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fleckcmscott · 3 years

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Stepping Stones - Chapter 2

Chapter links: 1

Summary: Y/N and Arthur share a delightful life, one that isn’t perfect but wholly theirs. When his struggles take a serious turn, she's surprised by the toll it exacts. Though the steps they'll have to take aren't easy, walking them together makes all the difference.

Warnings: Angst, Swearing, Struggles with mental illness

Words: 3,739

A/N: Once again, a heartfelt thanks to @sweet-nothings04 for offering to beta-read this story and her encouragement. Her contributions have been invaluable! Also, thank you guys for your support! I hope you continue to enjoy this story. And don’t worry: there may be angst - but there’s love, too.

If you have any thoughts or questions, please comment, feel free to message me, or send me an ask! I’m still working on requests and Way Back Home!

Y/N wasn't used to being searched. It'd last happened at the District Courthouse when she'd gotten in the wrong line and nearly wound up in the jury room for a murder trial. At least the stout woman in Arkham's visitor entrance lobby was more pleasant than the bailiffs.

Unassuming in a white polo shirt and black pants, her nametag introduced her as Gladys, and the split "I Can Help!" sticker along the top cemented her as a fixture. She was friendly for a Gothamite, commenting on the sunny weather while unceremoniously dumping the contents of Y/N's handbag onto a plastic table pad. Asking about the ride over as she politely ignored tampons and confiscated a nail file. She spelled Y/N's name back to her before jotting it on the sign-in sheet and offered a genuine smile. "You have a nice time with your husband, dear. Just check out with me before you leave."

Visitor's badge pinned above her left breast, Y/N adjusted the collar of her red silk blouse, ensured the heart pendent around her neck was centered, and pushed through the door marked "Visitation."

Her kitten heels click-clacked across the checkerboard linoleum floor. The cafeteria was large, like an elementary school gymnasium without the scoreboards. Lack of funding had turned the once pristine walls to the off-white of a bathtub that had seen too few scrubbings. Large windows dotted them in sets of two, each covered with grate from the inside. Metal fans were riveted to their frames, a poor attempt to compensate for the lack of fresh air. To her left, six rows of steel tables stretched halfway across the room, about a third full of staff and patients, family members and friends. A metal buffet stood to her right, along with a sign stating a menu of beef cutlets and gravy would be served at 5:30 PM. A pony wall separated a family area on the far end. She spotted a patient with his wife and daughter watching cartoons together, ones that were old enough for Y/N to have grown up on.

It struck her how average the place felt, similar to the hospital back home she'd spent far too many hours in. It made sense: the people here were patients like any other, even if they were under lock and key. When she headed to the aluminum coffee urn on a rickety steel cart, there was a woman, around thirty, making conversation with a new wave chick, holding a ragged teddy bear and pulling her hair. Their eyes met and Y/N attempted a friendly smile. Once she'd purchased two cups, she sat by a window and crossed her legs, foot swinging back and forth as she sipped the stale liquid.

She tried to quell her nervous anticipation. Due to his time of admittance, Arthur's forty-eight-hour observation period had stretched late into Thursday night, well after visiting hours. Tasks big and small had punctuated the wait. One of Arthur's clients called to confirm a birthday party, and Y/N, hazy from lack of sleep, explained there'd been a family emergency.

Then it dawned on her that she'd have to find Arthur's gig list, which meant rummaging through his desk, a private space she'd respected since presenting him with it for their anniversary. Thank god he no longer locked the drawers, because she had no idea where he kept the key. (There were only so many hiding places in their three-room apartment, but she had no desire to search every nook and cranny.) The yellow legal pad resided in the top left drawer, under a prop catalog and kraft paper notebook. After ringing Gary and asking him to fill in ("I'm not sure I can do all these, but I can mention them at HaHa's." "That'd be great but don't get yourself in trouble. And, please, leave out Randall."), she telephoned eight households and three businesses with his contact information and apologies.

She worked extra hours in the evening to make up for the time she'd inevitably take off when Arthur was home, an arrangement that wasn't strictly legal, but she didn't see the harm in. Her colleagues graciously ignored the number of personal calls she made, to ask how Arthur was doing and learn about policies. While he wasn't yet rational, staff said, he was cooperative. Well, mostly cooperative. He'd eaten breakfast and referred to everyone as sir or ma'am, but he'd also caused a ruckus when he'd come to and found his wedding ring missing. They'd made an exception to the no jewelry rule and given it back. Personal clothing wasn't permitted, either, besides underwear, and toiletries were out of the question. It irked her - he deserved the dignity of his own hairbrush - but she didn't want to single him out by arguing for further favors. So she shuttled over a week's worth of briefs on her lunch break, chest tight as she gave it to the man with headphones at reception.

Despite the setting, despite the weight of not knowing what mood he'd be in, a thrill bubbled through her veins. Whenever a silhouette appeared behind the glue chip glass of the patient entrance, her pulse skipped. Y/N knew it was silly to expect a lot this first visit but she couldn't help it. She missed him. She missed him. Like it had been thirty days instead of three.

It took about six minutes for the door to crack an inch, and a full ten seconds for it to open completely. An orderly propped his weight against it, pointing in her general direction with his head. She stood and smoothed her palm down her A-line skirt, ensured the hem was at her knee. Maybe it was selfish, perhaps even foolish, but she hoped the surprise would be a highlight of Arthur's day, make him feel better, and she hoped seeing him would be one of hers. He was still her partner, after all. Still her Arthur. That would never change.

Clad in white scrubs and white shoes and about twenty feet away, Arthur stepped over the threshold and scanned the room. She gave him a modest wave when she caught his eye. His approach was more tentative than she would have liked, his steps shorter than usual, fists balled at his sides. As he drew closer, she noted the oiliness of his hair, the two-day black and grey stubble on his chin. His crow's feet had grown deeper, his eyelids slightly purple. Exhaustion dripped from every pore. The cut on his forehead had scabbed over into a thin line, quite modest considering its origin and how much he'd bled.

But he was as beautiful to her as always. The hint of a smile tipped her mouth. "Hi, Arthur."

"Hi," he said lowly. A reservation she barely recognized clouded his light green irises.

Part of her began to suspect popping in like this had been a mistake. Giving up wasn't in her nature, however, especially when it came to the love of her life. She forged ahead, closing the gap between them. Dr. Kellerman had advised her to let Arthur set the pace of their visits, to offer support while respecting his boundaries. Yet, touching him had become as vital to her as breathing, and it didn't occur to her to ask for permission before she reached to cup his face.

His skin felt papery under her fingertips, and red, flakey spots of dermatitis bloomed next to his nose and below his eye. He smelled of cheap bar soap and detergent, though whiffs of his woodsy masculine scent lurked underneath. But his clothes were clean and fit him well, better than half his own wardrobe. "I'm so happy to see you," she said, tracing his sharpened cheeks.

He nodded weakly, lips pursed into a grimace of disbelief. "Good."

"I got us some coffee. We can sit here or on one of the sofas."

"Here's fine."

She took his hand and led him to their table, itching for him to entwine their fingers, lamenting a little when he didn't. While he followed closely, his posture radiated tension like an oven radiated heat. Rather than the gait they'd adopted over the years, he moved as if he was afraid to touch her, as if he feared she'd disappear. Or reject him. Once he was situated and stirring sugar into his cup, she sat beside him and bumped their legs, refusing to let his fears go unchallenged. "How's your room?"

"It's okay. Just me. I'm not there much." He blew lightly on his steaming brew. "I haven't seen this part of the hospital before."

Y/N arched her brow. "No?"

"Penny had trouble getting over here to visit. When I had episodes."

Flabbergasted, a huff of disapproval escaped her. Arthur had been in out Arkham six or seven times, and Penny hadn't made it over once? According to Arthur, she'd been sick for a while, but what about twenty years ago? Even later, they hadn't had any money, which meant she would've had to care for herself while he was away. If she had had the wherewithal to go through the process of committing her son, couldn't she have at least called a cab? Y/N pushed her ire aside, not wanting it to affect Arthur. "Did you see your therapist today?"

"Mhm."

"Is he good? Does he listen to you?"

"He's fine."

She took a long drink. "Did you get the underwear I brought over?"

"Yeah." he sighed, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. "They wrote my name on the waistband."

"I'll get new ones," she said, tapping her chin in contemplation, opting for a little cheer. "Donahue's has a racy number from Mad Mod. How'd you feel about zig-zag bikinis in maroon?" Instead of the laugh she'd craved, the incredulous smirk he saved for ridiculous suggestions, his knees quaked, bouncing and bouncing, freshly wound springs in bleached cotton.

None of this was going as she'd pictured.

Self-consciousness was atypical for her, a personality trait she'd shed in her late twenties after a failed marriage and the beginning of her parents' declines. Being with Arthur felt secure, open, even during his worst days. When he'd discovered his mother's Arkham file, learned the details of his abuse. Or the weeks after she'd passed and any chance of finding out more about himself, the truth about his father and chance to get a crumb of paternal affection, had died along with her.

Gathered at this table with her husband and bad coffee, old insecurities returned with the force of a subway careening at full speed. She sought to encourage him but didn't want to dismiss his feelings, harken back when he'd been burdened with "Happy." Her questions were obviously getting on his nerves - she was at a loss as to how he'd react to more of them. Their banter had vanished. The clues she had to follow were based on an old map, comprised of well-worn paths to joy she could walk with her eyes closed. Now those paths were overgrown with weeds.

But she wouldn't stop trying to trim them. Some shears were in reach: a woman's magazine lay abandoned on a nearby table, famous for its relationship quizzes and bedroom advice. She snagged it, scooted her chair closer to Arthur, and flipped through the glossy pages until the headline "Are You Meant To Be?" screamed in bright pink font. She cleared her throat and read aloud. "'You and your husband are shipwrecked on a desert island. You can take any household item with you. What item would you bring?'" She paused, then went with what first came to mind. "Toothbrush. I can't expect you to kiss me when I-"

"Why are you acting like this?"

