Nick and I first met at Cypress Road School, on the first day of kindergarten. I was crying and miserable with homesickness. Or teacher, Mrs. Miles gave up trying to console me and sat me down at a table. A boy sat across from me putting together a wooden puzzle. He told me his name was Nicholas. He was not crying or upset, and I consoled myself by watching Nicholas calmly assemble that puzzle with confident, methodical resolve.
At Sacred Heart grammar school, I had no idea what Nick’s grades were–I assume they were mostly ‘A’s. But about seventh grade, a rumor spread that Nick had read the entire Encyclopedia Brittanica. The Sisters must have told Fr. Joyce because he came into our class with a goofy smile, asked where Nick was, and exclaimed to the class, “He read the whole encyclopedia!” On the bus ride home, Nick volunteered to me that he had not read the entire encyclopedia, only a couple of sections. To his credit, I never, ever heard Nick brag, gloat, or try to take credit for something he didn’t do.
By the eighth grade, Nick knew he wanted to become a chemist, a career choice he pursued with the same single-minded resolve with which he put that puzzle together in kindergarten.
From our class at Sacred Heart, eight of us went to Don Bosco Prep, including Nick, and in hindsight, we were a pretty smart bunch of guys. Nick knew he was smart. Once, while coming home on the bus, something possessed Nick to estimate each of our IQs. He estimated his own IQ as very high, and I remember this because he ranked me about 10 or 15 points below himself. I didn’t take offense, I just never forgot. Characteristically, Nick did not rate himself as having the highest IQ.
Nick commuted to Manhattan college driving a Dodge Dart. One day over lunch, at the McDonald’s on Hemion Road, Nick told me that his car had suffered a blown engine, and the cost of a new engine or to repair the old one was more than the car was worth. Solely for the purpose of dramatic irony, I told Nick that, coincidentally, my sister Jean had been driving a Dodge Dart and had gotten into a wreck, and the estimate to repair the body and frame was more than the car was worth. Nick questioned me about the engine. Having been in an accident, he feared it was damaged or leaked oil. I assured him the engine was undamaged and in perfect condition. So I sold my sister’s car to Nick. But here’s the thing: Nick swapped out the engine himself, right on his parent’s driveway! That blew my mind. To him, it was just another kindergarten puzzle.
While Nick was in graduate school at Rutgers, he worked at Sears Automotive in Nanuet, swapping out batteries, tires, and whatnot. Around that time, I bought a Radio Shack TRS-80 microcomputer. I told Nick I was dissatisfied with it. It had no software. I couldn’t do much with it. Nick expressed envy, telling me how much more productive he could be in the chem lab with a microcomputer. So I gave it to him. This was about 1978. A year or two later, Nick expressed his gratitude and confirmed how useful it was in the lab. Note that PCs, as we know them, didn’t exist yet and neither did the Internet. Once Nick got his PhD, he worked as a chemist for a series of pharmaceutical companies where he continued to leverage his computational and mechanical talents, to their benefit.
In recent years, we occasionally got together for dinner, both of us being partial to the Mason Jar in Mahwah. Whenever we ate, to start, Nick always ordered a club soda and fried calamari, and I always ordered a Jack Daniels on the rocks, to celebrate the occasion.
We spoke on the phone occasionally. Among other things, we compared notes about what we knew about old friends. Nick had knowledge about so many things–anything related to pharmaceuticals obviously, but also climate change, fracking, and anything mechanical, especially, cars, and even tanks, which were a special interest of his. More recently, he spoke at length and in detail about his medical maladies. In hindsight, I realize that what was just as impressive as his knowledge was his ability to articulate what he knew clearly and concisely. He could explain anything to anybody.
We talked about politics only a little. Nick was a hands-on, practical guy; whereas, I tend to be more abstract and philosophical. Politics was the one subject about which he never elaborated. Nick was deeply conservative. He knew what he believed, and that was it. No need for discussion. Whenever I expressed anything the least bit liberal, which I sometimes did, if just to draw him out, he would dismiss it with a stubborn grunt or a snort. And I say that with affection.
We never talked about sports. We never discussed religion. Someday, when we’re both hopefully in heaven, I suppose Nick will be driving a Dodge Dart with Abba or Arrival playing on the radio, and I’ll be driving a Volkswagon Beetle with Bob Dylan or Led Zeppelin blasting away. We’ll meet for dinner at the Mason Jar equivalent in Heaven. To start, he’ll order a club soda and fried calamari. I’ll order a Jack Daniels on the rocks. We won’t talk politics or religion, but we’ll have plenty of other things to talk about.
