A quick ink brush sketch of McConaughey as Van Zant.
Del the Funky Homosapien
Del and I.
Del and I go back a pretty long way. I Wish My Brother George Was Here, Del's first album, was the first CD I ever bought. I used to listen to it in a CD Walkman with a cassette adapter so I could listen to it in my car, a 1982 Chevy Cavalier that my sister bought for 400 dollars. When it got handed down to me I had to pop rivet sheets of aluminum to the sides and spray foam in the doors just so it would pass inspection. Back then, on my breaks from being a dishwasher at the Olive Garden, I would sit in my car, listening to Mistadobalina, drawing little graffiti-style Stormtroopers in my ring-bound sketchbook against the steering wheel. Just taking a break from the world, just me and some colored pencils scratching away at a future still a loooonnng way off. I would watch the cooks and prep cooks doing lines of coke off the tailgate of a rusty old 4runner, getting ready to go back in and face the music of an Olive Garden Saturday night in Springfield. I got a ride to my other job once in that 4runner, it had 480,000 miles on it. Which I didn't think was possible. The guy who owned it, Jamie, used to come to work with ringworm because he had two kids and couldn't miss a day. He loved Del too actually. We used to get to work early on Friday mornings and unload the truck with my CD playing on top of the wooden palettes we'd pull off the trucks. For breakfast, we would fire up the Olive Garden breadsticks and instead of garlic, we would put on cinnamon and sugar. Those breadsticks were a little piece of heaven. I guess it kinda sounds like hard times, but it really wasn't. At least it didn't feel like it. Just people getting by the best way they know how. With a little Del, and a couple of sugary breadsticks. Thanks, Del, I owe you a beer.
The passing of a legend....KC Jones.
What would become nearly a lifetime of insomnia started in earnest, in my art school years, at MassArt in Boston. After the first hour or two of unsuccessful sleep, I would just give up, throw my backpack on, grab my bike and go. I would put down 20 miles some nights just riding around, circling the city, just looking for interesting things in the world. Racing around downtown on what were normally packed streets, empty, just feeling the wind on my face. Searching for back alleys and tunnels, secret places, cut-throughs and service entrances, any place that was out of the way and tough to find. At some point on every ride, ending up at the aquarium to sit with my face against the glass of the harbor seal enclosure to talk to my buddies, as they bobbed in the water next to me. It was one of those nights that I stumbled into a moment that has stuck with me for a long time.
The demolition of Boston Garden.
It took me a minute to figure out what was happening. You don't normally see a couple of dozen people outside at 2:30 in the morning unless something really bad is happening. As it happens, something pretty bad was. Riding in from about a 100 feet away, I remember thinking, there were no cops, no ambulance, no fire, just people, standing and staring. The people there, they were at a funeral. No one was talking. There were people holding hands, heads on each other’s shoulders, trying to hang on to something…anything. Finally, I glanced up and saw a hole in the side of the Garden about the size of an above-ground pool. It looks like a giant casually walked by and punched a hole in the building. You could see the seats through it, disheveled and thrown everywhere. Rafters, straining, just realizing they were in their last moments. There was a pile of bricks at the base of the building that had to be two stories tall. That steel wrecking ball hanging a few feet away...just laughing at the crowd. Heckling people at their weakest. People were feeling their memories crumbling with those broken bricks. Moments of past glory and lives lived….broken into pieces. Victories, defeats, old friends, great times, the long memory of a city, a legacy of pride, laying in a pile of rubble.
A mammoth part of that legacy is KC Jones.
I had a hard time getting that moment out of my head when I was talking to KC Jones' family about doing this portrait for them. I decided to keep it to myself, trying to play it cool in front of what is for all intents and purposes, the Boston Royal family. Hearing the stories of KC, relayed through his son and daughter, the joy he seemed to bring with him even then permeating the conversation. I drew a few little practice portraits of him, in anticipation of our first conversation...and his daughter Bryna would pick through them saying that was his “you’re in trouble” face, and which ones to use that had his classic crooked smile.
While taking notes from those conversations was a big part of my research, I wanted a little different perspective as well, I needed to talk to a fan. I mean, I'm a Celtics guy, but I only knew KC Jones as a coach, I wanted to get the perception of him as a player. I went to my Dad.
When I mentioned this project to him, I gotta tell you, he lit up.
