Dave's World

A fellow I once knew named Dave passed way from COVID-19 this week. Sad news that can’t help but make one consider the larger picture and the meaning of life (if there is any). Dave was the last surviving member of an extended family, whom I also knew once upon a time. Dave's mother and father made it to ninety or thereabouts, but their two sons and a daughter weren’t nearly as fortunate in the longevity game.

Like most—if not all families—they were a dysfunctional lot. But that over-used label cuts a rather wide swath. There is run-of-the-mill dysfunction and a more compelling kind that is the stuff of—say—a laugh-riot sitcom. When I was fourteen and fifteen, an older teenager, neighbor, and friend—a mentor of sorts—collaborated with me on a series of very raw comic strips, assorted standalone cartoons, and sundry prose based on this singular family. While there was ample fodder for all to observe in the public square, he was a relative who—courtesy of living in the same small apartment building and attending various family gatherings—was the proverbial fly on the wall. My friend was privy to behind-the-scenes goings-on, idiosyncrasies, and banter that I could only dream of witnessing first-hand.

Dave was considered the most “normal” of the three offspring. While the sister was a bit of a cipher, the younger brother was something of a delinquent with a notorious potty mouth. He would curse out his grandmother, mother, and even his father with such gaudy regularity that it—at the end of the day—came across as more comical than cruel. Granted, not everybody saw it that way. As a kid, though, who was not accustomed to seeing that kind of thing in hearth and home, it was—I must admit—scintillating theater of the absurd. This extended family consisted of authentic characters—boorish, unpredictable, but more-or-less lovable small-screen ones—who never ceased to amaze, enthrall, and entertain. Again, not everybody was amazed, enthralled, and entertained by them.

Fast forward four decades and I still possess a compendium of miscellaneous scraps of paper from that creative snapshot in time. Unfortunately, I was too young to take it to the next level and pitch a sitcom idea to the networks. The time was certainly ripe—the 1970s—for an urban family-based comedy. But, honestly, I churned out this stuff to please my older friend and confidante—period. When he laughed—and he often would hysterically—that was good enough for me. It was the quintessential inside joke that underscored a bygone era, the passion of youth, and the preciousness of a moment that, regrettably, couldn’t and didn’t last forever. 

In this family affair, I knew Dave the least. He was considerably older than me—a grown-up—by the time I was relishing being on the outside looking in on his family. Sure, he was the normal one, but I think the quiet one might be a more apt description. His comedic bona fides revolved around his bear-hairy body, propensity to sweat profusely no matter the season, and relative silence.  

My most lasting memory of Dave is being in his house, after he had moved away from the old neighborhood, married, and had children of his own. As a teen, I worked for his brother—also my ride home—for a spell. One Saturday, a gathering was held at Dave's place, which was somewhere between where I worked and home. At closing time, Dave's bro informed me that he was going to stop there first for the remains of a buffet dinner. Thrown for a loop, I had little choice but to go along for the ride. But rather than go in the house, I informed Dave's brother and my ride home that I would remain in the vehicle, even if it might be for an hour or two. When the always-considerate Dave learned that I was sitting outside all alone—in wintertime no less—he emerged in the chilly darkness and insisted I come inside for a bite to eat, which I somewhat reluctantly agreed to do. Why did I initially choose to pass on this rare insider’s glimpse into Dave's World and a free meal to boot? I was a bashful boy, I suppose. All I can say now with a lump in my throat—more than forty years later—is this: RIP, Dave and the World We Knew

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)