Of all the things I've done, regularly visiting the plasma center has been the least favorite among my family and friends. People hate it and I can't blame them. The process is inherently creepy and dehumanizing (something, I hope, I've accurately portrayed here). The money is lousy, especially when you consider the psychological trauma of what is being done and the fact that you're a commodity in a buyer's market. The company only pays what they have to for the plasma, not what it's worth. Bleeders in other parts of the country (even other parts of the state) are paid more, which also means there are some who are probably paid less.
Caveat Emptor or fuck you. Whatever.
Also, despite what they say about it being safe, they're not particularly concerned about anyone's overall well being. Otherwise, they'd do more than the obvious, legal minimum required for screening, would cast out the characters they can tell are drunk or high and maybe try to see a few more of the bleeders as people, not bags of blood to be drained.
Sure, they're clean. Everybody uses fresh gloves and fresh needles, but the process is an assembly line of disgruntled workers, some of whom are more interested in what's happening on this morning's episode of "Charmed" than what they're doing to your arm. How safe does that sound?
About three weeks ago, I stopped going. It's easy to fall into a routine, but I agreed not to go in. I opted to stay home and I just haven't been back. It was weird at first. I felt like I should go, that it was part of my routine. I kept saying, "You're going to need the cash. You're going to need it," but so far, I haven't.
Instead of watching the clock on Saturday morning, waiting for my wife to come home from her studies so I can go and "sell blood," I've mostly goofed off. I've read or cleaned house or if children permit, worked on my writing (the job is endless). On Tuesdays, when for the last six months I've had a standing date with the needle, I've been going to the gym.
Here's what I've noticed. My diet, for the first time in six months, is working again. The weight is quietly sliding off. The jeans I bought two weeks ago are already starting to feel loose. Following the same workout routine that I have for almost a year, my muscle tone has improved. I'm getting stronger, too. I've been asked about it and I can see it on the records I keep. I'm also recovering much faster from workouts, don't get as sore as I did a few weeks ago and don't stay as hurt for as long.
Is this because I stopped selling plasma?
I don't know, but it looks like it to me.
Mentally, emotionally, stopping is probably a good thing. Paying for cat litter or for a cell phone or even a biscuit with "blood money" is relentlessly demoralizing. You can't help but feel angry and resentful. It's easy not to feel appreciated --and that, folks, is the soft spot in my scales. It's the hammer that batters my ego and feeds the little revolutions of my life.
Will I go back?
It's been some laughs, but I don't know. I haven't gotten around to collecting my notes, printing out blog posts and writing up a book proposal, but it's coming. All of this, I'd like to think, should add up to more than just a few bucks and some weird memories.
But whatever is whatever. Some of you have stuck with me through this and my weird cinema verite view of the experience. You might be disappointed if it ends. Not to worry. I can't help but find things designed to cause me pain and distress. I need the punishment and I need to laugh about it as loudly as I can manage. Sometimes, I can't, but that's fine, too.
But maybe for now, it's time to let the scar inside my arm heal. The vein is closed.
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blood. Show all posts
Friday, February 11, 2011
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Bliss: Blood
A quarter to nine and there were probably ten people waiting to get called. Some of them were regulars, but a couple of newbies were looking around nervously, wondering what was going to happen next.
I did my meet and greet with the computer, explained for around the 60th time that I did not have relations with any Haitian voodoo practitioners while I was having a mad cow burger, took my seat and waited to be called.
And waited.
And waited.
The people leaving the room was a slow trickle. Meanwhile, one episode of "Charmed" rolled into another. I watched commercials about feminine itch problems and snack foods because pretty clearly whoever programmed the show starts drinking pretty early. You'd think they'd try to match things a little better in the same commercial break. I mean, if you've got an itchy vagina, do you really want Cheetos or a can of Dole pineapples right after you use the miraculous sanitary wipe that also deodorizes?
I don't think so. The magic of modern science aside, I'm thinking maybe you might wait --like the 15 minute thing before going back into the pool after having a snack. Maybe you'd want to test drive a new Honda first or plan to watch "The Dark Knight" Friday or Saturday, when it makes its non-pay cable channel debut with limited, but probably still a shitload of, commercials.
Pretty clearly, I was watching too much tv and thinking about it in ways entirely unhelpful to the people seated around me. Suddenly, it was 30 minutes later and there were still quite a few people ahead of me.
I could probably use the money, but I kind of needed to get to work and I wanted to stop by Habitat for Humanity to look at filing cabinets. It was 20 minutes after the hour then 25 minutes.
I got up and left.
There was no fuss. I didn't make a scene. I didn't go up to the desk and say, "Hey, why is this taking so long?"I just left.
Maybe it's time to put up or shut up, write the book proposal and see if anything sticks.
I did my meet and greet with the computer, explained for around the 60th time that I did not have relations with any Haitian voodoo practitioners while I was having a mad cow burger, took my seat and waited to be called.
And waited.
And waited.
The people leaving the room was a slow trickle. Meanwhile, one episode of "Charmed" rolled into another. I watched commercials about feminine itch problems and snack foods because pretty clearly whoever programmed the show starts drinking pretty early. You'd think they'd try to match things a little better in the same commercial break. I mean, if you've got an itchy vagina, do you really want Cheetos or a can of Dole pineapples right after you use the miraculous sanitary wipe that also deodorizes?
I don't think so. The magic of modern science aside, I'm thinking maybe you might wait --like the 15 minute thing before going back into the pool after having a snack. Maybe you'd want to test drive a new Honda first or plan to watch "The Dark Knight" Friday or Saturday, when it makes its non-pay cable channel debut with limited, but probably still a shitload of, commercials.
Pretty clearly, I was watching too much tv and thinking about it in ways entirely unhelpful to the people seated around me. Suddenly, it was 30 minutes later and there were still quite a few people ahead of me.
I could probably use the money, but I kind of needed to get to work and I wanted to stop by Habitat for Humanity to look at filing cabinets. It was 20 minutes after the hour then 25 minutes.
I got up and left.
There was no fuss. I didn't make a scene. I didn't go up to the desk and say, "Hey, why is this taking so long?"I just left.
Maybe it's time to put up or shut up, write the book proposal and see if anything sticks.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Blood: Dog
"Can I call you Bill?"
