One minute you're fine, the next you're sipping death through a straw.

If you would have listened to the guy sitting next to me that night, you would have known then, we all would have known then, that things here would never look the same, not just in this little Ligonier tavern, but in this town. Memories not captured in the mind were erased, deleted, or you could say people threw them away. Smiling faces, kids with missing teeth, first dates, all torn to pieces and sent to the Westmoreland Waste Sanitary Landfill in Rostraver Township. They were removed by way of McInchok Sanitation garbage collectors, Friday mornings, for the past couple of months. No one wants to take a chance. There's a literary term I was supposed to learn in Mrs. Breneman's senior Englis, but that's been too long ago to remember. It is used for two opposite words that are stuck together and I'm sure sanitary and landfill would qualify. I know there are special requirements for landfills, so the toxic waste doesn't seep in and eventually end up in the ice cubes in my summer iced tea, but I'd still be in favor of NIMBY (not in my backyard). Who wouldn't be?

That night I met a man who, without knowing, would be the start of something bad at the same time that he would become the start of something good. The man I met sat on my left and I was positive no one in the tavern wanted to see what he was wearing under his blue bath robe. It wasn't a fancy robe, plain light blue terry cloth, not polyester or silk. It was one that you could expect to purchase at Walmart. The man couldn't have just gotten out of bed because his hair was still in place, not even a small rooster tail to hint that he had been tossing about on a pillow. I guessed he had taken a shower, threw on the robe, forgot that he hadn't dressed in clothes, and headed up his street. It was possible. He had a sway, I assumed alcohol induced by the smell of his breath, when he entered the tavern door and order his 'first'� whiskey.

'Whiskey never was my thing, but I'm drinkin' it, suckin' it, suckin' it all the way down, faster than you can say the word'�well any word, pick one. Yes sir, whiskey's what's in this catalog, discount shot glass. What was in, I stand cor-rec-ted. This stuff isn't even strong enough to blur it, so I don't have to think.'�

He started shaking back and forth on the bar stool after 3 shots as if in the middle of an earthquake at the low end of the Richter scale. He was trying to look up at something between the tremors; maybe he thought he was talking with God, or some other higher being beyond himself. We might have all been listening in on his prayers, as he sat in his slippers fit for an 80-year-old man, who just wants his feet to stay warm while they're propped up on the hassock. Nothing against the elderly, I'm just saying, slippers with an 1/8'� sole and fake lambs wool interior were not meant for wearing outdoors and under the mud, you could see that his were already wearing thin.

'Things have been terrible lately. Bad luck, no luck, all I know is that's what I thought. It's gone too far. No job. Soon I'll run out of money. She stared at the pictures as if hoping the faces might melt like crayons. I tried blaming Aunt Jackie. She did look like a witch, pointed nose and gray streaked hair. The mole might have been there, but I never go that close. My great grandmother told me about a black book, unnamed cover. A little black book about the size of a Bible, then something about the mid 1800's and words so powerful they could create Hell all over again. There I go again, nodding another whiskey into my glass. Great grandmother said the book disappeared, so be careful?...cautious?..no,no'�mindful. Be mindful. Whatever that means. It probably does exist, somewhere, everywhere, burning holes through it's own table of contents.

I didn't want to hear a drunk going off about curses and family legends. I was interested in the Steelers vs. Cowboys on the big screen. Kordell had blown three passes and I was expecting a few more. His goiter was looking much lumpier that night and I was figuring he was going to loose that gave too. The terrible towels were out cheering him on to be the Slash he used to be and all he gave the fans was a Cowboy interception and no hope of a win. What I wanted didn't matter though because this 35-40 year old drunk wouldn't close his mouth and eventually his voice was the only sound that my brain would let me hear. The TV didn't matter much by that time anyways, the black and gold were done for the season.

'Oh, the whiskey. Won't let me think. Black book? What was I saying? I can't blame Aunt Jackie for this mess. It's me. I'm responsible. Those damn pictures had to be two years old. I still can't tell this bartender that I don't want any more whiskey. It's a cycle, I nod, he pours. Cycle, cycle, I want to ride my bicycle. Mine was silver with baseball cards on the spokes. I probably ruined my richness by attaching a Babe Ruth to the tin metal. Such a sweet sound. At 10 it was the baseball cards, at 16 a car stereo (big subwoofer), and now it would be my son's laugher, if I could hear it.'�

