Waiting on Dave

I met Dave Mencarelli years ago. Back then, we orbited each other like two mismatched moons, each circling our own little radio station planet. I was over on my patch of airwaves, he was on his, and we didn’t cross paths until KUEZ happened.

Now, radio people are like cats—most of us prefer our corners, coffee mugs, and brand of “don’t mess with my equipment.” But when we found ourselves sharing the same workplace, we struck up one of those friendships that made sense without any ceremony.

One of the first things we talked about—before playlists, before deadlines, before even where to find the best tacos in town—was the fact that this radio station was, to put it kindly, “active.” Not just with an occasional raccoon in the dumpster, but active.

Strange bangs from the empty hallway, random thumps from the ceiling, the kind of garbled whispers that make you check to see if your headphones are attached to the board.

And it wasn’t just us. Our dogs—on separate occasions, mind you—reacted to something invisible in the same spot, right there in the doorway outside the control room. Mine bristled and growled. Dave’s pup cowered like somebody just told him Santa wasn’t real.

Now, Dave, besides being a solid radio man, had a side gig that didn’t just pay the bills—it fed his soul. He was a stand-up comic.

And not just “tell a joke at the bar,” amusing. He was funny, and that got him booked at the Laugh Factory—whichever one in the country had a microphone and a spotlight at the time.

And here’s the thing about funny people—they know life’s short. They understand the laugh is worth more than the applause. And they know a good joke can live a lot longer than the teller.

Dave knew his time was running short. Diabetes is a cruel dance partner, and it was stepping on his toes for a while. One day, he told me, plain as you please, “If you don’t joke about my passing when the time comes, then we weren’t the friends we thought we were.”

I laughed. Because that’s the kind of thing Dave’d say—half challenge, half invitation.

Well, today, a couple of hours ago, that time came. Dave slipped away, and the world got a little quieter, or at least the part of it that laughed hardest at his punchlines. I went straight to his social media page and wrote, “Bless you, Dave. I will miss you. Visit when you can.”

And I meant that last part. Because if there’s anybody likely to take a curtain call from the other side, it’s Dave Mencarelli.

I can picture it now—me sitting in the control room some bleary morning, nursing my coffee, running through the morning lineup, and—BANG!—something drops in the hallway. Then a whisper, low and scratchy, in my headphones.

Maybe even the faint smell of the cologne he wore when he thought he might meet somebody important. I’ll spill my coffee, curse his name, and then laugh until my heart hurts.

You see, I believe friends stick around in one way or another. Some stay in your head, some in your heart, and a rare few find a way to mess with your lights and your dog just to let you know they’re still in the room.

Dave was one of those rare few. He lived wide and loud, but never mean. He had a way of making you feel like you were in on the joke—even if you were the punchline. And he carried that same light into dark places, whether it was a dingy comedy club or a haunted radio station hallway.

I figure when the time comes for me to shuffle off this mortal coil, Dave will be waiting. Probably leaning against some cosmic mic stand, saying, “Took you long enough. Hope you brought material.”

Until then, I’m keeping an ear out. The station’s quiet now, but that’s just the thing about ghosts—they don’t punch a clock. Sooner or later, Dave’ll find his way back to give me that scare he promised.

And when he does, I’ll shake my head, smile, and say, “Good to see you, Dave. You still owe me coffee.”

Because life, like friendship doesn’t end, sometimes, it just changes its frequency.