Her gaze locked on him. "Like what?"

"Like I haven't fucked everything up."

Automatically, she reached for his thigh, not heeding the angry twitch of his jaw. "You haven-"

He batted her arm away, inadvertently knocking the magazine to the floor. "Don't lie to me," he rasped. "I don't like you seeing me like this. I don't want you to have to come visit and pretend." He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, an anger she recognized as shame dripping from every word. "Can you please just go?"

Pain lanced through her, pain she hadn't felt since her father, deep in the throes of dementia, had accused her of stealing from him. Her lashes lowered to hide her hurt. Arthur acting like this was proof of how out of sorts he was, how much he was struggling with his illnesses. But it didn't make his behavior any easier to take, even if she firmly believed it should. She had to try to accept him as he was in the moment. To forgive him and herself for pressing him too far, too quickly. To listen to his request for time, the way he'd listened to hers after the Murray show, giving her the gift of patience and understanding. A gift he also deserved.

Pushing herself to stand, she glanced at the orderly and lay a gentle palm on Arthur's back. To her relief, he didn't retreat. "I'm here if you need me," she said softly. "If you feel up to it, give me a ring. We could both use a joke or two." Fingertips caressed his distended shoulder, and she pecked the crown of his head, breathed in the oily musk of his scalp. Not entirely pleasant but him all the same. "We'll see each other soon. Get some rest and remember I love you."

~~~~~

"This woman wandered in off the street the other day. Pointy-toed shoes, fur coat, pillbox hat like she thinks she's Jackie Kennedy..." Perched on Y/N's side of the bed, Patricia dunked her orange pekoe teabag, gave it a good squeeze, laid it on her saucer. "She wanted to sue the Wayne Estate for damages to her Bentley, because Thomas Wayne had broken a legally binding oral agreement - she must have read a legal thriller and gotten haughty - to fix the potholes in Old Gotham when he was mayor. I told her to complain to Public Works, but she decided to camp out at your old desk to clip her nails. Finally, Matt had enough and offered her a phone call to Gotham PD or ten bucks for her trouble." She shook her head with a chuckle. "What a jackass. Retirement can't come soon enough."

"Don't wish your life away," Y/N retorted, inadvertently quoting a pamphlet she'd gotten from the Arkham gift shop, "Care for the Caregiver." The title had made her balk: Arthur bathed himself, fed himself, knew who she was. But it had been a straw to hold onto, albeit feebly. She retrieved a curved, wooden hanger from the closet and stuck one end in the arm of her freshly ironed blouse. "Besides, you've been working since you were sixteen, right? I give it a year before you'd go stir-crazy."

"Actually, I've been thinking about taking a class or two at the learning center," said Patricia.

"Oh, really? What kind? Pottery, advanced baking, conversational Spanish?"

"How to find nicer friends."

Hand on her hip, Y/N smirked over her shoulder to find Patricia's teacup raised for a toast. "Let me know what you learn," Y/N said, hoisting the laundry basket onto the bed. "I could use a few pointers." She batted the older woman with a dress sock, then fished for its companion. She shook them out. Aligned the cuffs and toes, smoothed the nylon with the side of her hand, folded the fabric into thirds. The top drawer's left ball-bearing slide stuck when she tried to pull it open, and she made a mental note to ask Arthur to take a look at it.

Without warning, a profound sense of loss swept over her, flushing her cheeks, her forehead. He'd been gone almost a week, the longest they'd been apart aside from conferences and training. Her days had been blessedly busy but dragged on nonetheless, slow as the secondhand on her watch when the battery had to be replaced.

Arthur had gotten in the habit of leaving a note whenever he had an early gig or errand to run, just a few words stating where he was, that he'd be home later, that he loved her. Though she knew he was in Arkham, she couldn't stop her heart from expecting one when she made morning coffee. She ached to pull him inside before he lit a second cigarette, and for his teasing kisses when he'd resist. The way he brushed his teeth from side-to-side, eschewing her method of small circles and daily flossing. Last night, a hot flash had kept her awake, and she'd longed for the feel of his strong, slender hands rubbing refrigerated lotion into her calves, a trick he'd learned to quiet his mother when she'd gone through what he politely referred to as The Change.

Y/N had never wanted to love someone so much she needed them, but Arthur had made it safe. And now here she was, anguishing over a stubborn piece of furniture. She gave the knob another good, hard heave until it popped off into her palm. With a groan, she slapped it on the top of the dresser, between his wallet and her jewelry box.

A gentle hold on her elbow halted her. "The clothes'll keep," Patricia said.

The compassion in her voice, subtle chords that would sound like judgement to others, loosened Y/N's stance. Granted permission for her to take a break from coping and give into grief. Slinking down onto the mattress, she picked up Arthur's blue house pants from the mound of panties and trousers and hugged them to her breast.

"Your anniversary is coming up," Patricia continued. "Will Arthur be home for it?"

"Yes. Three weeks is all the insurance will pay for, and Dr. Kellerman said we were lucky to get that." Most patients were discharged after two, even if they had nowhere else to go.

"How is he? Do you think he'll be ready then?"

"I'm not sure. He barely comes to the phone." She'd tried letters, too. Written on her office letterhead, declarations of her support and affection that were as stilted as the motions she regularly drafted. Something for him to read when they couldn't speak, when they couldn't touch. But he hadn't responded.

Although Y/N was the sole person he'd added to his list of allowed visitors, he hadn't signed the release. Sure, she'd learn the details of his care if a court remanded him, but she wasn't about to have him declared legally incompetent, not unless everything went to shit. But she had deduced his schedule by calling and asking if he could come to the phone. He's in group, Mrs. Fleck, the charge nurse had let slip. Or, You can try in an hour. He should be out of one-on-one by then.

Therapy three times a day. Safety and daily living skills. Goal setting before bed. No wonder he hadn't had the energy to say good night.

"I know what you're going through," Patricia said. She stretched to put her empty teacup on the nightstand. "When Robert got back from Korea, he kept his distance. Buried himself in starting his business, was gone most nights on extra late repair jobs, worked, worked, worked. It was nearly a year before he really came home. But he made it and Arthur will, too."

The intimacy behind the disclosure was a welcome invitation, a hook that tugged at Y/N's core and confirmed honesty would be all right. She drew a shaky breath, fiddled with a loose thread on the hem of Arthur's pajamas. "I thought I'd seen everything. Losing my mother, going out of my mind with my father. Those were finalities I couldn't prevent." Rapid blinking fought the wetness of her eyes. She swiped at them with the heel of her hand. "If you had seen him, Patricia... I just hope Arthur understands. I don't want him to think I wanted him to leave."

"Listen to me." Patricia adopted her mentor tone and hugged her tight around the middle. "There's no way he'd believe that. Remember when we doubled at Kao Wah? When we were in the restroom, and he ordered your favorite dish without having to ask what it was? He adores you." She swept her hand through the air as if she could sweep away Y/N's woes. "You promised to take care of him through everything. You did what you had to to keep him safe. You couldn't have done anything else, Y/N. Don't doubt yourself."

After some moments Y/N nodded. "You know, my parents had a swimming hole on our property. When I was young, I used to skip stones across it and make wishes. For my doll's arm to mend, for my parents to say safe, for my sister's surgeries to go well." She chuckled and dabbed at her cheeks with Arthur's house pants. "I guess it was like praying, which I never had use for." The slightest smile edging her lips, she turned to Patricia. "Let's go to Gotham Park and throw some rocks."

~~~~~

The next morning, eleven percent of her worries cast away by a currently sore right arm, Y/N walked past Sherwood Florist, a closet of a shop around the corner from her office. Storefront freshly washed, robust floral arrangements on display in large, spotless windows, and an owner in horn-rimmed glasses checking the temperature of the nearest cooler, she decided to stop in. Yes, the florist told her, an expression of dubious curiosity on his face. They delivered to Arkham. Just include the patient's full name and ward in the address, and it'd be sent this afternoon.

