(title - and some vague inspiration - from my neighbor/BFF Myra)

"Revenge is a dish best served cold"

--commonly - and erroneously - attributed to Pierre Choderlos de Laclos in Les Liaisons dangereuses

One of the better things about frequenting what my friends refer to as 'old guy bars' (some people just call them dives), better than even the low prices for cold tap beer, is the wide range of your fellow patrons.

If you're enough of a regular, you'll become something more than anonymous barstool warmers - you'll become friendly enough that you'll start to exchange - and remember - small details about each other.

I had struck up an acquaintanceship with one such fellow (whose name I won't divulge here for reasons which will shortly become obvious). We vaguely knew each others' professions, marital status,favorite sports teams and the like, although our discussions were never too specific. I said only that I worked with computers, for instance, and he implied that he worked as sort of an administrative 'odd job' man - that is, he would be asked by his company to check on branch office and 'tighten things up'.

Recently I had chanced upon an old school chum. While we were tipsily reminiscing, he asked 'Hey, who did you really hate back then?'

I stopped for a moment. Honestly, I had buried those demons deep in the folds of my brain. School for me - as I imagine for every adolescent - was a hell of epic proportions. Every weakness was picked apart by the others with a sick glee and many were simply manufactured of whole cloth (if you were wearing the 'wrong' clothes, for example).

Of course I had my own unique tormentor. I imagine everybody did, even the so-called 'popular' kids. After my chum and I parted, I returned home and found my thoughts inexorably returning to those long forgotten and heavily suppressed times.

I couldn't sleep or relax because my thoughts kept going back to my pimply adolescence. Finally, I threw my coat on and walked to my neighborhood dive.

My barroom buddy was there. I sat on the stool next to him and, in the course of ordinary small talk, I told him in passing of the irritating thought that had driven me here.

My friend's face furled a little and his gaze took on a steeliness I'd not seen before. "That's not fair," he said flatly. "That shouldn't stand." We chatted and drank a little longer, then we parted. I must admit, simply recounting some of my long-ago angst had put me into a less angstful state and I fell to sleep quickly and easily.

A few days later, I ran into my acquaintance at the bar again. Before I could offer greetings, he handed me a newspaper clipping. I scanned it. It was a story from a distant town - my high school nemesis had been set upon by a group of unknown assailants who had beaten him thoroughly, sending him to the hospital for broken bones and potential internal bleeding. "I told you that shouldn't stand," he said when I looked up from the clipping with shock and puzzlement.

I kept the clipping and looked over it again at home that evening. I though about how it must have been, to suddenly be set upon by a gang of thugs. I wondered if my friend - or whoever he had set to this task - had explained to my old nemesis the reason for his unfortunate violent encounter. Would it have been better or worse if he knew? Did it matter?

High school was a long time ago, and the incident I just recounted was a long time ago as well, but I still have the clipping. And I still wonder.