Blood Money

I'll preface this tale with an apologetic disclaimer as my poetic theatrics are jaded by the present lack of proteins and glucose in my system. The morning task was to waltz into the local ZLB plasma center, provide documentation, hook my arm up to a machine and 'donate' my sacred fluids for a one time (introductory) wind fall of $40. The process had been explained to me several times and details had been readily available over the last couple of weeks as my sister (who is now a tenant at my home) is currently an employee of ZLB. She made it sound so simple and pure, almost healthy at times. Like picking up an extra shift at a restaurant or perhaps working an hour or so of overtime on a weekend. The true story is this is no place for the timid (or medically uncomfortable).....



The horror started around 8:00 am when I walked over to the center from my home. The place itself is housed in a drab 1980's era strip mall with stereotypical tenants that you would expect in a college town; sandwich shop, phone database call center, tattoo and piercing parlor, kung fu dojo and of course a Starbucks across the street. The receptionist in her over sized white lab coat, small framed glasses, and welcoming grin greeted me at the sign in sheet. At this point I was number 5 in line. I was the only patron that wasn't visibly coming down from their last high. Granted I had a couple vodka and pineapples before bed last night, but these people, man they would wash down cannonballs of ether with such a mix. I began presenting my documentation declaring that I was who I was, that I had an address and wasn't homeless, and that I hadn't had sexual relations with anyone from the remote parts of the amazonian Congo since the early 70's. Define 'relations'......



I returned to my seat (fearful of sticking to it) and waited my turn. The lad to my left with the raiders tattoo and full body under armour outfit had music pouring from his I-pod. Something like that of which 'Iron' Mike use to listen to before he knocked the shit out (or bit some one's ear off) of someone at Ceasers. I fully expected Don King to show up any minute and start waving a flag as the poster propaganda around the lobby made you feel like you truly were helping the greater good with your donation......



Next step in the process. Reading comprehension. At this point the friendly nurse that greeted me was replaced by a maniacal looking heathen that that was forced to speak through a clear filmed welding mask that covered her entire body (maybe it was just her face). She pointed to a printout on the wall and ordered me to 'READ aloud please'. I began, "I fully understand that I will most likely get aids and die a miserable death as a result of my donation today". Apparently I passed the test as she moved on around the counter to the PC where I was to be logged into the global data base of dead beats who sell plasma, cultivate kidneys, and procreate as a form of export tourism. Name please.....



Feeling relieved that I passed the reading comprehension I returned to my seat which was now being occupied by a 110 pound (minimum weight) brunette that was audibly speaking to her significant other about 'hooking up' once she was done with this 'bullshit'. I'll be the first to admit that nothing gets me worked up like a good set of track marks on the small of a broads elbow....



"Jeffrey E?" was shouted from the hallway. It was go time on the compulsory physical that precedes a donors first deposit. The physical was a combination of a warm handshake and a proctological exam into my personal life. Poke here, listen to your heart, piss in a cup (I filled above the line of course) and now I'm going to ask you a few questions. The questions are more of an interrogation if not accusation about having sexual relationships with homosexual men and congoian inhabitants. The only thing that kept my person from tearing up was that the administrator of the exam was the nice nurse from the reception desk and she happened to know my sister. I think she took it easy on me. After repeatedly pleading innocence to the for mentioned accusations I was granted permission to begin triage....



Fransansisco was the nurse in charge of taking my vitals. Get on the scale, let me prick your finger, how about a blood pressure exam, are you sure you're not sleeping with anyone from interior Africa? Tests came back fine and I was allowed to return to my seat.....



"Jeffrey E?" was shouted from the hallway. At this point I'm too frazzled to answer any more questions related to my sexual past and am praying we can get to the needles. Sure enough, I'm escorted down the hallway to the 'floor'. The floor is this sterile lobby of over sized red lounge chairs aimed perfectly at televisions playing the latest Reese Witherspoon smash hit. The only difference between this scene and the chamber at San Quentin is that the butch head mistress roaming this floor could handle Laci Peterson solo whereas it takes a whole team at San Q.....