The question caught me off guard. For over six months I've been dutifully showing up like a cow to the barn to get my bi-weekly milking and it's always been, "William," no matter how many times I say, "Really, just call me Bill."
I didn't know what to say at first. No one had ever asked me that and I guess I'd settled into the routine of being more of a number than anything else, but over the past few months, I know I've grown on some of the staff. They seem pleased to see me when I show up with book in hand. I'm like a neighborhood dog --a familiar and safe face. I don't smell too bad and I don't bite. I also ask for a lot, don't demand attention or whine about how much money we're not getting paid.
"I hear you get more in Huntington," I hear people say. "I wish I could go there."
I have no idea. I'm not driving to Huntington --unless, of course, it's a lot of money, which it never will be.
I also listen. The milkers and the techs are a talkative bunch. They grouse about how little they get paid, about how much they don't like the new company and even how they wished they hadn't had that one more beer the night before. Some of them have, or so they say, pretty wild lives outside of their jobs. They get kicked out of bars and concerts for fighting. They go to parties that take days to recover.
Being asked if I might be called by my own name was kind of novel.
The question caught me off guard. For over six months I've been dutifully showing up like a cow to the barn to get my bi-weekly milking and it's always been, "William," no matter how many times I say, "Really, just call me Bill."
I didn't know what to say at first. No one had ever asked me that and I guess I'd settled into the routine of being more of a number than anything else, but over the past few months, I know I've grown on some of the staff. They seem pleased to see me when I show up with book in hand. I'm like a neighborhood dog --a familiar and safe face. I don't smell too bad and I don't bite. I also ask for a lot, don't demand attention or whine about how much money we're not getting paid.
"I hear you get more in Huntington," I hear people say. "I wish I could go there."
I have no idea. I'm not driving to Huntington --unless, of course, it's a lot of money, which it never will be.
I also listen. The milkers and the techs are a talkative bunch. They grouse about how little they get paid, about how much they don't like the new company and even how they wished they hadn't had that one more beer the night before. Some of them have, or so they say, pretty wild lives outside of their jobs. They get kicked out of bars and concerts for fighting. They go to parties that take days to recover.
Being asked if I might be called by my own name was kind of novel.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Blood: New Year's
New Year's eve and the plasma center was jumping. Up front, at the desk, the two techs working the counter looked hectored and weary. The lobby was half full. New bleeders were coming in and the center was closing its doors in about an hour.
Newbies are extra work for the staff. There is a whole half-hearted screening process they have to march them through. They have to get them weighed and measured. They have to get them to read things --though most people just thumb through it and go along with whatever gets them through the door and gets the money train started.
It's one big hassle for the staff. Boo-hoo.
Anyway, I am now a regular even though nobody calls me by my name. It's always William, no matter how many God damned times I say, "just Bill" or "Bill would be fine" or "I like being called Bill." Formal names are probably easier for them. It's like referring to a car by its make or a refrigerator by its brand. There is no emotional investment. It allows them to care that much less.
I put up with the forced anonymity though a couple of them do check to see what I'm reading (note to self: for the new year, time to bring some really fucked up books to the Plasma Center and see if we can make the milkers squeal). They look but seldom ask and usually glaze over if the I don't say something like, "and I thought it was even better than Dan Brown's last book."
Things went fine. I got processed to the back in record time. The whole place was motivated: Don't try to understand 'em, just rope, throw and brand 'em... There was booze to consume and booty to shake. It's New Years!
The milkers in back were harried but positive. It was a short day. The music was playing. It was Electric 102, the plasma center's favorite radio station. Ke$ha was singing about how my love is her drug while Randal was busy putting a needle in my arm. Call that coincidence? I don't think so. That is karma.
Unfortunately, Randal speared the vein and a process that should have taken about 50 minutes slowed to a crawl as the machine began sucking whatever is in between your veins. When the machine isn't getting fed. It beeps. It makes an annoying noise and everybody starts looking at you like, "What did you do?"
The floor supervisor guy noticed after a couple of minutes and tried to fix it. No luck. He brought Randal over and together they discussed the problem and tried to fix it together. No luck. Finally, after about an hour and a half and only 2/3 of a bottle, they cut me loose.
"Since this wasn't your fault, you still get paid the same." The floor supervisor guy handed Randal the bottle of my life-giving fluid and they sent me to the window.
The giant dude running the cash register wasn't having any of that. As soon as Randal told him it wasn't my fault and I was supposed to get the full amount, he got defensive and loud.
"No, he does not." He pointed to the sign on the wall. "He knows this."
The sign basically dictates prices for when things go wrong. If they get less than half a bottle, you only get ten bucks. If you give more than half, but less than a full bottle, you get fifteen. The least they can send you home with (other than zero) is five bucks for just poking your arm and getting nothing.
"Art said he gets the full amount," Randal said.
"Art should learn to keep his mouth shut." He looked out toward Art. "I know he's the floor manager, but he doesn't know what happens here. He don't control this."
Randal nodded. The giant was throwing a fit over paying me another five dollars because Randal speared the vein and the donation was screwed up, but he wasn't going to have a pissing match over five bucks. I wasn't either. I didn't give a shit. I had places to be and plans of my own.
Randal mouthed a silent apology while the big guy started entering the information into the computer. His supervisor came through the back door. The big man looked up from the computer and began angrily explaining what had happened, how the floor supervisor had decided this donor (meaning, me) was going to get the full amount because it wasn't the donor's fault and he ought not to be doing that.
The supervisor nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with what he said up until he mentioned that it was not my fault then he said, "Art is right. He gets the full amount. The policy was put in place because we had people who wouldn't agree to a second stick or whatever to complete a full donation, but demand we pay them the full price. If it's not his fault, he gets the full amount."
Everything got quiet. The big guy sort of gathered that he'd just made a royal ass of himself. He looked at me then tore up the check he was about to give me and entered new information into the computer. He was obviously flustered and angry.
He never said he was sorry. He never said he was wrong. He handed me the check and said, "He still shouldn't be saying that stuff on the floor."
I can appreciate the guy's predicament. His turf had been invaded and his feelings were hurt. Of course, I can't say I cared for this new level of detachment from what is being done. A dude is selling his blood. Something goes wrong. Even if you can't make good on the loss of income and time, just say, "Sorry" or my favorite bullshit apology "I'm sorry this happened to you." The guy selling the blood is human. He's a little down on his luck because nobody is coming to sell their blood because it's a good career move or it helps them get chicks.