He talked about going to games with his college buddies watching KC and Bill Russell carve up the court. He talked about KC not being a big scorer, but changing the course of games. Celtics would be down by 8, then KC goes in and only touches the ball a few times, but in a few short minutes, they would be up. He didn’t want to score, he wanted the team to WIN. These are the kinda guys my Dad loves. Not the showboats taking bows...but the grinders. The Clydesdales. The behind the scenes guys that keep things moving. The kinda players they don’t really make anymore. My Dad is that kinda guy, so it’s easy to understand his appreciation.
For those of you from different parts of the world, I'll give you a quick KC Jones breakdown.
KC Jones is one of only eight players in basketball history to have won an NCAA championship, an NBA championship, and an Olympic gold medal. In college, while helping lead his team to a 55 game win streak, he helped develop the Alley Oop. While on the Olympic team, he and Bill Russell helped the team defeat their opponents by an average of 53 points...a record that stands to this day. After a quick stint in the military, and trying his hand at pro football(where he was known for creating the Bump and Run before he injured his leg with the Rams), he finally landed in Boston with the Celtics. Of his 9 seasons in the NBA,(all with the Celtics) he helped them win 8 straight championships, one of the most legendary teams in sports history. There are only two other players to have won more championships, they were both former teammates of his, Bill Russell, and Sam Jones. During his time as coach of the Celtics, he guided the Bird/McHale/Parish Celtics to the championships 4 out of his 5 years as coach. In total as a player and coach, he has TWELVE NBA rings. He was a veteran, husband, father, and to all of us, a coach as well as an icon. He was one of the most important coaches in Boston history, and maybe to all of sports history. Raise a glass, friends, to the passing of a titan, a Boston legend, and a good man.
A logo/assets I did for some of the memorial/charity functions that were held in KC Jones honor.
Preliminary Sketches.
Some quick sketches, just trying to find the ins and outs of his likeness.
A few quick tone studies, still feeling out the face a little.
The Final. (with alternate versions for different Backgrounds)
allowing the rim light to bleed into the background.
letting the shadows bleed into the background.
Assets.
A near miss.
Failure Friday. Vol. 2. Before I went freelance I completed a string of jobs for a wine company. Nothing crazy, a few small jobs. Then they took a big step, they were thinking about rebranding an entire line, a few companies, and quite a few wines. A top-down umbrella rebranding with about a year’s worth of work to it. Having already completed several jobs successfully, doing a test for the job felt like a formality, more of a trial run on the new style than anything else. Nevertheless, I went at it with my normal rabid gorilla fervor. All the while starting to feel the release of the stress of not having to look for jobs for the entire year. It was a lengthy process, finding the right graphic mix, the right composition. They wanted to represent the area in which the wine was grown authentically, down to the bushes, wildlife, and landmasses. We combed through the details and made sure things were nailed down at every step. It was a big job, so I got it, every detail needed to be on point. We finally chose a final, there was a presentation, and then….nothing. Never a good sign. Then I got word from the director that the project was on hold. While I’m sure that was true, I think in this case it was a polite way of telling me that they were going a different way. While it’s never fun being passed over for a gig, it happens. Don’t EVER take it personally. If there is one lesson that I could relay to any illustrator/artist out there, it’s that. It’s not that you are a bad artist, it’s that they are looking for a different flavor. That’s it...and that’s all. It’s the same as you picking out ice cream. The other flavors don’t get mad at themselves because you chose something else...you just felt like Rocky Road. It’s a hard lesson to learn; separating your self-esteem from your work isn’t easy. Not learning that lesson is a long path of resentment, doubts, even anger...and that is the wrong road. If you are an artist or even just a normal human, you have enough of that in you already, don’t add to it. Despite the outcome, I drew the SHIT out of this...and I’m proud of it. It was a fun, challenging piece, a good experience, and I came away with some good lessons.
The Final.
My good friend La Magra....or How Wesley Snipes taught me Spanish.
