The Bye-Nick Maneuver

The last few years have been “eye-opening” as it were. The grim reaper made its presence felt—and then some—in my little life circle. In fact, I was reminded of what Archie Bunker once said, rather wistfully, upon the passing of a neighbor, “Another victim of the grim weeper.” 

During this time frame, I lost an aunt, a sister, and my mother. In varying capacities, I was a caregiver for each one of them. My aunt made it to one hundred and Ma, ninety, despite being treated for multiple myeloma for more than twenty years. Life expectancy upon her diagnosis was three to five years. For sure, it was a roller coaster ride—ups and downs—with too many hospital visits to count. By and large, though, she lived a post-diagnosis life worth living. The last few years, however, were another story with neuropathy in her feet, absolute incontinence, and memory issues aplenty. Almost to the end, my mother kept a diary—for decades. Her entries are now a precious resource that detail an active life lived in an ever-changing world leading to the last chapter. I always thought that newsman Howard K. Smith had the best title for a memoir: Events Leading Up to My Death.

Sadly, I have been privy to variations of this sort of life finale. And it’s never been pretty watching once independent folks no longer independent and falling apart mentally, physically, and spiritually. I don’t know why, but I hear the voice of my childhood barber, Tony, calling out, “You’re next!” But it’s not for a haircut this time.

Remaining on theme, I also lost my two closest friends in the past couple of years. Bill was considerably older than me. A quarter of a century ago, he dubbed my other friend, Jim, and yours truly, the “Cryptics.” For Jim and I were ten years old when we first met in grammar school. We attended high school together, published a newsletter of political satire in the late-1980s, and founded a small press ten years later called—why not?—Cryptic Press. Shortly thereafter, the two of us wrote Everything Books for mid-level publisher Adams Media. Concurrently, Jim authored The Everything Philosophy Book and Everything Mafia Book; I, The Everything Collectibles Book and Everything Coaching & Mentoring Book. There was nothing quite like traversing Manhattan Island on foot in 2002, visiting every Barnes & Noble bookstore to see if our inaugural titles were on their shelves and how many of them were stocked. It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. Our mega-walk-a-thons all over the Big Town were commonplace back then. But nothing lasts forever.

Jim and I spoke often of a day when only one of us would be left—as a “cryptic for one,” we said. Initially, it was just idle, frivolous talk, not something we truly entertained because—naturally—we expected to live forever. But in the final years of his life, the reality of being a cryptic for one appeared more imminent than either of us would have liked. Courtesy of a medical moment, I almost cashed in my chips in 2006—leaving a cryptic for one—but, mercifully, the cryptics lived to fight and laugh another day.

So, here I am now, cleaning out a lifetime of stuff before someone does it for me posthumously. I came across a list that I had compiled years ago titled, “The Best of the Cryptics.” It’s thirteen pages long and contains categories: Observations/Sightings, Word Plays, Fill in the Blank, Physical, Song Parodies, Fantasies, Quotations, and Legend. It’s insider stuff with meaning only for two people, one of whom is now deceased. It is a document that underscores a half-century friendship; a lengthy listing of things great and mostly small that Jim and I observed and turned into cryptic fodder—laughs. Laughter that was profound, and the kind I will never know again. We were soulmates—confusing to some—in good times and in bad.

Until his last years, when ill health did a number on him, Jim and I spoke almost every day, and sometimes more than once. It was not unusual for him to look at his phone, which kept a running call time. and ask me: “Do you know how long we’ve been talking? Two hours and thirty-two minutes.” Transcripts of our calls would no doubt have confused the wider world. A former in-law of mine once said of the two of us, “You think things are funny that other people don’t.” A fair enough assessment, I guess. Some might even have thought our humor, on occasion, bordered on callous, cancelable material. It was uninhibited, yes, but always just between us—honest, free, and funny. No fish or wildlife were injured during our conversations and no feelings hurt.

In closing: On the aforementioned “Best of” list is the “Hi-Nick Maneuver,” which I, once upon a time, labeled our Cryptic Press’ accountant’s phone calls to me. They typically went something like this: “Hi Nick, it’s Allen Kale. I’ve completed your quarterly tax returns. I need two checks: One payable to New York State Sales Tax for $4.31 and another made out to me, Allen Kale, for $225.” And beep went the answering machine, often compelling Mr. Kale to imitate John Moschitta.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)