It's about the money and it sucks.
But no apology, no even acknowledging that he'd almost unnecessarily cheated somebody out of five measly bucks. He printed out the check and pushed it across the counter.
I headed out. Outside the door to the parking lot, I noticed the check was for $31. He'd overpaid me by ten bucks. I turned around. The front door was closed and locked. I couldn't get back inside.
For about a second I thought, maybe this is his way of making it right. It didn't seem too likely, but either way, I cashed it.
Newbies are extra work for the staff. There is a whole half-hearted screening process they have to march them through. They have to get them weighed and measured. They have to get them to read things --though most people just thumb through it and go along with whatever gets them through the door and gets the money train started.
It's one big hassle for the staff. Boo-hoo.
Anyway, I am now a regular even though nobody calls me by my name. It's always William, no matter how many God damned times I say, "just Bill" or "Bill would be fine" or "I like being called Bill." Formal names are probably easier for them. It's like referring to a car by its make or a refrigerator by its brand. There is no emotional investment. It allows them to care that much less.
I put up with the forced anonymity though a couple of them do check to see what I'm reading (note to self: for the new year, time to bring some really fucked up books to the Plasma Center and see if we can make the milkers squeal). They look but seldom ask and usually glaze over if the I don't say something like, "and I thought it was even better than Dan Brown's last book."
Things went fine. I got processed to the back in record time. The whole place was motivated: Don't try to understand 'em, just rope, throw and brand 'em... There was booze to consume and booty to shake. It's New Years!
The milkers in back were harried but positive. It was a short day. The music was playing. It was Electric 102, the plasma center's favorite radio station. Ke$ha was singing about how my love is her drug while Randal was busy putting a needle in my arm. Call that coincidence? I don't think so. That is karma.
Unfortunately, Randal speared the vein and a process that should have taken about 50 minutes slowed to a crawl as the machine began sucking whatever is in between your veins. When the machine isn't getting fed. It beeps. It makes an annoying noise and everybody starts looking at you like, "What did you do?"
The floor supervisor guy noticed after a couple of minutes and tried to fix it. No luck. He brought Randal over and together they discussed the problem and tried to fix it together. No luck. Finally, after about an hour and a half and only 2/3 of a bottle, they cut me loose.
"Since this wasn't your fault, you still get paid the same." The floor supervisor guy handed Randal the bottle of my life-giving fluid and they sent me to the window.
The giant dude running the cash register wasn't having any of that. As soon as Randal told him it wasn't my fault and I was supposed to get the full amount, he got defensive and loud.
"No, he does not." He pointed to the sign on the wall. "He knows this."
The sign basically dictates prices for when things go wrong. If they get less than half a bottle, you only get ten bucks. If you give more than half, but less than a full bottle, you get fifteen. The least they can send you home with (other than zero) is five bucks for just poking your arm and getting nothing.
"Art said he gets the full amount," Randal said.
"Art should learn to keep his mouth shut." He looked out toward Art. "I know he's the floor manager, but he doesn't know what happens here. He don't control this."
Randal nodded. The giant was throwing a fit over paying me another five dollars because Randal speared the vein and the donation was screwed up, but he wasn't going to have a pissing match over five bucks. I wasn't either. I didn't give a shit. I had places to be and plans of my own.
Randal mouthed a silent apology while the big guy started entering the information into the computer. His supervisor came through the back door. The big man looked up from the computer and began angrily explaining what had happened, how the floor supervisor had decided this donor (meaning, me) was going to get the full amount because it wasn't the donor's fault and he ought not to be doing that.
The supervisor nodded thoughtfully, agreeing with what he said up until he mentioned that it was not my fault then he said, "Art is right. He gets the full amount. The policy was put in place because we had people who wouldn't agree to a second stick or whatever to complete a full donation, but demand we pay them the full price. If it's not his fault, he gets the full amount."
Everything got quiet. The big guy sort of gathered that he'd just made a royal ass of himself. He looked at me then tore up the check he was about to give me and entered new information into the computer. He was obviously flustered and angry.
He never said he was sorry. He never said he was wrong. He handed me the check and said, "He still shouldn't be saying that stuff on the floor."
I can appreciate the guy's predicament. His turf had been invaded and his feelings were hurt. Of course, I can't say I cared for this new level of detachment from what is being done. A dude is selling his blood. Something goes wrong. Even if you can't make good on the loss of income and time, just say, "Sorry" or my favorite bullshit apology "I'm sorry this happened to you." The guy selling the blood is human. He's a little down on his luck because nobody is coming to sell their blood because it's a good career move or it helps them get chicks.
It's about the money and it sucks.
But no apology, no even acknowledging that he'd almost unnecessarily cheated somebody out of five measly bucks. He printed out the check and pushed it across the counter.
I headed out. Outside the door to the parking lot, I noticed the check was for $31. He'd overpaid me by ten bucks. I turned around. The front door was closed and locked. I couldn't get back inside.
For about a second I thought, maybe this is his way of making it right. It didn't seem too likely, but either way, I cashed it.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Blood: Birthdays
I reached a milestone last week with the plasma donation. I've donated 50 times, which at one time was going to be my stopping point. This means I've been at this for right at 6 months.
I've gotten past relying on the money. It never gets figured into my budget. I have stopped counting on it, stopped cashing the checks the second I get them, but it's still nice to have the extra few bucks around --just in case.
But I feel like I can start planning to quit. Once I'm done, I'm done. I'll get the tattoo and that will technically finish me off --though as I've learned, short of shooting up in the lobby, engaging in anal sex with a Belgian male prostitute or eating a hamburger that says "Made in England" on the wrapper while the staff watches and takes pictures, there isn't much that would actually disqualify me from donating, provided I don't tell them.
I'm always learning about the ways you can be disqualified from donating --the ones they don't ask you about but are hard to hide from.
"Somebody is having a birthday," she said.
"It's not me," I said and she smiled. She had my chart. Of course, she knew it wasn't my birthday, which would be a pretty miserable way to celebrate --though once, I did sort of plan to do that, but didn't.
"No, it's not your birthday," she said. "But we do something special for birthday people and for when you hit 100."
