A Time Too Short

I lost a friend this month. Indeed, writing this is difficult and I purposely gave myself some time to get some distance, so to speak. It's funny perhaps that my first true entry here is regarding death, but preachers always tell us that death is only the beginning and so maybe it all fits together.

On Friday, February 3rd I got that call that no one wants to get. My good friend Dominic was calling to tell me the news: our friend Nick had passed away the night before. Nick had just turned 43 this January. I was disbelieving, but Dom's demeanor made it clear he wasn't joking. I spent the rest of that afternoon in a daze, feeling like I'd been kicked in the stomach, and I didn't relish the thought of telling the other members of our circle the news.

I met Nick back in 1987? 1988? It was long ago, nearly twenty years now. I was working for a computer rental company, then one of the largest in the country (now long since dissolved). I worked in the "back lab" with the less-experienced techs and one day I met a fellow recently transferred from the warehouse. (In those days guys moving from the warehouse into the lab and learning the ropes wasn't unusual.) It took me a while to get to know Nick. He took a lot of good-natured ribbing from his ex-warehouse buddies and seemed like a nice guy right from the start. One fellow in particular, one Glen, always got after Nick for buttoning the very top button of his shirt. Glen would chase Nick around the warehouse every other day and nag him until he reluctantly undid the offending button. Nick had a style all his own, even then, and we all assumed he always had. Nick was a big guy, but gentle and soft-spoken, and he walked with a silent but shuffling gait.

Eventually Nick and I became friends in that easy-going way, where you hardly remember how it happened but instead it just feels like the other person has always been there. It was a relaxed friendship that waxed and waned those first years; we shared a love of Def Leppard and heavy metal (as it was in the '80s) in general, and we went to a number of concerts—'Leppard, KISS, and others, including the 6-hour "Monsters of Rock" at New Jersey's Giant Stadium. We traded CDs, grabbed lunch, and helped each other at work. Several years running our little work group—consisting of Nick, me, our mutual friend Dom, and whomever else we could grab—headed over to the local watering hole and shared a December holiday toast by belting down a shot of dark rum. Nick and I gained work experience and moved into the front lab. Eventually I shared a face-to-face worktable with Nick and when I later left the company in 1991 he inherited my vaunted "notes"—a stack of worn index cards filled with crabbed notes about jumper settings and techie data that he accepted as gingerly as if I had offered him the Dead Sea Scrolls.

As the years went on Nick was always there. Nick, Dom, and I made a yearly summer pilgrimage down to the beach and it became tradition--ride down, get breakfast near the boardwalk (always at the same place, although it changed owners at least three times), hit the beach for a few hours, grab lunch on the boardwalk (pizza or sausage sandwiches was key, this was the Jersey shore after all), play miniature golf on the rooftops (who paid was often decided by a skeeball competition earlier), hit the arcades, and then stop for dinner on the way home. Those dinners were great vehicles for long discussions about work, life, and family. We didn't care if we sat in the middle of a fancy Italian restaurant stinking of sand and Coppertone, our hair askew in that unique beach style; it was about fellowship. Those trips were some of my best times with Nick, and one summer we even spent a long weekend at Wildwood in an attempt to extend the experience.

Nick drifted easily into my larger group of friends, and he was happy to join in whatever we did. Nick played D&D with us (more on that later), went to movies, did lunches. Nick never stood out as a leader, but he was always present and his humor and unique nature was always an obvious and welcome presence. We had many lunches at Bennigan's (where Nick happily ordered the gut-busting Death By Chocolate every time) and many, many Chinese dinners in which we would grab James, Dave, or whomever we could, circle around a big round table, and share everything.

My memories of Nick are legion: His inept shuffling of cards at a poker game (I missed the event but came in as everyone was doubled over with laughter) or the hasty evacuation of all players once Nick raised (Nick couldn't bluff and the rare event of a Nicky raise often led to cries of "Nick's got a full house!" and insanely rapid folds) and the time Nick lost so much money playing one night that I, to the bemused delight of everyone else, made a show of giving Nick 35 cents toll money for his ride home. (For a better telling on Nick's poker days, see the great write-up at http://schizohedron.blogspot.com/) I can remember Nick on the beach wearing black socks and sandals, or his rubbing suntan lotion on his chest and his dense chest hair (we didn't nickname him Sasquatch for nothing!) turning the lotion into a useless white shampoo. I recall Nick lumbering into the shower at Mark's shore place and stepping on the tiled shower lip and collapsing it, to Mark's horror. I remember a white hair, white knuckle ride Nick took us on once as we followed (read: tailgated) another car down the GS Parkway (Nick was deathly afraid of getting lost). More often than not Nicky simply cracked us all up with something he did, or more often tried unsuccessfully to do.

Nick was a favorite D&D player. He wasn't what you'd call a hardcore gamer by any means, and he didn't pore over the rules they way Mark or Willie or I do, but he always offered helpful suggestions, tried to decipher what must have seemed impossibly complex rules, and in his usual selfless way participated just because it made us happy. Playing with Nick was always fun because he didn't know every rule or monster, and so the rest of us saw things through his fresh perspective and the magic came back to the game. I was in the process of rewriting Nick's character sheets the week he died, and our tiny group will save Buckey the Halfling Thief and Roth the Cleric for future adventures.

Nick also faithfully joined us in huge RISK battles (he never won but he came dangerously close in one of our very last games and the thrill on his face was great to behold), and would regularly play the other weird boardgames I regularly throw at our group. Nick particularly liked Puerto Rico and Bohnanza ("the bean game" in Nick-speak). Our last boardgame night was New Years Eve, and we played Puerto Rico and Bang! and toasted in 2006. Happily, I snapped off a few pictures that evening. It was a good night. I had to fight off the urge at Nick's wake to surreptitiously slip a game die into Nick's coffin, in case he ever wishes to join us in our future games. He will always be a presence at our table, whatever game we play.

I miss Nick already. I think of his goofy but lovable way. I think of him gaming with us. I think of him walking into my place and always giving Mojo (my tabby) a peck atop the head (Nick's gentle nature made him one of the small group that could actually hold Mojo without the beast immediately going into a panic). I think of those shore trips and the Chinese dinners. I'm sorry he will no longer be there for these things. I'll miss that child-like naivety he possessed. There will be a void in our group, and even an old agnostic like myself must believe he has gone to a better place.

I'll always be your friend Nick and somehow, someway, we'll meet again.