Blood: Neighbors

Stu, the bleeder reclining in the next chair, was drunk. There was no other way to describe him. Stu's eyes were glassy and his skin was flushed. He moved deliberately, as through waist deep water, and he slurred his words.

"Somebody come here and rub my leg," he burbled.

The milkers giggled nervously and stayed the hell away. He'd been openly hitting on every woman wearing scrubs who came within spitting distance. When he wasn't making a play, inviting someone to come home and have breakfast with him (ha ha), he detailed his long and storied love life. He was working on his third divorce, and was just waiting for a court date so he could go ahead and marry the very pregnant 19 year-old girl who was waiting outside in the car.

"She's gonna have twins," he said. "She's got red hair, but she's ugly."

The plan, he said, was to stick with the girl for a year then divorce her as well. Stu wanted to have a total of seven wives before he was finished with this lousy, old world.

"I'd thought I'd seen the worst of the worst working at the regional jail," one of the milkers complained. "This place..."

All of us near Stu looked at each other. The air went out of the room. Someone had maybe said a little too much.

"He don't mean it." Another of the milkers spoke up. "Stu is just talking. Everything is a joke with Stu."

"He's joking," a third said. "But he ain't lying."

I never doubted it.