When I left college, all I had was a bed, a drawing table, some comics, and a little tv with a VCR built into it. The screen was about the size of a lunchbox. 10 inches? Maybe 13?I had a bunch of movies, but after the TV got kicked around a little while I was moving, it would only play one. That movie...was Blade. And it would only play with Spanish subtitles. For an entire summer, I watched nothing but Blade. I would just let the movie play while I was drawing, it would get to the end, automatically rewind and start again. It would play 6 or 7 times a day sometimes. I learned how to say “Some motherfuckers are always trying to ice skate uphill.” and “We’re the top of the fucking food chain.” right off the bat, and slowly but surely the rest of the movie sunk into my brain as well. I gotta tell you, I took YEARS of Spanish growing up in Springfield and most of it did not stay with me. But somehow, someway, Wesley Snipes and Stephen Dorff turned into the best Spanish tutors I could ever have. A few years later, I had a bit of a dry spell in comics, and I got a job at a local gym. I was working with a woman named Maria who only spoke Spanish, and she helped me expand my Bladeucation. She was a tiny woman(about 4 foot 9) of about 60, and she would call me her guerito, (little white boy)or if she was annoyed with me, guerita. After telling her where I learned Spanish, I told her to watch the movie. She comes back a week later and says to me” Estoy La Magra!” I am the BLOOD GOD. I worked with her for about a year and a half after that and never called her anything else. Heres to you Wesley Snipes, and to you La Magra, thanks for teaching me Spanish.
Simone Missick, the Lethality of my Wife , and the Dust of 1000 Corpses.
There’s just something about a woman who can punch. You know what I’m talking about. Not some wild catfight swings....a PUNCH. When the Pandemic ramped up and I had to stop going to the gym, I hung a heavy bag in my basement. I go down there once a day and do a few rounds, to break a sweat, and to help settle my mind a little. A quick aside before we get too far, for context, I live in what once was, just a few decades ago, a funeral home. The basement, while it has been refinished with all the charm of a cinder block, still retains the general spirit of its former career. There is just no hiding it. You turn off the light down there, and man, you can feel it. It’s cold in a way that doesn’t have anything to do with temperature. The shadows in the far corners are ink black and feel almost as liquid. You stare at them for a half-second too long and they move, like a gentle ripple in a puddle of crude oil. When I go down there, it’s for only two reasons, either to reset the breaker or beat the shit out of that bag. Despite the spiritual tumultuousness, or maybe because of it, putting a little time into that bag, just feels right. While I tend to zone out on a treadmill, the bag is all focus. My dial on a treadmill, sort of hovers at a 5 or a 6, but at the bag, it’s actually difficult to keep it below a 9. It’s an activity that calls on intensity and well...violence.
When my wife suggested that she would like to go a few rounds with the bag, I was approximately zero percent surprised. She is a person whose dial does not go below 9 unless she is sleeping. When she drives, she is Ken Block. In the grocery store, she is the unholy spawn of Sonic and Gollum, each of the items on our list, a precious ring, collected at an inhuman speed. That dial is also reflected in her recreational activities. She has been an athlete for a lot of her life but in the very specialized area of dance and circus/aerial arts. That CRAZY shit you see people on the internet do? That’s her. When you think of the strength of people like that, it’s hard to describe. It’s like a veteran lumberjack or a teenage chimpanzee. There is a wild strength present that is meant to do some very specific things....but if you can point it in a different direction, sometimes….well, you can get a real show.
My wife puts on her boxing gloves in the way that you think a penguin might, and for a minute I think this is gonna be funny. She steps up and lets a few little jabs out.
FAP..FAP..FAP...FAP…FAPFAP. Slow. Nothing crazy, the sound of kindergarten hopscotch.
Then I see her adjust her distance and just sort of...get it.
FAPFAPFAPfappityfapfapfappityFAPFAP. Straight machine gun. A drive by.
The comedy show that I thought this might be, clearly is not arriving, and you can feel the air change in way that feels almost carnal…predatory. A lion, just starting to run, knowing it’s got a big meal in front of it. The casual wants of the world darkening into NEED.
She picks up the pace for 15 seconds or so, testing it, starting to lean into the red, and then I see her sideslip right and lay out a body blow that buckles the bag nearly in half.
If the bag had cirrhosis it would be gushing unfiltered liver blood against its insides and be dead within the minute. I feel the slightest ghost of a touch on my earlobe and I realize that she is shaking dust from the rafters. I glance up and casually watch it snow for a minute while my wife clicks back to auto and lets her double Tommy gun fists sing the murderous duet of their people. A passing thought about how old that dust is and how much of it is particulate corpse occurs to me as I’m taking a deep breath. I let it pass, and casually brush what I can only assume is the 100-year old dusty remains of several hundred bodies out of the hair of my forearms, thinking about how my wife could probably punch her way through a fucking car door. She hits that bag like she found the one door out of a burning house. Like she’s trapped underwater in a rapidly filling car. I watch her pound sledge after sledge into that bag, seething with intent, realizing that it stopped being a punching bag a few drum clips ago. I don’t know what that bag has become, but whatever it is, it’s regretting the choices that got it here.
