My Buddy, Dave

Way back in 1997, I started working with a steel erection company out of Syracuse. I was coming straight from a long stint with a steel erector here in Buffalo so I knew my stuff when it came to steel erection safety rules.

On day one, I met with the safety director and he was just getting started as a safety guy, but man, he certainly cared about the guys he worked with.

Dave was a good man from the start. He’d say things like:

“You’re so full of beans.”

Just a down to earth, hardworking guy who became a fast friend.

We drove all around New York State setting up jobs. I always let Dave drive so that I could rest. One fine day, way up North of Syracuse, we passed a state trooper. 

I glanced at the speedometer.

“You’re screwed,” I said, and seconds later, the lights came on.

Dave was beside himself. 

The cop stopped by the window, grabbed the license and registration and headed back to his vehicle.

“Here’s the thing,” I said. “You’re pissed, but you’re such a good guy that I bet you thank the cop before he leaves.”

“I’m not THANKING him! We’re in the middle of nowhere, and I was 6 mph over the speed limit. Why the hell would I thank him?”

“I’ll bet you lunch.”

We sat and patiently waited. 

Ten minutes later, the cop returned to the window, and handed over the ticket. The cop told Dave all about the court hearing, and what he should do to plead it down. 

The guy was very cordial.

“Thank you,” Dave said, and like a dam broke, we both burst out laughing.

The cop just stood there, gawking at us.

I took a job working for SDN Loss Prevention. I wore a shirt with the logo on it.

“If it wasn’t for the ‘S’ that would be a good shirt for a guy with the name ‘Dave Nichols,” he said.

“This is still a perfect shirt for you,” I said, “Stupid Dave Nichols.”

We laughed about that for 20 years. I gave him one of the shirts. I eventually told him that the ‘S’ stood for ‘Super.’

‘Super’ Dave Nichols passed away on Thursday after a long battle with cancer.

Damn.

I’m going to miss his friendship.

His son texted me, saying, “I thought you’d want to know. He NEVER stopped talking about you. He was so proud of being your friend.”

And vice-versa.

We had so many lunches together that I could’ve ordered for him when the menus were handed out.

We spent hours talking about our wife and kids. 

We always went to the clam bake. I’d bet we ate 10,000 clams through the years.

And man, we helped a lot of guys stay on the iron.

Dave worked hard.

All his life.

Was just a good, solid man.

“Salt of the Earth,” is an apt description.

“I need you to write a letter for me,” he’d say.

I think I wrote everything that he was responsible for over about 20 years time.

Every single time I would hide a sentence that would make him laugh.

“Fall protection is required when working more than 15’ above a lower level during detail work, and everyone knows this, apparently, other than ‘Super Dave Nichols, who makes me do his work for him because he’s a dopey bastard.”

Of course, he’d call me, laughing:

“Man, you’re so full of beans.”

And here we are.

When I heard that Dave passed, I was able to smile. 

I have zero regrets in the entirety of our friendship because it was always true and easy.

Rest easy, my friend.

You were a ‘super’ guy.