With nothing else to do, I decided to make conversation with the whiskey drinker. He had now kicked his slippers off and was resting his bare feet on the bottom run of the stool. He was able to balance much better that way. He was drinking shots like I used to drink 'Little Hugs'� when I was a kid, blue raspberry, fruit punch, lime, and then a grape, usually before I got the orange my mom would tell me to slow down. Someone needed to lay down the law with this guy, although he wasn't as far gone as he should've been. I thought about asking him what had happened to his son, but figured that might lead me into an uncomfortable position, if the kid had died. What if he started crying? Then wanted to use my shoulder to comfort his slobbering, snotty head? God, what would that look like? I could imagine a bathrobe wearing drunk whimpering too close to me, so I decided it best to only ask his name. At first he didn't speak, I suspected he probably wouldn't. Usually men (speaking from experience) won't talk to anyone when in such a vulnerable almost insane state and the alcohol on top of it, no I'd get nothing but the continued ramblings that he thought were only in his head. Then without turning he spoke.

'Roger Chesterfield. Who wants to know?'�

His voice was so harsh now it sounded evil. I didn't know whether to continue or shut up and pretend it wasn't me. I could casually get up in a few minutes and walk away, no questions asked, but I was curious about this guy. My curiousity was his fault, really, because he couldn't let me watch the game like I planned. His loud sililoquies had gotten into my head and were trying to pull something out. I've lived with that 'something'� since I was about 7. I kept telling my parents I wanted to be a reporter when I grew up. I watched a lot of Superman reruns, fell in love with Lois Lane, and thought I could get close enough to marry her if I worked for the newspaper. I've never grown out of it, the reporter part that is. I've accepted that I'll never marry Lois and as old as she has to be now, I wouldn't want to. My parents said it was a phase, but they were wrong. I never followed m own black and white dreams of journalism because I followed Dad's and became a carpenter at the Ligonier Construction Co. right on Route 30 and it only takes a few minutes to get to work in the mornings if I go straight to the office. Reporting directly to a job site might mean and hour drive if the customer is willing to pay. The other guys at work tell me I'm a lifer, words I don't want to hear. It's good work, but dirty work, decent pay and benefits, but it's not what I want for the rest of my life. There has to be more. Reporting would allow me to be nosy and constitute is as being part of the job and not a character flaw. This time the reporter inside couldn't let this man's world alone. He was going to invade.

'It was me, Jason Conlin, though maybe we could B.S., swap complaints, since the game's over and there's not much else to do in this town. Besides, you look like you could use a chance to vent your mind.'� By this time Roger had turned towards me, his face, pale yet as threatening as the voice he had answered with. I regretted everything that came from my mouth in that instant. I felt like praying to God not to let this man kill me. Let him pass out and then I can get out of here. I even conjured up an escape plan if he was still alert by the time the tavern closed. I wouldn't drive straight home. I'd circle around a couple of blocks, make sure he wasn't following me then turn out my lights when I got to my street so he wouldn't know where I parked. I realized it would have been too late for any of that because I had given him my real name. Shit, I should've made up a fake, but no I had to give him the real thing, didn't I. I basically told the guy to follow me and kill me. Hell, I might as well even driven him to buy the gun.

'Like you care about my problems. I know you're kind. You're a leftover. You're a leftover, preppy, highschool, pretty boy. A jock, wearing a jock strap, playing football, betcha' quarterback. Blonde hair must be gelled into place. It hurts to get in the wind because Daddy spoiled you. Bought you a car when you were 16, a new one, not used. Nothings too good for my little man. Take this; buy your friends some ice cream. Only you bought enough weed for everyone and still had money left over to satisfy the munchies. You couldn't let it go, could you? Look in the mirror. You're in a dirty tavern wearing khakis and a sweater. You have the look, but lost the life. I have nothing to talk about.'�

With that, he spun back around, so hard his bare knees smacked off the counter. I don't think he noticed and couldn't have felt it. Pretty boy? How did he have the right to say I was a pretty boy? There he was, wearing a bathrobe to a bar and reeked so strongly that anyone would've guessed that he fell into the whiskey flask. Of course, I would not bring that up. I learned a long time ago, if you don't have the muscles to back up what you have to say then don't say anything at all. I know the saying is if you don't have the balls, but having balls doesn't give anyone the physical strength to win and this guy, stronger and less inhibited in his drunken state, was twice my size. I knew that, yet I wouldn't let him intimidate me enough to make me leave or even get up from this stool. After all, I was here first, whether that matters much in the real world or not. It was Friday night; I planned on staying til close. Besides, if I got up and so did he, then what? Let him follow and kill me. A man can't drink as much as he did and not pass out. It's genetically impossible. The reporter was still kicking like a baby in the womb; he was more cautious because he didn't want to die a premature death. Roger would keep rambling, I was sure of it, and I'd listen, take mental notes, and find the 'story'� I was searching for without his cooperation.

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