She chose a squat, plastic vase filled with daisies and a yellow enclosure card with a bumblebee in the lower left corner. A bit cutsie for her taste, but it was the only neutral choice among birthdays and congratulations. She pondered what to write, pushing back the urge to ask him to reach out. A minute later, she put her pen to the cardstock. "I miss you like thread misses a needle. (Good thing you're the comedian - that was terrible.) You're not alone in this. You have my whole heart. - Y/N."

~~~~~

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caleblewis94 · 3 years

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Preview: The Door To Infinity

Puck was now a forty-two-year-old man who still hadn’t learned his last name due to a grease stain from a slice of pizza obscuring the name on his birth certificate in the no-good year of 1978. Why couldn’t his mother or one of his eleven older siblings have told him somewhere during these last 4.2 decades, you ask? Why because they had all died in an oxygen tank explosion that had completely obliterated the house before the Fire Department could even arrive, of course. What else could have possibly happened? Puck’s mother whose name was literally Mother, and who had once been a nun before she was banned for playing Elton John on the church organ, could actually be called Mother Mother, the mother of Puck, because as the saying goes: once a mother, always a mother. That sure is a mouthful, thank God she’s dead.

Mother returned home from the hospital bringing with her a cart of portable oxygen bottles for her own mother, Mother the first, who suffered from COPD which was exacerbated by the pre-existing condition of being apt to not listen to advice or heed warnings. Upon the delivery of oxygen bottles, Mother Mother the mother of Puck finally thought to cut the umbilical cord. The wailing mucus membrane with the fat, pudgy face of a forty-two-year-old man on the disproportionately large head of a newborn had tripped her on the way up the stairs, reminding her that she had forgotten to “forget” him at the hospital. With a sigh, she cut the umbilical cord with the first thing she could find: a pair of safety scissors. The act was hilarious and took nearly fifteen minutes to complete. Afterwards, she lugged the oxygen bottles in and gave them to her ornery old witch, but minus the cool magical powers, of a mother.

Some say that a mother’s intuition can cause her to feel an impending sense of danger to her own. Perhaps this is why she went lovingly outside, cradling the slimy, writhing middle-aged newborn in her tattooed and cigarette burned arms, and ever so carefully dropped Puck into the first pile of trash she had found lying by the street, which just so happened to be a random bale of hay in a DIY manger that her neighbors had attempted to assemble after purchasing it from Ikea before growing frustrated and throwing it half-finished in the street. One can say this motherly intuition saved the baby named Puck that would one day grow up to become the man named Puck. Then again, her motherly instinct didn’t seem to apply to her other eleven comically-named children.

Mother Mother, the mother of Puck, went back inside her home. Puck no longer cried. Now he sat in the Ikea manger with his arms crossed and his lower lip jutting out. This would become his signature look which would make him quite popular, albeit for mocking purposes, with all of the former high school football stars who would form the majority of his coworkers at the glue factory in his adulthood. Moments after his mother entered the house behind him, he would hear, though he wouldn’t understand because he was a baby and everybody knows babies can’t understand words, his mother shouting at his grandmother in her obnoxious twang of a Country accent that Puck would thankfully never acquire himself.

“God Dayum, you old bat, Cain’t you read?” Mother Mother, mother of Puck shouted.

“I can read, you little skank. I’m just having me a cigarette,” Shouted Mother, mother of Mother Mother the mother of Puck.

“I’m tired of you smokin’ meemaw!” Shouted the shrill voice of one of Puck’s siblings. Judging by the whiny tone, it wouldn’t be unreasonable to assume it was Kyle.

“That’s too dayum bad.”

“The sign says no smoking, because it could explode if exposed to fire!” Mother Mother, mother of Puck shouted back.

“Then why hasn’t it yet?”

“Comical effect!”

In completely coincidental, and in no means embellished or made-up fashion, the entire house exploded immediately after the joke in the dialogue was wearing thin. The sound of the explosion sounded to Puck like the winner to the 1978 Darwin Awards if they were around in that terrible, no-good year of 1978. Kaboom with a capital KA.

Now, it’s reasonable to ask why Puck? Why this ugly, slimy, miniature spitting image of Donald Trump? Why did this little clump of living smegma survive in lieu of his entire family being incinerated instantly like a bunch of redneck Icaruses that flew directly into the sun because they didn’t believe the Science that said the sun can hurt you? It is because of a thing called fate. Puck wasn’t meant to die that day. For, you see, you beautiful reader, you, Puck was destined for greater things, like developing a nicotine habit he couldn’t quite kick, working in a glue factory overseeing the melting of the horses, and his destiny to die in a hilarious accident involving a shopping cart at the age of 42. As a wise man once said, so it goes.

∞

Puck, now a forty-two-year-old man full of past traumas and experiences that shaped him into the disgruntled, burned-out, and inconsiderate grump that people subconsciously hoped would drop dead, went to the supermarket. What he bought at said supermarket holds no importance whatsoever to the rest of the novel, but for the record was; 19 bushels of crab legs, 30 cans of Ragu spaghetti sauce, 20 gallons of vegetable oil, 12 cartons of increased fat milk, 8 sticks of extra-salted butter, 57 liters of Mountain Dew, 3 bottles of Coca-Cola that had been stuffed under the clearance shelf since 1958, 5 jugs of eggnog, despite it being the middle of April, two of those obnoxiously bright blue lightbulbs for some reason, and a Milkyway Lite because he was trying to watch his figure.

Puck pushed his shopping cart outside. Of course his luck would have had him picking the cart with the broken wheel, causing it to limp along like a sprinter who had torn their ACL and was desperately trying to hobble their way across the finish line. Plus, the fact that he had so much food weighing down the cart didn’t help him steer it any easier. Life was so hard for poor Puck. On his way to his car, Puck was passed by an old lady on one of those automatic shopping carts that truly highlighted the pinnacle of modern invention. The old woman was smoking three cigarettes at the same time, blowing tendrils of smoke through her nostrils like a dragon who had already expended all of his (or her) fire and couldn’t ejaculate any more. She had an oxygen tank on the back of the cart, though she wasn’t using it. Maybe she’ll need it later, Puck thought. Yes, riding an automatic shopping cart around a store for an hour sure is exhausting work.

Puck got to his car and popped the trunk, which promptly swung open much faster than normal, hitting him in the chin because even his car was tired of his shit. In the background was the sound of an explosion, but Puck thought nothing of this. He flung the groceries in the trunk and shut it back, then he promptly took the shopping and left it right there in the middle of the street, despite there being a coral only twenty feet away. It wasn’t that Puck didn’t see the coral—he did—he just decided to rebel. It was his way of sticking it to the proverbial man. Puck got in his car and drove home, the shopping cart looming menacingly in the parking lot, vowing to get revenge on the forty-two-year-old-man.

When Puck got home, he realized that he had forgotten to also purchase a diet Mountain Dew, because—how can he watch his figure without a pound of aspartame in his system?—Puck lovingly kissed his wife goodbye, and by lovingly kissed his wife goodbye, I mean he didn’t kiss her goodbye, he simply said “I forgot something, be back in ten” then left. However, he wouldn’t be back in ten. In fact, he also wouldn’t even be back at the supermarket in ten, traffic was awfully heavy for two in the afternoon on a Sunday. Also, he wouldn’t ever be back because he would be killed in a tragic, yet hilariously Shakespearean way. A way that said, maybe there is a God who occasionally involves himself in the affairs of humans to deliver righteous justice.

Puck went to the self-checkout line again, but this time at least he actually had under ten items. He hated the small talk Cashiers would make with him, especially the pretty twenty-something-year-old ladies who would make blatant attempts to flirt with him by saying things like “Good morning, sir,” “Paper or plastic?” and, worst of all, “Would you like a receipt?” The total on the screen came up to three dollars and twenty-three cents after tax. It was a bit more than he thought it had cost when he was just here half an hour ago, but he was trying to watch his figure, dammit, so he would not and could not be stopped. He paid for the bottle, and also a banana, and left, not even bothering to take the receipt that had printed from the machine.

“Have a nice day,” said a blonde and blue-eyed nineteen-year-old with a smile that conveyed anything but a genuine smile inside. It was a smile that seemed to say that this young lady was going through her own personal troubles and was having a tough time but was trying her best to be strong and kind to others. To anyone else it would be inspiring, but to Puck it was just another attempt to flirt with him. Puck, not wanting to be rude, gave her that kind of sideways smile any suburban white person would give someone they accidentally made eye contact with in public, and walked by, sidestepping a random broken piece of an oxygen bottle by the door. As he crossed the windy threshold that separates the land of groceries from the humid, suburban air of the Greater Atlanta Area, he swallowed the banana in one gulp. It was a fun party trick he had learned in college. He didn’t have to waste time chewing, and everyone loved it. Especially the random man he had accidentally made eye contact with in the process of the great swallow.

Puck walked out into the crosswalk without looking both ways, not that he needed to look both ways, there were stop signs and everybody in the United States obeys stop signs. He dropped the banana peel absentmindedly onto the ground and made his way towards his car.

As Puck approached his car, he bumped into the shopping cart he had left sitting in the street—not the corral, mind you—thirty minutes prior. The cart rolled forward towards him, ready for its vengeance. If it were alive and wielding a knife, it would totally stab Puck right in the abdomen. For far too long Puck had violated its shopping cart family’s rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of being put back in the corral. But, luckily for Puck, it wasn’t alive. It was a shopping cart. In frustration with this minor inconvenience, Puck pushed the cart further into the street with one swift kick.

“I should have used a basket,” He muttered to himself.

However, the shopping cart heard him make this remark. Or it would have heard him if it were alive and had ears or some other method for processing auditory information. And if it were alive and capable of not just processing auditory information but also understanding English, this comment would have been the last straw. The shopping cart would teach him a lesson if it were alive. Puck was so lucky it wasn’t alive.