I think of that moment when I see Simone Missick on screen. Leaving her incredible acting chops and condescending snark aside, a believable punch goes a long way. That hip turn…that follow through, just barely contained brutality, suddenly spilled. I know she’s acting, but she doesn’t act like she acting. It feels pretty method; is acting really still acting if you are responding to something real in your mind? From her face to her fist, she’s trying to hurt someone. I can see that little glint in her eye as she pulls her fist back, that looks like she’s lighting a match to some head-on collision of a memory. She just lets it rip and basks in the heat of it…..burns it down to the ground. You can see it, around the edges of her eyes, in her clenched teeth….that she’s instinctually onboard with turning someone’s face into a high-end Bolognese. The joy on her face when she sees some stuntman’s neck muscles buckle as the jolt moves through their frame. I can’t really hear it... but I can feel her pushing the word MOTHERFUCKER through her front teeth. Alternating her enunciation on every other syllable in the way we all do when we are fucking FURIOUS. MOtherFUCKer. The bag…. isn’t the bag for her anymore either. And that look on her face is the look I see on my wife’s face. That determined, glorious intent of beautiful violence, rampaging its fists against the last remnants of an old ghost…in a basement that’s full of them.
Joseph.
A few weeks back, we lost my father in law, Joseph. Among many other things, he was a veteran, husband, and father. He was an intense man, who had a limitless thirst for knowledge and felt passionately about everything. From carbon footprints to mars missions, he knew about it, cared about it, and wanted to talk about it.
Having reached his mid-80s, he spent the majority of his life in a different century and seemed less than comfortable in the endless bullshit stream of this one. He was a man of military senses, purpose and focus, undiluted by time. Not particularly suited to retirement, you could sense a restlessness, a simmering in him. A boiling pot, covered and left, for decades. You could feel it when you are talking to him, he had a lot to say, but you needed to translate a little. You lift that pot lid, you’d have to wait for the steam to clear.
A few years ago, I was preparing to school my nephews in shooting hoops. Joe was watching when I took my phone, wallet, and pocketknife out of my pockets. He asked to see my pocketknife. He flips it open and scrapes a thumbnail along the blade, and raises one casually disappointed eyebrow. “It’s a little dull.” I told him I used it more as a tool than for y’know, stabbing people. “That’s a shame.” Leaving me not knowing if he was talking about how dull the blade was or whether he wanted me to put more stabbings on my schedule. Neither would have surprised me. He asked if he could sharpen it for me, and I agreed. Later, he comes over to me with the knife, finished. He holds a random flyer from his car in the air, and slices through it with a motion that feels dangerously effortless. A practiced grace that belied his age, not just present, but screaming.
“Can I show you something?” Waiting one second too long I agree. He asks me to turn around, and I do it. He steps up next to me with the open blade.
“If someone ever grabs you from behind…” He takes the knife and jerks down next to him into where the inside flat of human thigh would be, and pulls up, across and up, in a motion that takes less than a second. A lightning bolt...both in shape and savagery. Then he turns to me and gives me a stare that lasers through my eyes and carves words into my spine. He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and says...” Just in case.” Not knowing what to say and having very little social grace, I repeat it back to him. Just in case. He hands me the knife, with the smallest possible head nod, and walks away. This was one of our first conversations with each other.
It took a while for the steam to clear....but I got it. “You protect my daughter, no matter what.” Man to man, he was making sure I was ready to take that baton from him. A mantle of protection...descending one notch.
After he died, we had a ceremony. At a lake that his family loved, we were each going to write a message to Joe on a stone and throw it in. I wrote mine out, and wasn’t sure how to take the next step. Just throw and that’s it? I have never been a person that has a deep connection to faith, and that’s where times like these become nebulous. I squeezed the stone in my fist and pushed the thumb side of my fist against my forehead. I could feel the rough edge cutting into the underside of my knuckles. The top edge of the stone just barely touching the skin on my forehead. And then I just….pushed. Reached down and pushed the warmest thought I could muster. Human will against stone. Then shredded a shoulder trying to get that rock as far and deep into the lake as I could get, thinking that if I got it far enough, Joe just might get it at his new address. A new faith created in a moment, for a moment, for a single purpose. To let a man know, that after half a century as a father, he can rest, without worry. I wrote what I thought would bring any father of daughters a moment of respite, the right response to that first interaction.
