Old Nick
Author(s): Scott Douglas Jacobsen
Publication (Outlet/Website): The Good Men Project
Publication Date (yyyy/mm/dd): 2025/06/07
When I was a teenager, because I was a difficult kid, I was kicked out of the house for a few months. I got to know, befriend, and like old people more than young people of my cohort. Now, I like mentoring the young, from time to time, and befriending the old, still more.
When I was a teen, also, I worked a bit in construction at a truss factory and in construction with my alcohol misusing father. There was an old man, named Nick: l call him, “Old Nick”—because I’ve always called him Old Nick—who mentored me. We worked side-by-side; or, rather, I worked by his side.
I helped him. I matched his pace. He taught me. I learned, not everything, from him. Construction sites are interesting. They’re dirty.
There’s gravel.
There’s wood.
There’s rebar, rubble, and concrete.
There’s plastic, hard and flowy soft, from packaging, strewn on the property.
There are ‘hard’ hats.
There are belts.
There are hammers, forklifts, cranes, scissor lifts.
There’re frames, concrete forms.
There’re alcoholics, substance misusers, or just drunks and junkies.
There’re regulars, part-timers, life restarters, newcomers, crusty master craftsman, and just plain old labourers and safety inspectors and formans.
Maybe, they show up on time. Maybe, they show up all day. Maybe, they work.
Maybe, they don’t, in each case.
Men, some, raised by the bottle and a back of a hand.
The type who verbally inverted and made an emotionally abusive introject.
Old Nick seemed to come out of this tradition. The idea being: Suck it up, hammer that nail, next.
Nick’s routine was simple: Smokes, banana at lunch, green tea, more smokes, go home.
His pace was slow.
His slow was methodical, like drying concrete. It just form-fit to the pace of that particular day.
I loved listening to his words. They were paced, respectful, tinged with embers of regret at times. A sort of “this is it” of sentiment. Then the smoke would rise from his lips.
He was divorced, estranged from his kids at the time. He had had a substance misuse problem, regarding alcohol. If he was of the time, and of that subculture, a hard life, he would be someone who drank beer, regular beer, whether a IPA or a darker like a Guinness.
Yet, when I met him, I could not tell such a thing happening in the past, certainly not in the present.
He was the ember. His skin cracked like embers rumbled.
I appreciated his mentorship at the time. The opportunity to work with him. Construction was hard, and worth it—though wasn’t great at it. We would talk about the work at hand, and then occasionally about other things.
I learn about the estrangement. I asked if he had any regrets. The body told the story he was unwilling to confront. I worked on and off with him for many months and on more than one worksite. I finished working in construction.
I moved onto other endeavours. It was increasingly a distant memory, but important to reflect upon as a life developmental stage. Everyone should do hard labour for a period of time in youth. If too late in life, then it’s unlikely to express the beneficial effects upon the core psyche.
They remain air people, only.
I’ve worked as a janitor, farm hand, ranch hand, dishwasher, food prepper, landscaper, gardener, busser, cashier, etc. All essential life lessons can be gathered from this. But life goes on. I’ve contemplated death in walks through cemetery in my old town as a child, as a teenager, as an adult. You get value in those lessons too.
Then I was at a funeral years later.
Who was there? Old Nick. I asked him. Something like this.
“How are you, old man?”
“Good, you?”
“Been better, a death, you know?”
“Sure, of course.”
[Innocent naughty jokes and banter.]
“Shhhh! Scotty… you’re not supposed to tell them!”
[Laughter, about to leave—passing recollection]
“Hey…Nick, did you ever reconcile?” (With his kids)
[Pause.]
“…yeah.”
He seemed to have lied. His body told the truth.
That’s a pity.
It’s life.
Eventually, rebar rusts, and concrete cracks, too.
So thanks, Nick—between banana, smokes, and embers—you gave some of what little you had, to me. Thank you.
Thank you.
Thank you.
You weren’t always old. You saw.
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