Puck turned back to his car and fished for his keys in his pocket, except the keys weren’t there. What the hell, Puck thought. I just had them! He checked his pocket again as if he could possibly miss a keychain the size of Timbuktu, and to his utter shock, the keys hadn’t pulled a David Copperfield and magically reappeared. He turned back around to head into the store and angrily ask the poor girl behind the customer service desk if anyone had found and returned his car keys, as if she were the one herself who had misplaced them. However, before he could do so, something glimmering beneath the partially clouded sky caught his eye. His car keys lied in the bottom basket of the shopping cart that, after being kicked, scampered away before settling eighteen feet away from Puck and just a measly two feet from the corral.

You got him now, you devious shopping cart you, the corral would have thought if it were alive and capable of thought. With a long, drawn out sigh, Puck crossed the street. He removed the keys from the lower basket and glanced at the corral which was now literally not even out of his way to return the cart to. The shopping cart was already facing towards the corral like a baby reaching out for its mother. Puck didn’t even have to walk forward at all to return it, all he had to do was lightly push the cart and it would be back in its rightful place. Puck didn’t do this. Instead, he took the cart and placed it back in the middle of the street for some reason, and then went back to his car.

This would have been the final straw for the shopping cart if the shopping cart had any packets of straws left to give, never mind the rude comment about getting a basket instead. Oh, if only the shopping cart were alive and capable of inflicting punishment upon this horrible man with an even horrible-er—or, dare I say—horrible-est name. Puck? More like duck, the shopping cart would have thought, not that the cart would have any prejudices against ducks, it was just a slightly speciest saying it would have learned growing up in a family of shopping carts in the Southern states.

Suddenly, like a car that had hit a pothole at 110 miles-per-hour, causing it to flip over multiple times before flying into a tree, a car driving at 10 mph, ignoring the 5 mph speed limit sign on the wall next to the cross walk, struck the banana peel Puck had left in the middle of the street. The car going twice the speed limit, lost control and swerved to the left, ironically enough while using a blinker. The out of control car collided with the poor shopping cart with an unquenchable thirst for blood and vengeance at the devastating speed of 2 mph. Puck turned around in time to see the accident.

What, scientifically speaking, should have sent the cart forward with the same force as the weak kick Puck had given the cart minutes earlier, oddly enough launched the cart at the speed of 200 mph directly at the man who never put his carts back in the corrals where they belong. Puck didn’t even have time to realize the error of his leaving-shopping-carts-in-the-middle-of-the-street ways, before the cart flew directly into his face, causing his head to explode like the 125,452nd watermelon destroyed by the great philosopher Gallagher, splattering blood all over a man walking past who had made the foolish mistake of wearing a white t-shirt over-confidant in his ability to avoid acquiring a stain, and sparking the obsession with blood of a three-year-old who was watching the whole scene unfold through a pair of binoculars from his parents’ house across the street.

Puck, the youngest son of Mother Mother the mother of Puck, and the youngest grandson of Mother the mother of Mother Mother the mother of Puck, was dead, though his story and misadventures wouldn’t end there. It was a tragic death. Nothing that has ever happened in human history has ever been more tragic than the death of Puck on that cloudy April day in the year of whatever year this is being read in. But don’t be sad—stop crying, society says it’s not cool to cry with empathy—for there was a sign that he had read thousands of times before that read: Please put your shopping cart up, we can’t afford another fatal accident. So, if it makes you feel any better, Puck kind of deserved it.

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sarsaparillaswords · 7 years

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Winter Soldier Arm Made From Paper

I did a Bucharest Bucky cosplay last Halloween and I’m pretty proud of it. Here’s a close-up:

People have been asking me how I made it and it’s much easier to explain with pictures so I promised them a long tumblr how-to and here it finally is. This is just a forearm, meant to be worn with a henley to cover the upper arm and a glove over the hand. If you want to do a full arm and shoulder then I won’t be able to help you. I mentioned to my husband that I was considering making a full arm for next year and he gave me a look of panic, which is kind of funny because I was the one with glue all over my fingers. The house didn’t even get that messy but whatever. Husbands are still worth it and so is this arm. Here’s another close-up to show off my fake muscles:

Why paper? When I first decided I wanted to do a Bucky costume, I looked at some other examples online. By far the most popular method was thin craft foam manipulated with a heat gun, but the noise and smell would probably have disturbed my child, and I didn’t want to invest in a piece of hardware that would be used once and then contribute to my household clutter forevermore. Finally, although supposedly craft-foam technique is not that difficult, I found it a little bit intimidating whereas I built this forearm with a technique from kindergarten, when we all made papier-mâché* balls by pasting newspaper strips onto balloons.

* I went to the trouble of googling the spelling for papier-mâché and it’s full of accent marks, so I’m going to cut-and-paste it into this whole post, even though it makes me look like a huge nerd. Which I am.

To make this fine, if somewhat time-consuming, specimen of cosplay craftsmanship, you will need a bunch of trash you already have and a couple inexpensive things:

1) some newspaper (a couple issues of one of those free monthly papers is probably enough, since nobody except my in-laws subscribes to the paper anymore)

2) some lightweight material for padding (more newspaper or old plastic bags)

3) an old pair of pantyhose, old t-shirt, or stretchy scrap fabric

4) tape (I used masking tape but duct tape would probably be better)

5) plastic wrap

6) a small (8 oz) jar of mod-podge ($4-$7, matte, satin, or gloss is fine)

7) a small (3 oz) can of chrome paint ($3-$6)

8) a short length of elastic or very stretchy fabric and some thread (~$2)

9) a small, cheap paintbrush. The cheapest you can find (<$1)

The complete how-I-made-it story is below the cut, plus more terrible cell phone photos and unnecessary brilliant commentary.

I spent about a month planning this thing and only 4 days making it. The whole time, I was screaming internally because although I had the whole thing planned out, I didn’t actually know for sure if it would work until I did it. But it did. Here’s how:

Step 1: make an arm-shaped form to build the papier-mâché over.

Back in my misspent youth, I successfully drafted a homemade dress pattern by having a friend duct-tape me into a T-shirt. This works on the same principle. You need some kind of flexible stuff (stretchy fabric is best) to make the base layer and keep the tape from sticking to you. I cut a leg off an old pair of panty hose and slid it over my arm. Honestly a plastic bag would have probably worked just as well. A piece of thin knit fabric (like a piece cut from an old T-shirt) would be even better. Just make sure you don’t have any exposed skin where the tape will go. Then wrap tape around your arm until the whole thing is covered in a shell like this:

You may notice that I used masking tape. I had this idea that I could capture some muscle definition by using a thinner, narrower tape. This was a mistake. Even while flexing to get the most out of my wimpy muscles, it didn’t really work. Also the panty hose wanted to contract and the tape wasn’t sturdy enough to counter that until I put a whole bunch of layers on. So save yourself a headache and use duct tape (tried and true). Your arm is widest while bent, so do most of the work in that position, but straighten it and move it around a bit to be sure that you will have room to move your arm when the thing is done.

Cut a slit in your crazy tape-sleeve to get it off and tape it back together, then stuff it with old plastic bags or newspaper so it will hold its shape.

(At this point in my project, I looked at my sad tape arm and decided by golly, it would have muscles if I had to make them up. So I taped two long pieces of crumpled newspaper where the most prominent muscles of the outer forearm would be. I don’t have a photo of this step, but I do have a nice forearm drawing tuturial and a muscle diagram in my art advice tag. Maybe those will help. Or you could be smart, unlike me, and skip the muscles.)

Step 2: use your arm form as a base to build a layer of papier-mâché

I covered the base with plastic wrap to make sure that my papier-mâché wouldn’t stick to it. Then I used Mod-Podge to paste overlapping newspaper strips over that base. If you aren’t familiar with Mod-Podge, it looks and smells just like white glue. There are probably a lot of different kinds of paste that would work here, but Mod-Podge is inexpensive and readily available. (Also, the hippy aesthetic really goes with my hairstyle.) I quickly discovered that it worked best if I applied the glue to the arm itself with a brush, then laid the newspaper strip over it and smoothed it down with my fingers. It took me a few tries to figure out the best way to lay the strips. As a result, that all-important valley between the “muscles” got papered over and I had to resort to cutting a slit in the paper and pushing it in a bit. It worked--just barely--but it was a real headache.

Look! Muscles!

So what is the best way to lay the strips? Definitely not like the picture above! In my opinion, a diagonal spiral around the arm works best, allowing you to lay the strip evenly and also keep track of how much you’ve covered in that layer, like this:

Start your strip near the wrist and let it lay the way it wants to go to stay smooth. This might result in a small gap or overlap with the strip next to it--don’t try to force them to line up exactly.

Let dry 30 minutes between layers. I did about 3 layers, or roughly the thickness of a sheet of notepaper. I figured that my arm would provide a lot of structure, and I wanted to be sure I could cut it with ordinary scissors later!

Step 3: repeat the process to build a second papier-mâché layer

Once I figured it was thick enough, I let it dry overnight, then wrapped it in another layer of plastic wrap (IMPORTANT!) and started pasting again. About 5 layers this time, or about the thickness of a notecard. I wanted this layer to be very smooth. If I’d had the time, I might have tried to do a “build-up finish” as described on the Mod-Podge jar, but it was only 2 days before Halloween so I just didn’t have time. Instead, I made sure that all my paper strips were torn rather than cut, which made a much less visible edge. Also I finally figured out the diagonal thing.

Then I coated it in a thick layer of Mod-Podge and let it dry for an hour or so.

Step 4: Draw lines for Winter Soldier Arm plates

The reference images I had were...not great...so eventually I had to shrug and make up something that made sense to me, for a very loose definition of “make sense.”

Was Zola high when he designed this?

You can kind of see the diagonal paper strips under the lines here.

I did this with different colored Sharpie pens. The purple lines are for cutting. Some of the red lines are guide lines, some are where the thinner grooves in the plates go.