“I always will.”
Thanks Joe, we love you man...and we miss you every day.
Bestemor.
I sincerely wanted to get up and read this at the funeral, but I couldn't. I froze. I am ashamed of not being brave enough to do it. I would have wanted my Dad and Mom to hear me get through this.
Hello, my name is Gregory, I am the son of Greg and Gail. One of Virginia's grandchildren. Along with Brian, I have the distinguished position of "Black Sheep" amongst the grandchildren.
Just a quick aside before I start. The other grandchildren and I had a conversation the other day, about whether or not to come up here and do this. About this very moment. I made a point about it being hard enough to get through this without everyone rattling off their own experience. "Storytime" I called it. I used the word torturous. I thought it might prolong an already difficult process for everyone. Everybody was just trying to just get to the other side of this thing, this terrible thing, why make it longer, more difficult? In hindsight, I am fairly certain that I was wrong. I think this process might be important. I think I was sad and scared, and as a result, my response was bitter, course, even mean. I realized that's not what Bestie would want. She would leave herself out of the equation entirely and want me to do it because I was sad and scared. That was, and is even now… her power. Maybe even more so now. She is still showing us not just how to act better, but how to be better.
Despite a day or so of practicing this in front of the dog, I have a hard time getting through it, so try to bear with me.
Virginia McCray. 1924-2020.
When I was a kid, I thought my grandmother's name was Bestemor. Bestie. I was not a particularly bright child. No one called my grandfather Bestefar, so her moniker seemed like a much more personal thing to me, an adult form of a nickname. Turns out, it was designation not so much given, but earned. A sobriquet reserved for only the greatest among us. The literal translation for those of you not well versed in Nordic culture is BEST mother. And that, she most certainly was.
Bestamor was born in Brooklyn, in the mid 20's. You could hear just a little New York in her voice every once in a while, even though by the time I was old enough to recognize it, she was a few decades removed. It was these small clues in her syntax that gave you hints to her nature, of being both incredibly wise, yet tough, resilient. A person not to be trifled with. She was mostly Carl Sagan, with just a pinch of Al Capone.
Although she has not lived in Agawam for a long time, her home there stands out the most in my mind. It was hard to walk around in there. Back then, I was both energetic and a klutz, twin bedfellows that made for terrible allies in such a grand and delicate atmosphere. I had to work hard not to break things. It was all glass and porcelain and had full sitting areas clearly not made to sit. Furniture embroidered with fabric that glimmered in the light. Beautiful things. She took such obvious care and craftmanship into these places, that it made me nervous to be there. Bestamor would be off in the kitchen somewhere making sure everyone not only had enough to eat, but had enough to take home. Enough for your neighbors. With her occupied, I was just this chubby dork Indiana Jones tiptoeing through those rooms, these caves of pearlescent treasures. To not break anything, I used to lay under her glass coffee table, with Maggie, her overweight Fox Terrier. I would grab some Ritz crackers from a stray cabinet when no one was looking, and get under there and look at Planet Bestemor from behind the safety of a sheet of glass, casually feeding the dog cracker bits so she'd stay and hang out with me. Even though Maggie existed mostly on the shrimp Bestemor made her, like me, she was never one to turn down a cracker.
While Bestamors presence commanded a certain amount of decorum and behavior, she often would act against that interest. My cousins and I, outright savages in almost all parts of our lives, would attempt to be calm and polite around her, a state of affairs that never lasted very long. Bestamor would protest of course, at the behest of her position as matriarch. Secretly though, she would be on the sidelines, starting small behavioral fires that would breathe even more life into what would become a full-on riot. She loved seeing us together in our natural state, a family of loud, crass, fun-loving maniacs, thundering through family events, leaving carnage, food, baby clothes, beer bottles, and pet hair in our collective wake.
I loved talking to Bestemor. In a quiet moment, when it was just you and her, that force field of decorum would drop for a few moments and you could make her cackle occasionally with a well-placed sniper shot of sarcasm. Sarcasm being my stock in trade; I would try and find those moments as often as I could. They were moments where her matriarch Bestemor title was pulled away for just a minute and she was just a person.... having a well deserved and long-awaited laugh. It was a good feeling as an adult, looking back at the kid version of me tiptoeing through those rooms, finding out that laugh, that beautiful laugh, was what real treasure was. I will keep those moments, crystal clear, in the museum of my mind for the rest of my life.