I'm instructed to sit (my ass) down and not move. Pick which arm I wanted to donate from and remain silent unless my eyes begin rolling back into my head or my heart stops. All the techs are wearing the same clear colored welding shield that the nurse at the front had. The purpose of these remained a mystery, but I'm assuming it's eye protection for the rare instance that a donee causes a scene and they have to reverse the machine thus pumping all his/her blood across the 'floor' like a fire hose on the fourth of July in the bronx. The process is explained to me. Pump my fist when the cuff tightens, relax when the cuff is loose. My blood is to be drained from my body, spun through this tape recorder like contraption at which point all the good stuff is removed from it, and then the left over shit that no one wants is to be pumped back in. Any questions?


The process begins with a series of tubes being taped to my chest. A needle the diameter of my nostril is then thrust into my arm creating an open spigot to drain from. After an initial sample the machine kicks on and begins siphoning my cells. Immediately I can feel life leaving my body. The butch nurse stands directly over me and while flaring her eyebrows like a hooligan about to pounce she asks 'if everything is ok'. You bet, is this all you got!

My body begins fighting a psychological battle between death and life. Is that tingling in my feet suppose to be there? Why in the hell does this machine keep beeping at me....oh god, don't look....Is that my blood running like water through these tubes....I swear that's an air bubble coming through the return tube, it's going to stop my heart cold.....why is everyone looking at me....is it obvious this is my first time...how much more of this stuff are they going to take? Ok, I don't care about the $40, I simply want to live to see another day....don't make a scene...relax, I'm sure that bright pink colored fluid they're pumping back into me is suppose to be that color.

I decide that the only way I'm getting out of here is to relax and try to make sense of this chaotic scene that I'm living. As I scan the room full of hopeless depressants all hooked up to these machines I begin to eavesdrop on their vile conversations. The lad to my left seems to be quite popular with the floor staff. So much so that the head mistress describes a past (hopefully much distant) Halloween costume that consisted of a black g-string, black leather hat and a black vest. She continued to emphasize that 'there was nothing else'. As I swallow the bile that filled my mouth after an unnatural visual of that description I move on to the next conversation. It appears that the lad to my right is engaged in a conversation with another nurse who has this Dr. Jekyll Pippy Longstocking look going on. It appears as though she's planned to go to the Grizzly Rose tonight for the sake of finding someone to supplement her failing (yet three month old) marriage with. If I was that lad I'd return to the Tom Wolfe book in his lap (even if he is only pretending to read it). Fist pump, fist pump....come on you damn machine hurry up!

Now things are getting serious. The canister next to me is over three quarters of the way full and the machine is making a different pitched beep than before. I brave the elements and look over. To my horror, the whole dash board of the thing is flashing red. The lights correspond to the label 'none'. They've finally done it I say to my self, they've sucked all the life right out of me. There's not a single drop of blood left in my being. I slowly come to grips with the fact these will be my last breaths.

Luckily (I use that term loosely) a neo-Nazi looking giant comes to my aid. Dressed in the full outfit with face shield he plays around with the tubing a bit and we're back in business. Apparently there is still some fluid left and they want to make sure they drain me dry. I continue to pump and sit.

Finally, the machine sounds the completion. My body is weakened beyond my wildest expectations and a large urn of piss colored fluid hangs from an electronic scale to my side. The over sized Nazi comes to my aid to remove the tubes from me and bandage me up. I'm encouraged not to smoke within the next hour and not to have a drink or engage in exercise for the next 6 months as it may cause fatal side effects. I'm given a small slip of paper that looks like a receipt from a dollar store. I'm to take the receipt with my PIN number on it to the ATM machine in the lobby at which point I follow the on-screen instructions and my money will appear. I'm hoping that I still have brain function left to complete this normally ordinary task....

I think today marked a historic low in my on-going battles with cash flow. Next time I need a cash infusion and desire the medium to be fluid I'll use Google to find a sperm bank and donate that instead. At least there you get to check out a few pin ups and to the best of my knowledge no ones wearing welding helmets (despite their ironically more useful application at such a place.)