I had planned to make those grooves by pressing hard with an old ball-point pen. However, I found it hard to get a good grip on this rounded thing so the line came out shakier than I liked. I panicked and decided not to do the rest, hoping no one would notice, which was a shame because the groove actually looked awesome once the paint was on.

Step 5: Cut up the outer shell

Let me pause here for a moment.

If you are reading this, then you may be thinking “this sounds like a lot of work!” Which it was! But the worst part was I didn’t know if it was even going to work at all. I didn’t have those completed photos to reassure me. I had a backup plan which was “wrap aluminum foil around my arm and call it good enough” As I built up the structure, it was starting to look like the principle was sound, but I had a lot of work ahead of me and I could still screw it up.

It was late at night on October 29th and I had to make a cut. After that, there would be no going back.

I needed to cut the tube open so that I could get my hand through it. My plan was to cut just to the right of the row of narrow plates on the inner arm. So I did.

The cut itself was fine! I pulled out the stuffing and nothing exploded or stuck to itself. The problem was that it was way too big, probably because of that muscle padding I added way back in step 1. Near my elbow especially, it was maybe an inch too wide. This might not seem like a lot, but when you are trying to hide the edge under a pushed-back henley cuff, it’s frigging huge.

Step 5a: PANIC

After I was done panicking, I had a pretty cool idea so I ended up doing this:

It’s weird now that I’m thinking about it, but I had no difficulty closing up that gap. Maybe I squeezed it a bit to train it but nothing fancy. It really wanted to curl up on itself already.

Step 5b: Cut up outer layer

This is a little tricky because I had to cut just to one side of the thick sharpie line, then just to the other side, which in practice means cutting a thin strip off the edge of every piece, to make the little gaps between the plates that give the arm its characteristic look.

I used ordinary scissors from an office supply store for most of this, new-ish but nothing fancy. For some of the fine details I turned to a pair of embroidery scissors that I had lying around and wasn’t too attached to (because this kind of thing is bad for embroidery scissors) Imagine my feeling of inverse accomplishment at achieving this:

Like a beautiful flower made of cosplay despair.

While I was doing that I was also waiting for the paint on the under-layer to dry as described in...

Step 6: Prep the under-layer

I needed some elastic to hold the join snug closed over my arm, but I had a bit of metallic stretch velour fabric left over from my kid’s R2-D2 costume, which I had saved every scrap from because it was so expensive. I figured it was stretchy enough to use in place of elastic so I did some estimating and hand-sewed in a panel and...I’m not going to go into depth here. It worked fine but honestly it was so not worth it. In the end, that overlap from step 5a hid most of the join, so I could have just stapled in some elastic and a little flap of cheap silver lamé or something. Then I painted it. I had to mask it so the fabric wouldn’t get paint on it which goes to show how poorly I was thinking things through by this point because it would have been so much easier to paint it first and then add the elastic/stretch fabric/whatever.

The paint I used was Testors 1290 Chrome Spray Enamel from a local store that specialized in model train supplies. I ran down there the morning of October 30, because of course I was doing everything last minute and panicked as is my way. Nor had I taken the time to check any reviews of paint brands. So it was that I found myself standing in the store holding a can of 1290 Chrome in one hand and a of 1246 Metallic Silver in the other. “Chrome.” I murmured to myself. “Metallic Silver. Chrome. Metallic Silver.” I eventually bought the Chrome paint because it “sounded shinier” and because I could use it to make Mad Max jokes.

WITNESS ME!

Chrome was probably the right choice, as this review demonstrates, but on the other hand I might have gotten an even better finish with a different brand, but maybe not in that convenient 3-oz size.

Remember how one of the reasons I chose papier-mâché over heat-treated craft foam was to avoid bad smells? Well, this stuff reeks like you wouldn’t believe. And, forgive me for being such a hippy, but this kind of paint is very high in harmful VOCs, so if you want to use this stuff, if at all possible, do your painting outdoors to minimize health risks. It’s not like you’ll die from painting one arm, but the more often you use this stuff, the more careful you should be.

Getting back to my Epic Forearm Story, I was concerned that some of the paint would have difficulty reaching the under-layer through the gaps between the plates so I gave the under-layer a single coat of paint to avoid any weird paint shadows. It was good practice getting a smooth coat and I was feeling pretty confident about my painting skill. Too confident.

Step 7: Glue cut-up pieces of outer layer onto under-layer

At this point, it was starting to look like my mad project would work, but only if I could finish it on time. This wasn’t reducing my stress levels any, because now I had sunk hours into this project and I had something to lose. I was also concerned that the mod-podge might have difficulty sticking to the chrome paint finish. I lined up the first piece and patiently held it in place until it had dried enough to hold its position after I put it down. Then I waited another half hour or so for it to cure. The resulting join was quite strong, but it was taking flipping forever.

Then I remembered that I didn’t hate life or myself and also that I owned a bottle of super glue. The rest of the pieces went on lickety-split.

(Super glue is not durable enough for extended wear, so if you want to wear this for more than a single Halloween, use the mod-podge)

At this point I had meant to apply another thick coat of mod-podge to seal the edges and make the foundation as smooth as possible but I completely forgot, and maybe just as well because I was rapidly running out of time. Instead I went on to...

Step 8: Apply Chrome Paint finish

The first coat went on beautifully. I was really getting the hang of this, I thought. I put the last coat on just before bed, but this one spot needed a touch more paint, I hesitated just moment too long and...bam. Saggy, bubbly finish. It was so bad it looked like it might actually start to drip, so I grabbed a piece of newspaper and kind of wiped/scraped off some of the excess paint were it was collecting at the points, hoping all the while that I wasn’t marring the finish even further. I was practically in tears but even if I’d had the time, it’s not like I was going to start over so I went to bed and hoped for the best.

In the morning it didn’t look so bad, but I was worried about the edge digging into my arm so I tried to put a strip of that silver fabric over the edge to cushion it a bit, except that fabric is really hard to glue and it only just barely dried enough to wear in time for the trick-or-treating event that afternoon.

Step 9: Wear to widespread acclaim

Or not. Most people didn’t notice that I was wearing a costume at all, which is what happens when you are out on a busy sidewalk with an adorable 3-year-old child. Or people noticed, but didn’t remember Bucky well enough to recognize it. I got a complement on my “nice bracelet” so I guess the metal effect wasn’t too bad. But then I insisted on going to my Friendly Local Comic Book Store to enter the costume contest, and even though it was out of our way and I didn’t win, it was worth it to see the look on the face of the woman working there, just one look of admiration from a fellow nerd and I was over the moon. Hours of work, justified.

In conclusion, this construction method looks great but is somewhat uncomfortable to wear. It would have been better if I had lined it with felt or something. Also this was probably way more difficult than craft foam in the long run. Still, it is very light-weight, relatively cheap to make and allows for muscle contours if you are into that kind of thing. It might have been the best Bucky forearm ever but I flubbed the finish. If anybody decides to make one like it, please show me a picture or something, and learn from my mistakes. Finally, don’t get in any fights with spider-lings.

THE END.

#cosplay #winter soldier #bucky barnes #marvel cosplay #cosplay how-to #cosplay instructions #metal arm #cosplay stories #marvel #mcu #ca:cw #cosplay armor #what are good tags I don't know #my posts #my art

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boothunters · 5 years

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BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

BH – What would you say were the greatest benefits of Launching through Kickstarter?

MB – Kickstarter allowed me to start Mark Albert on a true shoestring budget. I had worked as a landscaper for a couple of summers, and I used $300 of money I had saved to hire my buddy to make the video. The reason behind the Kickstarter itself was to fund the first run of Chelsea boots because the factory had set an initial order minimum that was about $10,000 which I clearly did not have as a 19 year old college student – so Kickstarter was really my only option.

BH – You were inspired at a young age (6th grade) to customize shoes and it was your great grandfather who inspired you. How would you finish the statement, “A fine handcrafted pair of leather boots represents..?“

MB – Not only creativity, but also incredible craftsmanship that cannot be learned overnight. Making a pair of shoes from the ground up requires the know-how to expertly operate machines in over 150 steps from the cutting of the leather to the finishing of a pair.

BH – As with the growth in popularity and completion in the denim market, boots are having a renaissance of sorts. Why do you think this is the case?

MB – It’s interesting because when I got into this industry, I was not a boot guy. I had no idea what the difference was between Goodyear Welt or Blake Rapid, etc. I think that today because of Instagram and platforms like Reddit, many consumers are more informed than ever before about boots and those who appreciate any craft can really become enthusiasts once they realize just how much of an art form boot making is. However, today, a lot of brands are popping up left and right following the likes of Taft. To be completely honest, anyone can fly to Portugal or Spain, choose a stock pattern from a factory, pick some stock leathers and call themselves “designers.” Conversely, the barrier to entry in the domestic footwear industry is much much higher – many of the remaining factories do not have the resources to accommodate small private label brands, and I literally am only in the position I am because I live 5 minutes away from the factory where I design, prototype and assemble each pair in real-time, rather than just waiting a couple weeks for samples to arrive.

BH – You focus more than anyone we know on the workers who craft your boots, what influenced you in your desire to integrate their story in your brand and products?

MB – The factory I work with is such a hidden gem, in that most people in our small town (population 8,000) do not even know it exists. This is completely intentional. The owners and workers have been doing it the old school way for so long that it is truly like a family, and it takes time for an outsider to come in and feel comfortable with everyone. To me, it is completely genuine and natural to highlight these fine men and women because I spend each day, 7-4:30 with them as I also work full-time running design and sales for the factory’s in-house brands. I feel that it is so important to tell their story mainly because they do not realize how incredibly badass and skilled they actually are – for example, I am pretty handy and the first time I tried running some machines, I completely butchered the boots I was working on. I just think its so cool what they do day-in and day-out and they deserve to be recognized as artisans, not just factory workers.