There are some things I think she would want me to mention. She raised four remarkable children, all great people, who have raised us, the grandchildren, from the lessons she provided. A lot of us are passing those lessons on to our own children, her great-grandchildren, many of whom have not reached the age where they could have appreciated a good Bestamor encouraged family riot, and I think they will be worse off for it.
I think, she would want me to mention her knitting, for which she has earned many awards and accolades, although she often talked about it like it was as common as washing dishes. It was a hobby she not only enjoyed but helped her connect with everyone around her, by making gifts of whatever particular thing she thought you needed, be it a scarf, socks, washcloth or oven mitt. She has knitted me a few different scarves, my favorite being a gray and navy blue one, which I am wearing as I write this. She explained that it gets really cold in Chicago, where I lived at the time, and that I would need it.
It did get cold....and I did need it.
She was smarter and more generous than a lot of us will ever be, and we can only hope to follow her example as close as we can. Bestemor gave with her whole heart, with no thought of reward, to the world around her, a trait more and more uncommon in the age we live in.
I know I speak for all of us when I say I will miss you dearly Bestie, and I will think of you often. I hope you'll get to see Mac soon and if you see Grandpa, give him a hug from me.
Lifesaver.
Sketchbook First Aid
This image while seemingly pretty mundane is actually the most important of my Inktober drawings this year. This drawing, well, it nearly killed someone. Or it saved someone's life, depending on the way you want to look at it.
It was at this point that i started running.
Start of Inktober day 31 inks.
Finished inks.
Threw a few tones in there just for kicks.
This happened a few months back, I had just given notice at my job at Pilot and was trying to spend my lunchbreaks outside to get a little breathing room. Like anyone working through the last few weeks of a job, and on the brink of something new, I needed a little decompression time and was taking my lunches outside to doodle and shovel out the nervous trash pit my brain had become.
Two friends from my office roll up to the bench where im drawing, and knowing im leaving soon, stop to say hello. Noah and Tyler. We are chatting about something and I see Noah’s eyes dart over my shoulder. The way that deer do when something moves in the grass, a quick jerk with a slow stare. He half breathes the word fuck and starts running.
I turn and follow him, starting to see a commotion rumbling together. There are two women at the center of it, one red-faced and hunched over, the other looks like she is trying to remember what the Heimlich looks like from the last movie she saw and is administering it accordingly.
Noah steps in and the second woman backs away, thankful to have been replaced, and he starts in on trying to save this woman via Heimlich. Noah, well he is a large individual. When people use the term "Big Fucker", they are referring to guys Noah's size. This girl, this choking girl, might be 100 pounds. Two and a half choking girls equals one Noah. I see Noah rip through two or three pulls easily pulling this girl off the ground. I see his grip is a little high, not because he doesn't know what he's doing, but because he's a fucking giant in comparison to this tiny girl. I put my hand over my fist and mime the motion to him and say "NOAH, in and up." He lifts up his hands and backs up like I pointed a gun at him. I step forward. Now I feel like that imaginary gun is on me, but really I know it's on this girl.
At this point the little hamster in my brain starts running.
Starts sprinting.
He starts burning the wheel.
Everything around me slows down and the next minute feels like it got stretched into a silent screaming marathon.
I should mention here that, while I have some training in CPR and first aid, it has been an easy 15 years since I have re-upped either one. And as I take my second step towards this girls fear soaked face, I begin an internal panicked scream that basically lasts for the next minute.
I have a thing. A thing that happens when I panic. It's weird and I don't know why it happens and but it’s a default state that resets at certain very specific moments. My mind starts grasping at any and all the relevant information it can get.
I start doing math problems. Word problems. Like 5th grade shit.
I look at this girl and she is 100 pounds. I'm 190 and I can hold my breath for a little over a minute. Maybe a minute and a half? I don't know. 2 pool lengths. 25 seconds give or take have gone by since she started choking and that leaves me with how much time if she has approximately 60% of my body weight does that translate to 60% lung capacity? Has she got less lung capacity? Shes little. Maybe she’s a swimmer. Picture screaming all of these sentences in all capitals with no spaces or punctuation and that's what the inside of my brain is looking like.