I knew I'd just crossed 50.
"What happens?"
"Oh, we give stuff," she said. "Sometimes it's a water bottle or one of those drink cozies."
However, sometimes, the gift is a kiss off.
"We had a client come in on his 60th. We really loaded him down with a t-shirt, a gym bag, the water bottle, the whole thing." She seemed sad. "The company changed hands a few months ago. They won't let us take anyone over the age of 60. So we gave him all the stuff, then someone had to tell him he couldn't donate any more."
So he came in for 20 or 30 bucks and left with a t-shirt, a gym bag and a water bottle --along with the message, don't come around here no more.
I hoped the guy needed the money less than I do. Odds are that wasn't the case.
I've gotten past relying on the money. It never gets figured into my budget. I have stopped counting on it, stopped cashing the checks the second I get them, but it's still nice to have the extra few bucks around --just in case.
But I feel like I can start planning to quit. Once I'm done, I'm done. I'll get the tattoo and that will technically finish me off --though as I've learned, short of shooting up in the lobby, engaging in anal sex with a Belgian male prostitute or eating a hamburger that says "Made in England" on the wrapper while the staff watches and takes pictures, there isn't much that would actually disqualify me from donating, provided I don't tell them.
I'm always learning about the ways you can be disqualified from donating --the ones they don't ask you about but are hard to hide from.
"Somebody is having a birthday," she said.
"It's not me," I said and she smiled. She had my chart. Of course, she knew it wasn't my birthday, which would be a pretty miserable way to celebrate --though once, I did sort of plan to do that, but didn't.
"No, it's not your birthday," she said. "But we do something special for birthday people and for when you hit 100."
I knew I'd just crossed 50.
"What happens?"
"Oh, we give stuff," she said. "Sometimes it's a water bottle or one of those drink cozies."
However, sometimes, the gift is a kiss off.
"We had a client come in on his 60th. We really loaded him down with a t-shirt, a gym bag, the water bottle, the whole thing." She seemed sad. "The company changed hands a few months ago. They won't let us take anyone over the age of 60. So we gave him all the stuff, then someone had to tell him he couldn't donate any more."
So he came in for 20 or 30 bucks and left with a t-shirt, a gym bag and a water bottle --along with the message, don't come around here no more.
I hoped the guy needed the money less than I do. Odds are that wasn't the case.
Monday, December 6, 2010
blood: Oh Christmas Tree...
"Why are you wearing shorts?"
Outside, snow was coming down like paper streamers. The sky was leaden and the technicians working the counter were appalled. Just looking at me made them cold.
"Laundry day," I said. This is my standard line when actually I don't much care what I wear on Saturday. It was enough to get my point through. They understood, but thought I was stupid for coming out dressed for a luau.
"You drove, right?" And I nodded.
"But I've got some errands outside," I said. "My family is getting our Christmas tree."
What I really love about the plasma people is no matter what I tell them I'm planning on spending my blood money on, they never flinch. Whatever I say I'm going to buy never seems weird to them.
"I've got to get my tree out of the attic this weekend," the technician said and checked my blood pressure. "I guess I bought it about ten years ago, spent almost a hundred dollars."
I nodded. "Sounds like you got your money's worth. The fresh cut ones run about 40 or 50 bucks. We go out every year. It's kind of a tradition."
"I like live trees, too," she said. "I just can't stand cleaning up the needles."
It is a common complaint.
"I don't mind the extra fuss," I said. "I wish they were cheaper, but we do pretty good. We always go with a budget."
In this case, my budget was exactly $52, the money from a single week of donating plasma.
We picked the tree out at the market. The snow was really coming down. I was still wearing my shorts. My youngest son found the tree.
"I like this one," he said and it looked pretty good to me. It looked pretty good to all of us.
I shelled out 40 dollars and bought a bunch of mistletoe to hang over doorways and to tie above the stalls in the bathroom at work.
Ho, ho, ho.
Outside, snow was coming down like paper streamers. The sky was leaden and the technicians working the counter were appalled. Just looking at me made them cold.
"Laundry day," I said. This is my standard line when actually I don't much care what I wear on Saturday. It was enough to get my point through. They understood, but thought I was stupid for coming out dressed for a luau.
"You drove, right?" And I nodded.
"But I've got some errands outside," I said. "My family is getting our Christmas tree."
What I really love about the plasma people is no matter what I tell them I'm planning on spending my blood money on, they never flinch. Whatever I say I'm going to buy never seems weird to them.
"I've got to get my tree out of the attic this weekend," the technician said and checked my blood pressure. "I guess I bought it about ten years ago, spent almost a hundred dollars."
I nodded. "Sounds like you got your money's worth. The fresh cut ones run about 40 or 50 bucks. We go out every year. It's kind of a tradition."
"I like live trees, too," she said. "I just can't stand cleaning up the needles."
It is a common complaint.
"I don't mind the extra fuss," I said. "I wish they were cheaper, but we do pretty good. We always go with a budget."
In this case, my budget was exactly $52, the money from a single week of donating plasma.
We picked the tree out at the market. The snow was really coming down. I was still wearing my shorts. My youngest son found the tree.
"I like this one," he said and it looked pretty good to me. It looked pretty good to all of us.
I shelled out 40 dollars and bought a bunch of mistletoe to hang over doorways and to tie above the stalls in the bathroom at work.
Ho, ho, ho.
Tuesday, November 30, 2010
Blood: Valentine
An older African-American woman started talking to the older African-American man before she'd take a seat and the milkers all sort of rolled their eyes. They had shit to do.They needed to get her plugged in and move along to the next bleeder.
But she wasn't in a hurry and they couldn't make her do what they wanted her without her agreeing to take a seat --and she wasn't ready. She wanted to talk... to him... now.
The two of them chatted for five minutes about nothing, just bantered back and forth, until finally she climbed into the recliner and let the milkers work their dark, evil magic. They scarcely stopped for the next 40 minutes.
It was charming, like watching a couple of high school sweethearts who haven't seen each other in years.
"You have a good Thanksgiving?" He asked her.
"I did. I made a big mess of food," she told him. "You should have come down and fixed a plate."
He grinned. "I meant to get down there."
"Come down for Christmas. I always put out a good table. You'd be welcome."
"Well, I might," he told her. "I might."
