Sean Little and I first met playing on an Under-10 soccer team called the Kickers. We were also on the same under-12 team, the Raiders, and later, we were in junior high and high school band together. Despite these connections, we only spoke to each other every now and again. He was a grade lower than me, so we didn't have any classes together besides band. He played the trumpet while I played saxophone. I was a forward, and he was a defender. We were always on different sides of the same groups. It didn't take much for me to figure out he was one of the nicest kids in the world. The shy blond Christian boy was always polite, tried his best and gave everyone a genuine smile. I would joke with him that he was so nice and polite that he made a guy like me look bad. He would laugh and tell me I wasn't so bad. That's the kind of kid Sean was.

Sean was diagnosed with Leukemia at fifteen. He spent most of the rest of his life at a clinic in Seattle, getting chemotherapy treatments and withering away. Just before he died, the town organized a blood drive at Sean's request. He learned first hand of the necessity for donated blood in his own struggle to stay alive. Because I was 17, I was allowed to donate a pint of blood with a parent's consent. I dared five of my friends to donate with me, and we all forged our parent's names and went to give blood. It wasn't as freaky as I thought it would be, and I still haven't developed a needle fetish. It actually felt good to force my body to make some fresh blood. Even more important, it was the best way I could think of to honor the nicest kid I ever knew.

The first few times after that, I thought of Sean when I donated. After a while, I forgot the reason but continued the practice. Some years I was rigorous and gave five pints of blood (you can donate once every eight weeks), and some years I gave only a pint or two. Recently, it's been three or four. In storage, you will find my certificate for donating a full body's worth of blood (eight pints) in a manila folder next to my college diploma (Magna Cum Laude). I consider the accomplishments pretty much equal.

The United Blood Service called me up this week. They told me of the tragic accidents that occurred over Memorial Holiday Weekend and that dying babies needed my blood. I said I'd donate. It had been ten weeks since my last drain, and I was craving some new blood. I just lost my girl (lousy mouth), a screenplay I wrote just missed being made into a ten minute movie (lousy brain), and my baseball team is fifteen games under .500 (lousy faith). Yeah, take out a pint of blood. Let me start over.

I had a 10:30 am appointment this Friday. I came in on time, wrote my name on the list, and waited until they called me. It was fairly busy. I guess the dying babies line worked. After twenty minutes of watching the bustle, I heard my name, and they took me to the questionnaire area. They took my temperature, pricked my finger, and checked my blood pressure. Everything's fine. I'm a healthy boy. Then came the questions.

For everyone donating, a nurse asks about hundred questions like 'Any tattoos done in the last year?' (No); 'Do you know what AIDS is?' (Yes); and 'Have you ever taken hyperprobopenoglectia or hyperprobopenoglectic concentrates?' (I say No as if I have a clue what they're talking about). They ask if I have left the country. I say Yes. I went to the Caribbean and Brazil a month and a half ago. Went up the Amazon on a nice big boat. The lady walks away from me. She comes back and says Brazil is in a notebook of hers, and she points to the word Amazonas. I say 'Yeah, that's where I was. It was just for a week though.' She responds 'You're gonna have to be deferred.' While I didn't know exactly what she meant by being deferred, I knew it wasn't good. Before I knew it, I signed a piece of paper saying I wouldn't donate blood for a year. It was like I just got kicked out of the military for going to South America.

Maybe I should have protested, but how do you complain about not being allowed to volunteer? Listen lady, I'm doing you a favor. You don't want my blood? Fine! You don't get my blood! The Blood Service called me, I didn't bother them. I've donate enough blood to fill up two people already, and I'm not even 27 yet! Nothing but prime Grade-A all-American red @#%*$ gold in my arm! Once I go, I may never come back! What about the babies? Don't you need my blood for the dying babies? Hook me up! I'm B Positive, baby! Let's do this! But I didn't do any of that. I nodded my head, said very little, and left. I've been banished to live with the same blood for an entire year. Someone else will have to save the dying babies this year.

The silver lining of this silliness is that I thought about Sean again. It's been so long since I thought of that bright blonde boy that I'm not really sure that his name was Sean Little. That's all right. I know who I'm talking about, and I know if I told him this story, he would say 'It's okay, Chris. Your blood isn't so bad.'

Chris Jungle will continue to B positive.