BH – You work with influencers such as BootHunter, how important and why do you consider these types of relationships in your growing your brand awareness and sales?

MB – Much like the factory, the “boot community” if you will, is a lot like a family. Today, the value that engaged followings on social networks like Instagram and Facebook brings to a business is unparalleled. Having real relationships with influencers is worth its weight in gold and it also should be genuine – a lot of brands just assume that sending random products to influencers will make them get behind your products, but its cool because consumers can totally tell when influencers actually support a brand or are just being paid to advertise. Those influencers who I work with are genuine dudes who appreciate quality, so I appreciate their expert feedback alone without the added value of the advertising they do on their profiles. I think that with how quickly retail is changing; brands that grow these types of relationships will have far more staying power than those brands who neglect leveraging influencer networks.

BH – I see that you were inspired to develop your first boot, a Chelsea, by your own search for an affordable and well-crafted example on the market. How do you develop your design ideas such as the Outrider Boot?

MB – Almost all of my newer designs are inspired by the past. I have piles of catalogs from our factory dating back to the 1980s, so I usually find a boot silhouette I like, scour the factory for the paper patterns or the cutting dies, cut my own pieces then meet with our head seamstress. She has worked in the factory for literally 53 years – she is the only one who remembers most of these heritage patterns and how to sew them. Once the framework is in place, I will run a sample pair to work out any kinks. Once the first sample is done, it’s usually a matter of me making the boot modernized with leathers, hardware and outsoles. It’s a truly hands-on design and development process from start to finish. As a designer, having this knowledge of the actual process gives me a huge advantage because I can tell which styles / components will work or give us trouble before starting which saves a lot of time and money.

BH – How would you describe American heritage?

MB – Growing up, I was a history buff. I used to watch the History Channel for hours, particularly programs about WWII and what I consider to be the Golden generation. My grandfather is an example of this type of grit. Folks back then were just darn tough. They worked for what they had and things seemed to be very cut and dry. My grandfather on my Mother’s side was a butcher and immigrant from Hungary. He took pride in his work. In speaking with our older seamstresses at the factory, many of their mother’s were seamstresses as well; they were raised to take incredible pride in their work. Products back then were made to last because they were consciously crafted by folks who brought that pride into what they produced. I feel that this pride is true American heritage and I hope that my products can reflect the pride of the men and women who make them.

BH – What makes an American Boot uniquely desirable?

MB – Mainly, the construction methods and to men, the women and me who are making them. I do not feel that every aspect of foreign-made footwear is inferior. For example, I have seen Indian-made boots with almost perfect upper stitching – probably cleaner than some of my products. Most foreign factories actually have superior and newer machines than most domestic factories. However, it’s a shame because they take that upper and glue the sole on- which immediately makes that product inferior because it will fall apart. Most American-made factories still use the same techniques that were used in that Golden era, like the Goodyear Welt, which makes for products that truly last. This combined with the simple fact that domestic-tanned leather is usually better quality because of the selection of domestic hides being heavier weight creates products that are built to last.

BH – Where do you see your brand and those who make them in the next two to three years?

MB – I hope to be an owner of the factory in the next couple years and continue to push the limits of my creativity to create products that will continue to provide for my amazing family of workers at the factory.

BH – What’s your definition of business success?

MB – I have a lot of successful siblings and family members, and the most important lesson I have learned by watching them is that money does not equate to happiness. Sure, in order to be a business as a going-concern, you must be conscious of margins but I can almost guarantee that if you are solely profit-driven, you will not find happiness or meaning in your work. I am so lucky to be in a situation where I truly love what I do, I love the challenges, and I am used to the uncertainty by now. I suppose my definition of business success is pretty cliché but true, do what you love and you’ll never work a day in your life.

THANK YOU MARK! … BOOTHUNTER

To Check Out Mark Albert Boots For Yourself, Click Here…

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

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stylexplorers · 5 years

Text

BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

BH – What would you say were the greatest benefits of Launching through Kickstarter?

BH – As with the growth in popularity and completion in the denim market, boots are having a renaissance of sorts. Why do you think this is the case?

BH – You focus more than anyone we know on the workers who craft your boots, what influenced you in your desire to integrate their story in your brand and products?

BH – You work with influencers such as BootHunter, how important and why do you consider these types of relationships in your growing your brand awareness and sales?

BH – How would you describe American heritage?

BH – What makes an American Boot uniquely desirable?

BH – Where do you see your brand and those who make them in the next two to three years?

BH – What’s your definition of business success?

THANK YOU MARK! … BOOTHUNTER

To Check Out Mark Albert Boots For Yourself, Click Here…

Leather Runs In The Family… Mark Albert Boots BootHunter talks with founder of Mark Albert Boots, Mark Barbera, here is some of the story behind this growing American footwear company.

0 notes

bryanllamado · 7 years

Text

Feb-ibig

Okay. So before you start reading this blog entry, here’s a quick story. After celebrating Valentine’s the entire week (yes, I made it happen), I had chicken pox. *frowns* As of writing, I’m taking some time off of school to recuperate from this illness–perfect timing, the prelim has just begun (and so as this chicken pox). Disclaimer: I have zero idea on how I got this–no one from the fam or the squad had this skin disease recently. I’m starting to hate February for this apparent reason (getting sick); it never fails to ruin things. But looking on the brighter side of things, I got to spend this year’s V-Day with the one[s] I love!

I have planned this–my dream V-Day celeb–for a long time already and though some things didn’t turn out as planned, I’m glad with the way everything drove out in general. Damang dama ko ang simoy ng pag-ibig, mga bes! I enjoyed every single moment of the week and I feel privileged to have spent the Hearts Day sharing love with the best people in town. Plus, this year saw the light for my first ever (legit but not so legal) valentine date–though it wasn’t exactly a date. Tamis! Let’s just say that I celebrated love the way it is supposed to be rejoiced. But for now, it’s time for me to do a recap of how the previous week went. #HappyHeartsDay

Valentine Week 2017

Sunday

As soon as I reached the dorm, I prepared a little surprise for my girl: a special valentine greeting poem and a banner. I spent the rest of the night finishing the poem (though I finished it swiftly) and cutting out letters for me and my friend’s ‘HAPPY HEARTS DAY’ banner surprise to our two lovely girls. The good thing is that I have the materials that I need at the dorm–glue, colored papers, bond papers and a pair of scissors. I prepared the letter cuts and Gian inflated the heart shaped balloons. We have everything laid out that night and the only thing left to do is to execute the plan. #loverbois

Monday

It’s been a while since we (me and my girl) last visited Starbucks so we planned to grab coffee to start the week. We both came from our respective schools–the 2 Lasallian universities in Dasmariñas–and headed straight to meet each other and get our favorite flavors of frappe. I guess we both needed a breather from a long hard day in school. I enjoyed the night (even though we weren’t able to talk much and catch up). I was preparing for a report and a major exam for the following day as she was scanning through her notes. Handouts before hangouts as people say but why choose when you can have the best of both worlds?

Tuesday

Prior to this week, she already informed me that she and her (single girl) friends will be going out on V-Day. I gave it a nod since I don’t want her to wait too long for me as she’ll be dismissed earlier than I’ll be. The plan is that we’ll meet at exactly 6PM at Walter Mart with no particular place to eat at. It is also the day when we are supposed to hand our valentine gifts to each other but a few days before, the Instagram account (from which I ordered my gift for her–a blue cap and a matching blue watch) informed me that they couldn’t ship/send the items to me yet because they don’t have them yet.

Since she’s out with her friends, I decided to join my friends to try Bittersweet–a café that some of our fellow COEd students manage. I wasn’t supposed to join them (as I’ll be having a dinner date with my girl) but I wouldn’t want to miss a food adventure. After class, we grabbed a jeepney ride and headed straight to Area G–where the café is located. Too bad, Rica, Jane, MJ and Rjhay weren’t able to make it. For the meriendate, majority of us had Tuna Pasta and Choco Kisses milk shake and we all shared a plate of nachos and a barkada serving of fries.

Everybody enjoyed the food and (believe it or not) none of us spent more than a hundred bucks. The food is great and the menu offers variety–though the serving size is a little reduced but my taste buds are still satisfied. The sizes of their drinks are named single, taken, complicated and barkada (from the smallest serving to the largest). The place is not that spacious but we managed to arrange ourselves on a long table. I am satisfied with my Bittersweet experience in general. *thumbs up* After we finished our meals, we had isaw and betamax on a nearby streetfood spot.

I went back to the dorm to fix myself for my first ever (could-have-been) valentine dinner. She texted me around quarter to 7PM and told me that she’s on her way already. I rushed to reach Walter Mart and arrived 13 minutes late–not that punctual for an actual date. We decided to dine at Bon Chon (our common fave food place) but to our surprise, the place is too crowded–with people waiting both inside and outside. We were supposed to try the new seafood flavor Bibimbowl but apparently, there’s no vacant table left for us to dine in. It is unwise to have our orders taken out but we did in hopes of saving time.

Instead of having Bibimbowls (which we would appreciate more if we eat in the actual serving), we opted for 2 servings of Calamari. The crew told us that we will be waiting for 20 minutes to get our orders but we ended up waiting for almost an hour–partida, standing ovation pa kami n’yan. The waiting game is on and we took the time to catch up on each other’s ganaps. Instead of getting bored, I enjoyed waiting since I’m with my favorite person. I can still recall her saying, “Sana pala dito na lang tayo kumain kung ganto katagal din naman tayo maghihintay.” I bet she would laugh in case she’s reading this.