They went back and forth until he finished, then he hobbled off slowly to the pay window and finally the door.
"Are you two dating?" One of the milkers asked.
The woman shook her head. "No, we've just known each other so long. People ask us that and you get us in a room for longer than a few minutes and we're fighting." She sighed. "He's a good man, though. I don't let anybody take advantage of him. He's sweet, you know, and very kind, but you get a single beer in him and he'll give you all his money if you ask him. If I'm around, I don't let nobody take advantage of him. He's a good man and there aren't many."
"You sound like you like him a lot."
"Well, we love each other." She said then added without a lot of conviction, "We're like brother and sister."
It didn't sound like that was her first choice, but I suppose you take what love there is. You hope for more, but make do with what you can have.
But she wasn't in a hurry and they couldn't make her do what they wanted her without her agreeing to take a seat --and she wasn't ready. She wanted to talk... to him... now.
The two of them chatted for five minutes about nothing, just bantered back and forth, until finally she climbed into the recliner and let the milkers work their dark, evil magic. They scarcely stopped for the next 40 minutes.
It was charming, like watching a couple of high school sweethearts who haven't seen each other in years.
"You have a good Thanksgiving?" He asked her.
"I did. I made a big mess of food," she told him. "You should have come down and fixed a plate."
He grinned. "I meant to get down there."
"Come down for Christmas. I always put out a good table. You'd be welcome."
"Well, I might," he told her. "I might."
They went back and forth until he finished, then he hobbled off slowly to the pay window and finally the door.
"Are you two dating?" One of the milkers asked.
The woman shook her head. "No, we've just known each other so long. People ask us that and you get us in a room for longer than a few minutes and we're fighting." She sighed. "He's a good man, though. I don't let anybody take advantage of him. He's sweet, you know, and very kind, but you get a single beer in him and he'll give you all his money if you ask him. If I'm around, I don't let nobody take advantage of him. He's a good man and there aren't many."
"You sound like you like him a lot."
"Well, we love each other." She said then added without a lot of conviction, "We're like brother and sister."
It didn't sound like that was her first choice, but I suppose you take what love there is. You hope for more, but make do with what you can have.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Blood: Weekly Reader
I took my seat in the back and waited to be called. A doctor, who apparently looks at medical charts for the company, stopped when she saw the book in my hands. I always bring a book. It's something to pass the time when nothing is happening and on days when "Alvin and the Chipmunks" is playing on all the big screens, a book isn't just helpful, it is a lifesaver.
"What are you reading?" She asked.
I showed her the cover, but not the passage I'd been reading. The text had gotten kind of racy and she looked to be in her early 60s. I didn't want to offend her with a sentence about a woman licking semen off a man's flaccid penis.
"It's short stories," I told her. "Some of them are horror stories. Others are kind of weird." The one I was in the middle of was mostly of the latter variety.
"Do you like to read?" She reminded me of my grandmother, if my grandmother had been born in New Delhi.
"I love to read," I said. "I read a lot." Though not always about people having sex. That's more of an occasional thing. I wouldn't say I seek it out --mostly.
"Do you work?"
I nodded and told her, "I'm a writer."
"How nice." She put her hands together. "Not enough people do creative things like that. What kind of things do you write?"
"Oh, I write for the newspaper," I told her and there was a beat, just a moment, when a flash of panic passed through her eyes.
"Really? For the newspaper?" She needed to get going. "Well, it was nice to talk to you about reading and writing."
Someone called my name. It was my turn to get hooked up to a machine.
"I will come and talk to you on the floor," she said and skittered off to look at charts, speak with a manager or maybe just locate her car keys.
The doctor never came out to talk, which was too bad. That might have been fun.
"What are you reading?" She asked.
I showed her the cover, but not the passage I'd been reading. The text had gotten kind of racy and she looked to be in her early 60s. I didn't want to offend her with a sentence about a woman licking semen off a man's flaccid penis.
"It's short stories," I told her. "Some of them are horror stories. Others are kind of weird." The one I was in the middle of was mostly of the latter variety.
"Do you like to read?" She reminded me of my grandmother, if my grandmother had been born in New Delhi.
"I love to read," I said. "I read a lot." Though not always about people having sex. That's more of an occasional thing. I wouldn't say I seek it out --mostly.
"Do you work?"
I nodded and told her, "I'm a writer."
"How nice." She put her hands together. "Not enough people do creative things like that. What kind of things do you write?"
"Oh, I write for the newspaper," I told her and there was a beat, just a moment, when a flash of panic passed through her eyes.
"Really? For the newspaper?" She needed to get going. "Well, it was nice to talk to you about reading and writing."
Someone called my name. It was my turn to get hooked up to a machine.
"I will come and talk to you on the floor," she said and skittered off to look at charts, speak with a manager or maybe just locate her car keys.
The doctor never came out to talk, which was too bad. That might have been fun.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Blood: To The Dogs Or Whoever
The tech picked a stray white hair from my shoulder then apologized.
"Sorry, it was driving me crazy."
I shrugged. I have two cats and a dog. Wearing a black shirt is risky under the best of circumstances.
"It's okay," I told her then explained about the pets.
"I've got three cats and a dog," she laughed and began the tedious process of sampling my blood and figuring out whether I'm healthy enough to donate.
To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure. My allergies or an early cold seemed to be coming on, but no sore throat. I felt fine --just a little tired. Also, I figured if I was sick, now would be a great time to see if there were any side effects from donating plasma. Would I stay sick longer? Would it be worse? Inquiring minds wanna know.
Also, I needed money for tolls tomorrow.
The tech told me, "I never really thought of myself as a dog person. I love my cats, but the dog is my sweetheart." She frowned and looked down. "The dog belonged to a friend. She was very special to me." She sighed, still sad. "She had a liver disease and she was fine for a long time and then she wasn't. She was on the transplant list, but..." She shook her head. She didn't make it. "She went pretty quick --just about a year ago, I guess."
By this point, my eyes were as big around as saucers.
"Was it hepatitis C? I've got a friend and I kind of worry..."
The tech smiled sadly and shook her head.
"No, it wasn't hepatitis," she said. "What she had spread. It shut her kidneys down. I took in her dog," she added then groaned, "who I'm mad at right now. Last night, I get home and she's following me around, but then she wouldn't go in the bedroom with me."