Math is the fundamental language of the universe, and my algorithm of 2nd-grade arithmetic tells me I've got about 40 or 50 seconds give or take to get this done. At that point her knees will buckle and she’ll stop breathing and we are gonna be in a whole different, much shittier, fucked-up horrible room. That's the CPR room. That's the brain damage room. A few unsuccessful minutes after that well change rooms again.
And that room has a fucking coffin in it.
I wrap my arms around her and start.
I have given CPR one other time. It worked immediately. So I think I got a good shot at this. One and done right? I'm so good. No problem.
Go ahead and skip forward 15 seconds to my 6th or 7th pull into this girl's stomach. The muscles in her abdomen are flexed so hard they feel like steel cables against my wrists. Every time I pull this girl's blonde hair goes into my face and for split second I can see the shade of her face peeking through the strands. Its gone a deep purple, but its purple with what seems like a white ash sheen to it. I feel the seconds ticking by...and each one feels like a piano drop.
I start thinking of the line of 30 people i’m going to have to explain to why their daughter/granddaughter/sister/niece/cousin is dead. Dead because I was looking at Carol Roper instead of paying attention in Lifeguard Training class in the summer of 1993. Dead because I suck at math. Dead because I'm panicking doing math instead of doing this one thing, this ONE GODDAMNED THING, right. Dead because I was drawing instead of paying attention to the world. Just dead.
On my 10th pull and I'm wondering how much left of this is just for show. I feel like she's very soon to be dead and I'm just the dude that going through the motions of saving a corpse. There's no other option though, no one is coming up with their incredibly up to date CPR/First Aid certification and getting in this.
This girl pulled a bad hand, and i'm it. The human version of off suit 2's and 7's and we are speeding past the river card. Cleaned out and sent home with nothing. ..not even a pulse.
One more pull and I hear a sound. I don't know much about choking to death rules, but I know that sound is good. Sound is air. That sound that you hear a warthog make when there is a Jaguar attached to it? Just pig neck against its back molars and fangs so deep into its throat its touching spine? That's the sound.
I stop for a second and move to look at her face. She gives me a look that can only be one thing.
"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING KEEP FUCKING GOING YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"
Turns out she's still choking to death.
Feeling like a complete fucktard I get back to it.
13. pull.
14. pull.
15. pull.
A cough. Nothing.
16. pull.
I'm afraid to stop.
My acid burning brain drops into its final fastest gear.
ITSGOTTABEMORETHAAMINUTEHOWISSHEEVENSTANDINGBREATHEYOUFUCK SHESGONNAPASSOUTSOONWHATARETHEFUCKINGNUMBERSOFRESCUEBREATHSSHESGONNAFUCKINGDIEANDICANTDOANYTHINGSTOPTHISFUCKINGTRAINIWANTOFF
One last pull and then it just happens.
She coughs so hard she pulls forward out of my grip. She drops to her hands and knees and coughs up a piece of chicken about the size of half a tennis ball, that looks like it has been hit by a lawnmower.
I get down on my haunches and put a hand on her back after a moment and say let's get you to the bench. She stands up and says..."You just saved my life." and gives me a hug covered in what I could only describe as victory vomit.
She sits. I ask if I can get her anything, or anyone. She says thank you but no. She says she has to get cleaned up because she has to give a presentation in 10 minutes.
A dedicated employee.
I looked around and there was no one else choking so I leave.
I spend the next few nights in bed staring at the ceiling googling how long it would take a woman of her approximate height and weight to choke to death. How long it would take for her to be brain dead. How long until she was all the way fucking dead? How long did she have? What is the number of seconds from when she choked up that chicken, to when she would have been dead? I have to know. I think about the looks I would have gotten from the first officers on the scene during my interview with them if she died. Selfish shitty thoughts about the effects it would have on ME. Glazing over the effect on her was that SHE WAS DEAD. I'm just that kind of asshole I guess.
Thankfully though, she is not dead, she is alive somewhere, undoubtedly in a meeting. But I somehow still feel like an asshole. Which doesn't make sense, but my brain doesn't care about that, because it doesn't care about anything that makes sense. It never has. It is just that way. I am just that way.
And to you Alessandra, amazingly dedicated intern at Autodesk, for christ's sake woman, you need to chew better.
Also I hope you had a mint before you gave that presentation because you smelled like vomit.