Since I’m chasing a curfew time, we went home with our take outs (told you, it wasn’t a date). I’m absolutely disappointed with how the night turned out–the gifts were delayed, waited for an hour to get our orders and ended up not eating together. I actually insisted that we eat instead given that it’s a special day (and I wouldn’t mind going back to the dorm past the curfew time) but she insisted that we should go home–since we’ve spent enough time together. We left the place not with satisfied tummies but with memories and good laughter. Tip: If you’re going on a date, make sure you set up an early one or have a table reservation. By the way, the banner and balloons surprise for our lovely girls was a success! Thanks a lot Gi! I owe you so much man.

Wednesday

We were supposed to see My Ex and Why’s (but she dislikes mainstream Filipino films) or Fifty Shades Darker (but she has already seen it) so planned to have a movie marathon on their place instead. Our friends Gian and Yna–our fellow Lasallian couple–set up the marathon and we all chipped in to have popcorn and nachos to complete the movie experience. We watched Holding the Man and Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children (the former is LGBT romance themed, the latter is a fantasy). My bad, I slept in between the 2 films so I didn’t understand any of the storyline. It always feels authentic when I’m with the 3 of them; plus, nachos and popcorn. *drools*

Thursday

Y’all know what it is: my friends and I planned to see Fifty Shades Darker on that day and as if fate is on our side, everything went according to plans. Praise the heavens! Apparently, my friends are sort of obsessed with the franchise and I feel their strong will (judging on their reactions when they saw the trailer) to see the film. Well, I’m a fan of film adaptations of novels in general and what could have been a naughtier way to celebrate love month than to hit the movie house with this flick? In short, we have anticipated Darker from the very beginning.

The hype is so real that to some extent, some of my friends even fabricated birth certificates to prove that everyone’s in the legal age–since Darker is R-18. Babala: Ang programang ito ay Rated SPG. There are a lot of ‘great things’ I supposed that happened during the day. 1. I recovered my ID from SWAFO. I lost my school ID (the jacket is already broken so it’s no wonder it got lost) that day when we attended a seminar at the Alumni Building. Good thing I was able to retrieve it from SWAFO right before we leave for Robinsons Dasmariñas.

2. The full show was moved to 3:50PM instead of half past 3PM (which gave us more time to fake birth certificates and get food). We grabbed snacks from 7Eleven; I had a butter flavored popcorn and a huge cup of Gulp–which I finished by myself. #nosharing 3. There is no traffic and the jeepney driver changed routes to shorten the ride. We left 30 minutes before the showing and we crossed our fingers for no traffic. Good thing the driver of the jeepney changed routes to get to the mall faster. After that, we ran–far beyond the stoplight to enter the mall to the last floor to reach the movie house.

4. The guard from the mall simply asked us about our ages and college level (he simply looked at our IDs without even asking for legal documents or proofs). Honestly, there are 3 of us who are not yet 18–Alpha, MJ and Faith. Rica and Rjhay were not able to join us; T. Annie (Dairen’s best friend) and Leslie (MJ’s special someone) joined the pool. 5. We got inside the movie house just in time. When we entered the cinema, the film has just began and so we quickly looked for seats and placed in the 3rd row. I sat beside Nica and Tin. Our acquaintances Clarisse and Errol were also inside the cinema.

I’m satisfied with the film in general–the story lines and the cinematography. Although I haven’t read the novel yet, it would have been a better experience to know what to expect (aside from what we saw in the trailer). FYI: The plot of the entire trilogy focuses on romance; not on the BDSM thing or the sexual encounters (though the love scenes are really noticeable). One thing I love about the film is that it featured a cohesive shift from the ‘sexual’ to ‘intimate’ relationship between Anastasia and Christian. I highly recommend this flick for lovers out there; perfect for the love month.

After seeing Darker, majority of us headed home straight but Nica, MJ, Leslie and I hopped to SM Dasmariñas which is just a few blocks away. The lovebirds (MJ and Leslie) will be dining there while Nica and I went to Imagine. I personally wanted to go to Imagine because I want to belt out my favorite songs on the karaoke (which I barely do; thank you to my blockmates–Ayah, MJ and Cyra–who went to Imagine that Monday for making me envy). Nica and I had an equal share of songs and this is my set list for that night:

· Chandelier

· You are My Song

· Someday We’ll Know

· Home

· Alone

· Baliw

· If I Were a Boy

· The Gift (duet with Nica)

· Forever’s Not Enough

· If We Fall in Love (duet with Nica)

I’m not even kidding with the set list though most of the songs are very unlikely for me to sing–Chandelier, If I Were a Boy and Forever’s Not Enough). *laughs* I just want to know if I can still sing those songs. Nica sang Counting Stars, I’ll Be There, Somebody that I Used to Know, Born This Way, A Whole New World, etc. Next time, I’ll be doing more of band music and alternatives like Maroon 5, Coldplay and Paramore–medyo rock para mapaos–or maybe some throwback Chris Brown or Ne-Yo. #nexttime Unfortunately, they don’t have Secret Love Song yet–would’ve been a great jam if the song is there.

Before we went home, I dropped by Tokyo Tokyo to take out Ramen (insane cravings for Ramen; had two steaming bowls that day–one for brunch and another for dinner). That day is indeed tiring but I have seen a great film (Darker), I have great food (Ramen) and I’m with a great company–my college squad. I have 3 homeworks and a quiz the following day but fret not–Carpe Diem. I’m really glad that I was able to carry out everything I have planned that day–felt extremely blessed. Guess what, I’m starting to love Thursdays more than ever… again! #thankyouLord

Friday

Another (tough and long) week at school has passed and the best way to end it is a street food fix: had calamares and my fave buko juice after class. After 2 weeks of indulging in calamares after class, I (think I) should stop this habit–for a.) it is not that healthy; b.) it’s about time to stop cheap thrills; c.) I’m bringing back the thrifty habits. Before I catch the bus ride home, I dropped by my girl’s place and shared a few bites off our favorite doughs. She did it again–she bought a box (a dozen) of our favorite donuts from Krispy Kreme.

In fact, we had KK donuts twice that week because Gian and Yna also purchased a dozen of assorted doughs that Tuesday (which they shared with us). This time though, we had the box all by ourselves–though we have only consumed 4 of which. I helped her fix her things; she helped me sort mine. #dormergoals #rgoals As we packed our bags together, I asked her if we could meet the following day–I’ll finally received my valentine gift for her–so we can give our gifts to each other. Delightedly, she said yes without asking about details or whatevers.

Saturday

The Instagram account (from where I ordered my gifts for her) messaged me that Friday that they already handed the items to my friend Bea–a friend who resides in Manila and the one who picked up the gifts. I personally tapped Bea to contact the account and help me purchase the items since she’s in Manila (most of the time). She went home that Friday so we managed to meet the following day to give me the gift. So there, if you’re reading this, you’ll know where I bought my gifts for you and who conspired with me to get the items. *winks*

We met at SM Trece Martires–our new hide away as the mall is not crowded–and she arrived late (very unlikely of her to). Well, I was late when we met that Tuesday and it is just fair that she came late that time–quits lang. Oh girl, please don’t make me wait. When she arrived, she immediately handed me her gift and to my surprise (nasarprays ako literal), her gifts were the items next on my bucket list–the items that I would care to have but can’t at the moment. Thank you boo! I love your gifts! I handed her my gifts as well–quite nervous if she would like them or not.

She has been eyeing the blue cap–which is from a merch store–and the blue watch on Instagram for some time now. Since she doesn’t have time to purchase them yet, I did the deeds and surprisingly, she liked my gifts. I won’t give a hint on the price of the items (shh lang muna; she gave me a pricey gift as well so secret na lang) because she also bought a quite expensive gift for me. She’s really eager to have the cap–which I would also love to have–and I made sure it comes with a watch (because she’s a big lover of watches; bought a blue one to match the color of the cap).

And all of a sudden, I had chicken pox–just the mere thought that I have this makes me want to throw up instead. *note sarcasm* So it goes a little like this, Cupid and Aphrodite made me feel all the love the entire week then sends me crashing back down to earth (after putting me on a cloud 9). But kidding aside, I don’t know what I did to contact and/or deserve this kind of sickness. The good thing is that this came after Valentine’s–I got to spend the Hearts Day the way it is supposed to. #atleast

The bad thing is that this came right at the beginning of the Prelim week so I had to take 5 special exams. Not to mention, I’ll be staying at home for the rest of the week and (sighs) no allowance. Sayang baon, mga beshy! I could have felt that Valentine hangover if not for this. *frowns* Di bale na. Looking on the positive side of things: I get to rest for some days; I have been enormously blessed the entire week; I have the love of my life with me–there’s nothing more that I could ask for. #blessed

How about you, my dear readers? How did you spend the Hearts Day? By whatever means, I hope you all had an incredibly romantic and intimate celebration with the one[s] you love! Just a friendly reminder: You deserve to be loved. ❤

Till the next blog entry! Bry. x 022317

P.S. To the one who made this year’s Valentine’s extra special, thank you! I’m blessed to have you.

P.P.S. I didn’t publish this whole entry to brag; it is just my pleasure to share with you how it is to be me.

#uncat #article #blog #blogger #blogging #journal #life #personal #writer #valentines #valentines day #love month #writing

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itsworn · 7 years

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How Water can Calm the Detonation Blues

War is hell kids, but it’s undeniable that many world-changing technological advances were derived from armed conflict. War-related research brought us the moon landing, jet powered airliners, hemispherical combustion chambers, super glue, synthetic oil, and the cell phones in our pockets.

Way back in WWII, the German Focke-Wulf FW 190 fighter plane needed a horsepower boost to give it an edge during aerial combat against U.S. Air Force P51 Mustangs. The FW190’s 1,677 horsepower, 14-cylinder BMW radial engine was already supercharged so adding a huffer was off the menu. Instead, the so-called MW 50 system was devised. As the name implies, a 50/50 spray of methanol and water was administered for short bursts and output jumped to 1,973. Though the MW 50 units were only used experimentally, the idea took root and has been exploited by horsepower seekers looking for minimal hardware investment ever since.

