"MARTY THE METEOR"

It was in the early 70's . I was standing at the bar, foot resting on the rail, arguing with "Mumbles" McBride, the only other customer . The argument was over the names of the 1960 Pirates outfielders. Suddenly, mid-discussion , the body of the evasive bar owner Marty O'Toole came crashing through the ceiling.

We both instinctively reached to cover our drinks with the palm of our hands.

That was about as bad as we had ever seen Marty look; even those many times when we dragged his skinny ass up the hill in the winter to the ACC college parking lot following a Steeler's game at Three Rivers. It was also the first time Marty was at a loss for words.

Apparently Marty did not move to Vegas as most surmised. He would go there often . You might even say "in a drunken minute" - without baggage or warning.

He had been known to sneak out of his office in the back after polishing off a fifth or so of the good stuff, while awaiting the departure of a few remaining customers. When impatient he'd climb/fall into his car and slip out of the back lot. Occasionally, he'd think to call from the airport to get someone to lock up. Most times we reasoned it out on our own.

One of us would secure both doors, gather up the cash, fill out the deposit slips, and drop the bag in the overnight deposit on the way home. After a while, we determined within a few bucks how much cash the bar would need for change the next morning.

A few of us surmised he should have been home by now - after calling one of us to wire him cash. However, his unexpected appearance that night did not rule out the possibility to Mumbles and me that, with a display of incredible accuracy, he had jumped out of the plane on the return trip to Greater Pitt Airport.

Marty's bar - "The Joint" - was a popular port-of -call for guys on their way home who needed a stiff one between the trauma at work and the anticipated one at home; but often lingered. It was located in the eastern suburbs of Pittsburgh and was primarily a guys bar . This was as opposed to "The Plugged Nickel" out the road in Monroeville . "The Nickel" was a hideaway place where husbands went to meet other guys wives.

When Marty took off on a binge we all took turns running the bar while awaiting his return. It may have been the only time the customers got a good drink. Nobody ever tried to welch or complain about the substitute bartenders as long as we kept the place open, but, it had been five weeks now.

McBride looked at Marty - lying supine on the broken plaster -then at me - and proclaimed loudly: "Roman Mejias was never on that 1960 squad." He was wrong and I told him why as I removed Marty's right leg from the stool that separated Mumbles and me.

Marty proceeded to slide down the bar in silent acknowledgment of gravity's pull. I swear to this day I heard him say something before he hit the floor, and it wasn't, "I'll buy."

It's not that we were uncaring - just maybe a little drunk. OK, a lot drunk!

Other than dwelling on the 60 Pirates and criticizing Bradshaw, the blond bombshell and current quarterback ,we didn't have a lot of real important stuff to discuss back then. None of us knew enough about women to B.S. the rest of the guys.

Bradshaw was an easy target, particularly when he tried to throw across his body aiming for Lynn Swann in the end zone and was enjoined by a stadium full of people all yelling: "No! Terry - No-o-o-o!"

Occasionally a conversation would shift from sports to discussing the night that "Ike", the retired army colonel took a handful of us to the mens room with him. The object was to win his bet that he had "a third testicle". He did and it cost me twenty bucks - a lot of money back then.

Finally, "Fingers' Finnegan, a local cop came in for a boilermaker before or during his shift. He immediately noticed Marty's torso splayed out behind his favorite stool

Officer Finnegan had been known to employ the five finger discount with recovered valuables before being booted off the robbery squad and assigned to driving a squad car at night so as to protect Danny Donuts from enemies both foreign and domestic.

After Fingers called it in we had one less O'Toole in about 45 minutes. The investigating detectives took one look at Mumbles and me and wisely decided to defer questioning.

"Jiggs", the "bartender du jour" was nowhere to be seen when the cops arrived ; for reasons we discovered later.

Most of the customers had nicknames. Mine was "Crater Face" (or CF) due to an overzealous battle with acne in my youth.

"Jiggs" had been working the bar that night.. His claim to fame was he was the only non-white who came in there. We drafted him the first week Marty disappeared. He was an affable sort - grew up in the Hill District - moved to Lincoln Place in an attempt to become off-white - and probably wasn't overwhelmed by the sight of a dead body.

When Marty made his sudden appearance Jiggs cursed under his breath not only because Marty owed him money he knew he'd never collect. Marty had made one helluva mess of Jiggs' carefully arranged beef jerky display, taking the open container of pickled eggs with it when it flew across the back bar.

Mumbles and me sauntered out the rear door locking and shutting it behind us. Someone would have to come in and sweep up in the morning. It probably wouldn't be one of us.

More about "Marty The Meteor" later.