She knew something was up.
"I figured she'd pooped on the floor." But no, no poop. "The little monster peed on my bed."
We both laughed. It wasn't that funny.
My readings were fine. She waved me back and I told her I was sorry about the dog. I didn't mean the dog, of course.
She said thanks and hoped my friend was okay.
"Sorry, it was driving me crazy."
I shrugged. I have two cats and a dog. Wearing a black shirt is risky under the best of circumstances.
"It's okay," I told her then explained about the pets.
"I've got three cats and a dog," she laughed and began the tedious process of sampling my blood and figuring out whether I'm healthy enough to donate.
To be honest, I wasn't entirely sure. My allergies or an early cold seemed to be coming on, but no sore throat. I felt fine --just a little tired. Also, I figured if I was sick, now would be a great time to see if there were any side effects from donating plasma. Would I stay sick longer? Would it be worse? Inquiring minds wanna know.
Also, I needed money for tolls tomorrow.
The tech told me, "I never really thought of myself as a dog person. I love my cats, but the dog is my sweetheart." She frowned and looked down. "The dog belonged to a friend. She was very special to me." She sighed, still sad. "She had a liver disease and she was fine for a long time and then she wasn't. She was on the transplant list, but..." She shook her head. She didn't make it. "She went pretty quick --just about a year ago, I guess."
By this point, my eyes were as big around as saucers.
"Was it hepatitis C? I've got a friend and I kind of worry..."
The tech smiled sadly and shook her head.
"No, it wasn't hepatitis," she said. "What she had spread. It shut her kidneys down. I took in her dog," she added then groaned, "who I'm mad at right now. Last night, I get home and she's following me around, but then she wouldn't go in the bedroom with me."
She knew something was up.
"I figured she'd pooped on the floor." But no, no poop. "The little monster peed on my bed."
We both laughed. It wasn't that funny.
My readings were fine. She waved me back and I told her I was sorry about the dog. I didn't mean the dog, of course.
She said thanks and hoped my friend was okay.
Monday, November 22, 2010
blood: Don't ask, don't tell
The machines didn't want to take my thumb print and the guy next to me wasn't having much luck either. Finally, after maybe five minutes of entering our birth dates and pressing our thumbs into the machine, we turned and complained to the manager at the desk.
"Hey, the machines are down."
"They're fine," she said irritably. "Try a different machine."
"I just tried four of them." Some of them I'd tried a couple of times.
In a huff, she rolled her eyes and ventured out from behind the desk, looked at the machines and lectured us about their proper use.
"You have to put your thumb on them like this." She attempted to demonstrate. "The machines read the whirls."
She watched me do as she said and get nowhere, then do it again and again. Since I was doing what she told me, she left me to it and turned to the other man. She took a look at him, gulped and said, "Oh, you work with your hands."
So, the machine might not read his hands because they'd been roughed up and me... I type -- I type a lot and tend to hammer the keys. So, maybe, just maybe, my prints aren't as distinct, but I kept at it. After a few more tries, one of the machines finally accepted I was me and started me through the usual, meaningless pop quiz about my behavior and charmingly "quaint" sexual history.
The other guy took a seat and waited for the staff to figure out what to do in a case just like this. Meanwhile, I was kind of annoyed. The manager was kind of a jerk. I've seen her in action before. We have spoken before and she can get sort of shrill with just about anyone not in a lab coat.
I think she'd be happier somewhere else.
Anyway, during the usual question/answer section, I hit a wrong answer. The staff were required to ask me to clarify.
"Did you really mean you'd engaged in one of the activities listed on the poster?"
And truthfully, no, I hadn't engaged in sex with another man, had sex for money, taken a weekend trip to Africa or Haiti and come down with mad cow disease. It wasn't that I couldn't do these things. There just hadn't been time in the past couple of days. The holidays are coming up.
"Sorry, I guess the machine pissed me off. I wasn't paying attention." And like that, it was scratched. No problem. Go to booth three.
Inside, the tech was grousing about having to read to the other guy the list of questions on the computer. The machine, which was clearly working fine, wouldn't take his print and he'd left his reading glasses in the car. Based on policy, he couldn't leave the building without being deferred from donating another day. Neither he nor the plasma center wanted that. The holidays were coming up.
"So, you have to ask him if he's had sex with another guy, shoots up or likes prostitutes?"
She nodded and said, "Not that it matters. We can't check."
I raised an eyebrow. Really?
"We had a guy come in here the other day who said he wanted to donate, but couldn't because we discriminate against gays." She shook her head. "You wouldn't believe the number of openly gay men who come here."
Actually, it's not that hard to believe.
"We know they're gay," she said. "They know we know. One guy is engaged to his boyfriend, but if we ask them if they've had gay sex and they tell us no, well..." She shrugged.
Who were they to contradict them?
It's pretty much what I figured, but for a second, I considered going ahead and getting that tattoo I wanted, but they documented that my skin was free of marks, brandings and piercings --other than the one in my left ear that's been mostly closed up for the last 15 years. Eventually, they'd check. I know they're supposed to do a follow-up physical every few months and I'd want the thing on my arm. They would not miss it.
Figures... So I can have a boyfriend, but no tattoos... I don't know. A boyfriend sounds like an awful lot of work.
"Hey, the machines are down."
"They're fine," she said irritably. "Try a different machine."
"I just tried four of them." Some of them I'd tried a couple of times.
In a huff, she rolled her eyes and ventured out from behind the desk, looked at the machines and lectured us about their proper use.
"You have to put your thumb on them like this." She attempted to demonstrate. "The machines read the whirls."
She watched me do as she said and get nowhere, then do it again and again. Since I was doing what she told me, she left me to it and turned to the other man. She took a look at him, gulped and said, "Oh, you work with your hands."
So, the machine might not read his hands because they'd been roughed up and me... I type -- I type a lot and tend to hammer the keys. So, maybe, just maybe, my prints aren't as distinct, but I kept at it. After a few more tries, one of the machines finally accepted I was me and started me through the usual, meaningless pop quiz about my behavior and charmingly "quaint" sexual history.
The other guy took a seat and waited for the staff to figure out what to do in a case just like this. Meanwhile, I was kind of annoyed. The manager was kind of a jerk. I've seen her in action before. We have spoken before and she can get sort of shrill with just about anyone not in a lab coat.