So what exactly does methanol – water injection do? The core objective is to prevent abnormal combustion. Usually identified with words like detonation, ping, and knock, the audible sounds are caused by a fuel/air mixture that’s started to burn too soon. The resulting “death rattle” is just that. The uneven cylinder pressure hammers the chambers, pistons, rings, ring lands, pins, bearings, and block without mercy. In extreme cases, the vibration can be so extreme as to cause flex plate and header flange bolts to loosen.

Beyond its threat to mechanical systems, detonation also kills power. The uneven power pulses, which are clearly visible on a printed dyno curve, disturb intact tract function, ignition system efficiency, and vehicle acceleration. While detonation is a problem with naturally aspirated engines, when you add an exhaust-driven turbo or belt driven supercharger and forcibly cram the air molecules together, even more detonation-making heat is the result. Something must be done.

That something is water-methanol liquid injection, which aims to cool the intake charge before it enters the combustion chambers. Back in the ‘70s when the federal mandate for reduced octane, unleaded fuel first hit, and entire crop of aftermarket water injection kits emerged to help drivers of pre-1971 cars run on the lower-octane gasoline. These cars typically had compression ratios north of the critical 10:1 threshold and rattle-prone iron cylinder heads.

Grab a late seventies copy of Car Craft and you’ll see advertisements for water injection kits from outfits like Spearco and Roto-Master. These early kits generally introduced straight atomized water into the fuel/air charge. Since water doesn’t burn and expand during combustion, the water molecules took up a certain amount of space, so less fuel was present and power wasn’t necessarily enhanced. Rather, these systems simply helped the engine “be all it could be”, to borrow a recruiting phrase from the mighty U.S. Army. However, straight water begins to freeze at 32-deg. F, so makers of those water injection kits told users to add various amounts of windshield washer fluid (which contains alcohol to prevent freezing) to ensure their systems would function in the winter time. As victims of cracked engine blocks can attest, confined water takes up seven percent more volume when it freezes into ice. So following the lead of the Focke-Wulf engineers in 1942, many aftermarket water injection system makers incorporated methanol into the equation. Well whaddaya know, alky is combustible and can add power while the water component curbs detonation; it’s a win – win.

Its’ been over four decades since those first water-methanol injection kits hit the aftermarket, and since the best pump gasoline available is still a mere 91 to 93 octane, detonation remains a problem for naturally aspirated engines with more than 9.9:1 compression. With today’s massive surge toward add-on turbo and supercharger kits, the need for water-methanol injection systems has never been greater.

Lets’ watch as the Buzzell brothers of NextGen Performance install and test a Snow Performance Boost Cooler on a Vortec blown 1965 Mustang 2+2. The entire process took just a few hours but added nearly 41 horsepower and 29 lb/ft of torque while calming all signs of detonation.

NextGen’s Josh Buzzell says the Snow Performance Boost Cooler is just as effective as an intercooler – but without the plumbing hassles. What��s more, while forward vehicle movement is needed to push air through the aluminum core, water-meth’s full benefits are available while standing still, like on the starting line or chassis dyno. The Stage 2 kit used here will support 250 to 550 horsepower applications with boost levels no higher than 20 psi, which is still a bunch.

Car owner Jamie Fournier built this raw but solid ’65 2+2 to be a fun, worry-free daily driver. A disc brake conversion system from Mustang Steve employs 2003 Mustang Cobra front discs and Explorer rear discs mated to the 9 incher’s axle tubes. The 2001 Explorer-sourced 302 has the good GT40P heads, a Ford Racing E-303 hydraulic roller cam, Trick Flow valve springs, stock intake manifold and Holley HP EFI with LS1 style coil-on-plug ignition. The Vortec SC1 delivers 6 psi boost, routed through a T5 stick shift.

The Stage 2 Boost Cooler kit (PN 20010) includes everything needed for installation, including a 300 psi electric pump, 3-quart fluid reservoir, two spray nozzles, thread sealant, check valve, ¼-inch nylon feed tubing with easy to use compression couplers, mounting hardware, and complete instructions. Not shown here – but included – is the critical control box.

The VC20 control box connects to a boost source via a supplied rubber hose. It has an internal MAP (manifold absolute pressure) sensor. The twin rotary dials regulate electrical current flow to the pump to ramp up fluid delivery rate and duration. The Start dial is set to 1/3 to ½ of the total boost. Typical start points are between 3 and 10 psi. The Full dial is set to the maximum boost level. This Vortec SC1 blown Mustang was set at 3 and 6. There are no micro switches or hokey “go baby go” buttons to press. It all happens automatically.

To position the reservoir and pump under hood, Eric Buzzell makes paper drill guide templates of each component’s footprint to locate fastener holes. For enhanced accuracy in transferring hole locations by pen, the inner ink cartridge is removed before marking.

To help isolate vibrations from the electric pump drive motor, Snow Performance uses rubber bushings on the feet of the mount. The pump must be mounted at or below the lowest part of the fluid reservoir to assure automatic and instant priming. Take time and seek out the optimal location for each component under your hood.

The electric pump finds a nice home ahead of the driver-side spring tower. Eric uses a Unibit to cut four 9/32-inch holes. The reservoir fits well behind the radiator wall on the passenger-side of the engine bay. The 90-degree pneumatic drill motor is great for tight spaces like this.

Though the kit includes self-tapping screws to mount the pump, the guys switched to Marson’s Ribbed Klik-Nuts rivet nuts for a more finished result and easier serviceability. The Marson system employs a rivet gun-like tool that permanently expands the female rivet nuts in place. Then, 10-32 machine screws hold the pump in position. The fluid reservoir is secured via the same system.

The feed pump and controller nestle between the 302 and driver-side fender wall with the rotary switches facing up for easy access.

The 3-quart reservoir mounts next to the radiator on the passenger side and comes with a low-level LED warning lamp. Though Snow Performance sells its proprietary Boost Juice with a 51/49-percent methanol/water mix for maximum benefits, ordinary blue windshield washer fluid is an acceptable substitute. Snow says the blue stuff is usually 30 to 40 percent alky but spiking it with Gold Eagle brand “Heet” gas line antifreeze (36 ounces per gallon) brings it closer to 50/50.

The spray nozzle holder must be mounted six inches ahead of the throttle body. Before drilling an 11/32 hole and cutting 1/8-27 (National) pipe threads to secure the nozzle holder, remove the air tube to prevent debris from entering the manifold. In rare instances, if the nozzle is located below the lowest point of the fluid reservoir, unwanted siphoning can occur. For this, Snow offers a flow control solenoid (PN 40060).

Several spray nozzle tips are available with flow ratings of 60, 100, 175, 225, 375 and 625 milliliters per minute. For this 1hp-per-cu.in. 302, we used the 175 ml/min unit. Only active when under boost (as determined by the Start and Full dial settings), a typical 250 to 550 horsepower engine will drain the 96 ounce jug with each 15 gallon tank of gas.

With everything in place, the Snow Performance Boost Cooler pretty much hides in plain sight.

Dave Brady at ESP in Sterling, MA (in car) operates one of the few all-wheel-drive dynos in Massachusetts, which attracts tuning business from Jeep Wrangler SRT8, Subaru WRX, and high-end Porsche owners. Without the Boost Cooler activated, our 2+2’s rear wheels delivered a respectable 322.7 horsepower at 5,852 rpm and 323.5 lb/ft at 4,656 rpm. That’s with 92 octane unleaded premium in the tank. NextGen’s Eric Buzzell looks on.

With the Boost Cooler activated, the increased octane value and cooler, denser intake charge took the 302 from 322.7 hp and 323.5 lb/ft to 363.4 hp and 352 lb/ft of torque. That’s an extra 40.7 horsepower and 28.5 lb/ft for under five hundred bucks. Better yet, the system stands ready to support further increases in output as mechanical upgrades are made to other areas of the engine and / or more aggressive boost and ignition timing thresholds are explored.

Snow’s Boost Juice retails for under ten bucks a gallon, and at 51 percent alcohol is more potent than washer fluid.

Turbo Rocket Fluid: Don’t Leave Home Without It

Way back in 1962 and ’63, the compact Oldsmobile F85 Jetfire added an AiResearch exhaust-driven turbocharger to its 215 cube, aluminum block V8. The turbo was mounted to pull air through a sidedraft 1-barrel carburetor. With Chevrolet’s same-year Corvair Monza turbo, these were America’s first mass-produced, post-war turbo cars.

To solve the persistent turbo lag issue, Olds engineers equipped the little 215 with a sky high 10.25:1 compression ratio. It increased low speed cylinder pressure until the turbo’s 5-psi boost came on strong at 2,200 rpm.

To tame low-rpm / high-load detonation tendencies, Olds resorted to – you guessed it – water-methanol injection. A 50/50 mix of distilled water and methanol, Olds dealers sold the fluid in specially marked metal cans and rigged a sensor to bypass the turbo if the underhood reservoir was empty.

Though a brave effort, the system was hampered by overly conservative tuning to protect against careless users. Under boost, the Jetfire’s Turbo-Rocket 215 delivered 215 horsepower at 4600 rpm and a stout 300 lb/ft at 3200 rpm. For comparison, Corvair’s 164-inch flat six turbo made 150 hp and 210 lb/ft.

Though a 3-speed manual was standard in the 1962 Jetfire (a four-speed became optional in ’63), most got a sloppy three-speed Hydramatic and mild 3.36:1 gears out back. The September 1962 issue of Motor Trend magazine tested an automatic turbo car and recorded 0-60 in 10.2 seconds, only 2.5 seconds quicker than the non-turbo 215 V8 with its single 2 barrel and 155 horsepower rating. The turbo’ed Jetfire cranked the quarter mile in a pretty mild 18.7 seconds and 80 mph.

Sold only in the Jetfire two-door hardtop (a specific model with style code 3147), the complex turbo V8 forced the sticker price over $3,700, only $300 less than a stripped Corvette. Production reached 3,765 in 1962 and 5,842 in 1963 before the idea was dropped. But as a pioneering mini muscle car, the Jetfire deserves recognition.

Part of GM’s ground breaking senior compact lineup which included the Buick Special and Pontiac Tempest, the Jetfire shares its basic platform with the rear-engine Chevy Corvair. Creative cut-and-paste chassis, suspension and driveline design enabled these front engine spin-offs.

Turbocharging brought the all-aluminum 215 V8 to one horse per cubic inch. Olds and Buick shared the 215 short block but with different heads. Only Oldsmobile’s Jetfire 215 got the turbo.

This factory schematic depicts the complex Turbo Rocket Fluid delivery system. GM was innovating madly with this family of cars. Beyond the Corvair’s exotic air cooled flat six, other wildness included Pontiac’s half-a-V8 Trophy “slant four” and Buick’s odd-fire V6. In 1978 Buick added a turbo to the revived V6 and made more history.

Every Jetfire came with this handy turbo boost indicator. The “fluid injection” marking reminded owners to keep the reservoir filled with Turbo Rocket Fluid.

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