Dave Justice—Memories of a Nice Guy

by

P. D. Nicaise

Everybody knew Dave Justice as a cooperative, easygoing guy. Even during the most hectic days of Apollo, he was calm and full of fun. Anyone dealing with the old Flight Dynamics Branch went to Dave first because the rest of the guys in the branch were like a pack of mad-dogs! I won’t call any names since they have mellowed a bit in old age, but back in those days you could expect snarling and snapping anytime you went to the East End of A-wing. Our G&C division worked together pretty closely with them, but this closeness generated something akin to family rivalry. To illustrate, I’ll just describe one episode:

One day, I noticed that I had misplaced a file. After a few minutes of frantic searching, I recalled that I had given a copy to Harvey Shelton. I tiptoed quietly down the hallway and slipped into Harvey’s office, trying to avoid Henry, Vallely, or worst of all—Scofield. They were the ringleaders of the mad-dog-faction and would nip you pretty good whenever the opportunity presented itself. Even on their best days, they would needle you about having to work for Melvin, or make up some rumor about a reorganization in which we would all be working for them.

As I came into his office, Harvey was sitting at his desk behind a pile of computer printouts. "Hey, Harvey. I need a copy of that data I gave you last week."

Harvey gave me his usual haughty look, then said, "Didn’t you keep a copy of it?"

"I thought I did, but I must have misplaced it. "

Harvey gave me a little half-smirk that I knew meant trouble. "I can’t give you a copy of it without permission from Johnny." Johnny was the leader of the mad-dog pack, and I wasn’t anxious to go in and see him.

"But I gave you the data. All I want is a copy of it back. I don’t want to have to go talk to Johnny about this." I protested.

Harvey, being the good-natured and cooperative guy that he was, gave me an even bigger smirk and said, "Sorry, that’s Johnny’s policy, and we have to get permission from him before I can let you have the data back."

There was nothing left to do but to follow Harvey down to Johnny’s office. There he sat, behind a huge clutter of paper, like a big Brahma bull. In those days he wore glasses with lenses as thick as the bottom of Coke bottles. They made his eyes look about the size of billiard balls.

"P. D. here wants to get some data that . . ."

Johnny slammed a big, ham-hand down on his desk like a thunderclap. He started bellowing and pawing up dust. All I could make out through the rattle and roar was, "Don’t you guys in Brooks Moore’s outfit ever do any work of your own? You are always coming down here stealing our data!"

"But Johnny, all I want is a copy of my own data back," I finally protested.

"What?" Johnny shouted, scowling more than ever.

"That’s right Johnny. I just want to give him back a copy," Harvey finally admitted.

Johnny leaned out so far across his desk that his face was only a couple of feet from mine. "You telling me you gave away your data, and didn’t even keep a copy of it?"

"Well, I guess I did," I admitted meekly.

Johnny stared at me for what seemed like a minute before he spoke, "Alright! You can have a copy of it this time, but if you come back down here again, I'm not going to be Mr. Nice Guy."

Later that week, Dave approached me in the hallway. "Hey, P. D. I heard you had a little meeting with Mr. Nice Guy," he said, laughing. Dave was a great kidder.

Years later, I ran into Dave in the basement of building 4200. He was still the cheerful, friendly guy that I had known during the old days of Apollo. We had both moved on to other organizations by then, but we reminisced about those times, about Johnny, Scofield, and the rest of the mad-dogs. We talked together for several minutes. I told him about my heart problems and he told me about his. After we parted, I never saw him again.