I think she'd be happier somewhere else.
Anyway, during the usual question/answer section, I hit a wrong answer. The staff were required to ask me to clarify.
"Did you really mean you'd engaged in one of the activities listed on the poster?"
And truthfully, no, I hadn't engaged in sex with another man, had sex for money, taken a weekend trip to Africa or Haiti and come down with mad cow disease. It wasn't that I couldn't do these things. There just hadn't been time in the past couple of days. The holidays are coming up.
"Sorry, I guess the machine pissed me off. I wasn't paying attention." And like that, it was scratched. No problem. Go to booth three.
Inside, the tech was grousing about having to read to the other guy the list of questions on the computer. The machine, which was clearly working fine, wouldn't take his print and he'd left his reading glasses in the car. Based on policy, he couldn't leave the building without being deferred from donating another day. Neither he nor the plasma center wanted that. The holidays were coming up.
"So, you have to ask him if he's had sex with another guy, shoots up or likes prostitutes?"
She nodded and said, "Not that it matters. We can't check."
I raised an eyebrow. Really?
"We had a guy come in here the other day who said he wanted to donate, but couldn't because we discriminate against gays." She shook her head. "You wouldn't believe the number of openly gay men who come here."
Actually, it's not that hard to believe.
"We know they're gay," she said. "They know we know. One guy is engaged to his boyfriend, but if we ask them if they've had gay sex and they tell us no, well..." She shrugged.
Who were they to contradict them?
It's pretty much what I figured, but for a second, I considered going ahead and getting that tattoo I wanted, but they documented that my skin was free of marks, brandings and piercings --other than the one in my left ear that's been mostly closed up for the last 15 years. Eventually, they'd check. I know they're supposed to do a follow-up physical every few months and I'd want the thing on my arm. They would not miss it.
Figures... So I can have a boyfriend, but no tattoos... I don't know. A boyfriend sounds like an awful lot of work.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Blood: Rookies
Two of the milkers hovered over me. One was training the other and checking on her work.
"Well, you've got to watch this," she said. "The tubing has to go this way past the silver thing." A technical term, to be sure. "Otherwise, it can cause a kink in the line."
The other woman nodded intently. Yes, she was getting this and I was wondering --um, what are you doing --and please tell me they aren't going to let you handle a needle today.
But no, the teacher was taking care of the heavy lifting. In this case, plunging a big, fat knitting needle into my tender, middle-aged arm.
The newbie watched as she slathered the inside of my elbow with iodine then plugged me in. There was very little pain. Just noticing, but only the young milkers actually cause any real pain. The others seem to be able to get past the scar tissue without making me want to crawl over the back of my seat.
Finished, she taped me up and looked at her young padawan and smiled. "See? Easy."
"Just like magic," I said and suddenly, the two of them were completely aware of my presence. They looked at me and smiled.
"Just like dark, evil magic," I told them and we all laughed.
It was funny because it's true.
"Well, you've got to watch this," she said. "The tubing has to go this way past the silver thing." A technical term, to be sure. "Otherwise, it can cause a kink in the line."
The other woman nodded intently. Yes, she was getting this and I was wondering --um, what are you doing --and please tell me they aren't going to let you handle a needle today.
But no, the teacher was taking care of the heavy lifting. In this case, plunging a big, fat knitting needle into my tender, middle-aged arm.
The newbie watched as she slathered the inside of my elbow with iodine then plugged me in. There was very little pain. Just noticing, but only the young milkers actually cause any real pain. The others seem to be able to get past the scar tissue without making me want to crawl over the back of my seat.
Finished, she taped me up and looked at her young padawan and smiled. "See? Easy."
"Just like magic," I said and suddenly, the two of them were completely aware of my presence. They looked at me and smiled.
"Just like dark, evil magic," I told them and we all laughed.
It was funny because it's true.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
blood: kiss and make up
I got called into the office after I checked in at the plasma center. I was supposed to say something at the counter on Tuesday because of my experiences last week, but sort of didn't feel like bothering --and besides, I wanted to see what would happen if I didn't.
The director seemed like a nice guy, a bit nervous, but friendly. He apologized twice before either of us had taken our seats on either side of his desk.
"I am so sorry this was your experience." Again with the neutral, it's nobody's fault language. "It wasn't what we intended."
I nodded and listened as he worked through the lengthy complain I'd filed through the website, which detailed my attempts to donate.
"And you say you used my boss's name and they didn't react?"
"Nope," I told him. "They didn't seem to know who I was talking about."
"Unbelievable."
The apology went on for a while longer. He offered me an extra $25 for my inconvenience, which I took. My wife's phone contract had ran out. It needed to be paid. The rest was already spent, though I did splurge today. I bought myself a fucking fruit pie. It was cherry and an off-brand not made by the Hostess corporation.
The dude finally said, "All I ask is next time, if you have any trouble, just tell me or someone in management." He didn't want to have to deal with this shit again and I couldn't blame him.
I nodded, but I thought I'd spoken to someone in management on that first call when they told me they were closed and I could come back in a week.
It was weird, but these sort of confrontations are always weird. I gathered he'd taken some shit for my e-mail complaints, which he probably didn't deserve. The understated issue was the corporation didn't fully explain what they were doing to the locals and it upended everything.
After he talked for a while and I promised I'd let him know if they pissed me off, we shook hands and everyone was awfully, exceedingly nice. I got the impression my love note had been shared with the rest of the class.
So, a few people seemed to be looking at me strangely and everybody was extra chatty. They even put me in a chair that was right up close to where the manager could watch me, if he wanted, and was right next to where the floor supervisor guy was working. This may have been incidental, but I don't know. A lot of it seemed like business as usual.
Still, it sort of felt like I'd been branded a troublemaker, which clearly, I was. I bitched about something.
I had hoped I would be done by Christmas. I'd have 50 visits under my belt and that would be enough to pitch my book, but evidently fate has decreed there will be no escape. Shifting financial issues have pretty much ensured I'll be bleeding for many months to come --probably until the week my youngest starts kindergarten.
If it was ever not about the money, that time has passed. It most certainly is about the money now and there's still not enough.
God help me. I'm running out of things I can sell.
The director seemed like a nice guy, a bit nervous, but friendly. He apologized twice before either of us had taken our seats on either side of his desk.
