right until the time that you ask for their name. At which point, their eyes will get all squinty with suspicion as though you’re planning to steal their tax returns as soon as you have that crucial information.

In every crowd there is at least one heartbreaker, who will hit you with the most glorious and helpful information you’ve ever heard in your reporter life only to pause a moment before saying: “But all of that is off the record.”

Which will just make you cry like a baby right there in the street.

You have those professional lookie-loos who would consider it an unforgivable personal failing if they were to miss a single car wreck, house fire, bar fight, shooting, stabbing, park brawl or extraterrestrial vs. Lewiston canal creature beatdown.

Ours is a hawk-faced fellow named Scott and everywhere the police cruisers, firetrucks and ambulances go, Scott is never far behind.

Whenever I run into the man at the latest pandemonium, instead of talking about the havoc at hand, he ends up telling me about five other incidents that I’ve apparently missed.

“Didn’t I see you at the hedge trimmer assault earlier,” he’ll say. “And I fully expected you to be there for the walker brawl at the old folks home.”

Scott’s information is always good, mind you; I just have no idea what the hell he does with it.

You’ll always run into one woman who is absolutely crestfallen to learn that you’re just a lowly newspaper reporter and not a big-time TV news journalist who might transform her into a star with one stroke.

There will be at least one person who finds it hard to believe you’re a journalist at all, and can you blame him? When you’re dressed the way you are and sporting that haircut?

The good news is that for every one of these predictable personalities you’ll meet at the scene of bedlam, there are dozens of mystery characters just waiting to be interviewed. You never know which one holds the information you seek, so you have to question them all and by the time you’re done, you’ll have made a half-dozen new friends and filled every page in that ratty notebook you carry.

Good job, Cubbie.

Now, if you have everything you need in hand, I’ve got to go and do some REAL reporting.

Specifically, I need to look at that DVD that appeared in my back pocket and see what that young lady’s Instagram page is all about. It may be nothing at all but it would be irresponsible of me to not have a look.

The last thing I need as my career continues to flounder is to be scooped by TMZ.