"I am so sorry this was your experience." Again with the neutral, it's nobody's fault language. "It wasn't what we intended."
I nodded and listened as he worked through the lengthy complain I'd filed through the website, which detailed my attempts to donate.
"And you say you used my boss's name and they didn't react?"
"Nope," I told him. "They didn't seem to know who I was talking about."
"Unbelievable."
The apology went on for a while longer. He offered me an extra $25 for my inconvenience, which I took. My wife's phone contract had ran out. It needed to be paid. The rest was already spent, though I did splurge today. I bought myself a fucking fruit pie. It was cherry and an off-brand not made by the Hostess corporation.
The dude finally said, "All I ask is next time, if you have any trouble, just tell me or someone in management." He didn't want to have to deal with this shit again and I couldn't blame him.
I nodded, but I thought I'd spoken to someone in management on that first call when they told me they were closed and I could come back in a week.
It was weird, but these sort of confrontations are always weird. I gathered he'd taken some shit for my e-mail complaints, which he probably didn't deserve. The understated issue was the corporation didn't fully explain what they were doing to the locals and it upended everything.
After he talked for a while and I promised I'd let him know if they pissed me off, we shook hands and everyone was awfully, exceedingly nice. I got the impression my love note had been shared with the rest of the class.
So, a few people seemed to be looking at me strangely and everybody was extra chatty. They even put me in a chair that was right up close to where the manager could watch me, if he wanted, and was right next to where the floor supervisor guy was working. This may have been incidental, but I don't know. A lot of it seemed like business as usual.
Still, it sort of felt like I'd been branded a troublemaker, which clearly, I was. I bitched about something.
I had hoped I would be done by Christmas. I'd have 50 visits under my belt and that would be enough to pitch my book, but evidently fate has decreed there will be no escape. Shifting financial issues have pretty much ensured I'll be bleeding for many months to come --probably until the week my youngest starts kindergarten.
If it was ever not about the money, that time has passed. It most certainly is about the money now and there's still not enough.
God help me. I'm running out of things I can sell.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Blood: Making Friends and Influencing People
And continuing, I got another e-mail from the plasma company.
Good afternoon:I am the team lead for the integration in the Charleston donor center. I have been made aware of a continued issue with your ability to donate. I sincerely apologize for the issues that have been presented during the last week.
As way of explanation, the center is in active integration this week and it will continue through to the end of next week. This process included scheduling appointments so that we could mediate the flow of donors coming into the center. The ability to schedule these appointments started before the integration. However, we have been accepting donors on a walk in basis so that the training would flow and it could be completed. With that said, that has not been your experience and for that I am sorry.
I have instructed the staff to accept you for donation when you arrive. The center is closing for the day as the training schedule is complete. Will re-open on Monday morning at 8:00 AM and will remain open each day through 5:00 PM. I will be in the center on Monday and Tuesday and request that when you arrive you ask for me.
I will assure that you are accepted to donate. If you arrive after Tuesday, please request to speak with a member of management as they have been informed. In addition, I would like to extend an extra $15 to you for the troubles that you have had over the last week. It has been noted in your chart and will be included in your donation payment on your next donation. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me; I look forward to seeing you on Monday or Tuesday.
So, it appears things will not be back to normal and will probably be extra-awkward the next time I come in. That should be fun. We've also moved to the bonus round where I can have 15 dollars extra -up five from Saturday. From my view, it's still on the cheap.
As far as the apology, it's sterile and a little dismissive. There have been "issues," as opposed to errors, like failing to inform donors what the fuck they were doing. My main beef is going to be their lack of interest in the well-being of the people who come in. I'd still kind of like to hear, "Um, yeah, we didn't really think this through and it upset some people, including you. Sorry about that. Can I get you a juice box?"
Friday, October 29, 2010
Blood: Training Blues
Over the phone, the regional director for the plasma center sounded nervous, like she expected me to start ranting and raging. It might have been a tough week for her. If what had happened at the plasma center I visit was a nationwide issue, if they were all doing trainings and hadn't told their donors, she might have had several unpleasant phone calls in the past few days.
I spend a lot of time on the phone and on more than one occasion, I've worked for companies, where it was my job to field ugly phone calls. I don't flip out, not usually.
"As I understand it, they didn't have signage?" She asked me.
"No, they had signs," I explained. "The sign said closed Monday. It was Tuesday. We were told the plasma center would be closed on Monday for training. No one said anything about being closed for the week."
"Uh-huh," she said.
"There were a couple of us in the parking lot," I told her. "The guy who called inside the first time had driven quite a ways. He was pretty pissed off." I wasn't particularly happy about it either. "I called and they told me about the training."
"I'm really sorry this happened to you," she said and I smiled. It happened to me because I'm unlucky, not because it's anyone's fault, say like the plasma center for not knowing what the fuck is going on or the plasma company for maybe not telling them. "We value you as a donor. We need to get you in as soon as is convenient for you. When can you come in?"
It was Friday afternoon. I had shit to do, including lunch and writing up my article on Amy Grant.
"My regular donation times are Tuesday and Saturday," I told her. "How about if I just show up tomorrow?"
"What time?" She asked.
"Let's say 10:30. That's when I usually come in."
While this was clearly no fault of theirs, she told me, "I'd like to compensate you for the time lost, the inconvenience and of course, your travel. How about an extra ten bucks?"
I rolled my eyes: An extra ten bucks, which is what I'd normally get paid for my second donation --never mind the bonus for coming in twice a week all month. Their generosity was overwhelming. I thought I was going to cry.
"Would that be okay?"
I didn't want to argue so I said, "Fine."
Before she hung up, she confirmed the time and wished me a good weekend.
Saturday morning, I went to the plasma center. The parking lot was hopping and for a second I thought, the whole business about scheduling an appointment was much to do about nothing, but there was a sign on the door: "Training. By appointment only."
Inside, a handful of donors waited to be called, while a couple of newbies flipped through the white manuals everybody has to read just once.
The girl at the desk called, "Have you got an appointment?"
I smiled. "Sure, do. " Lucky thing, too.
One of the technicians remembered me, smiled and waved.
"What time?" The girl at the desk asked.
"10:30."
A wrinkle formed over her brow.
"Name?"
"William Lynch."
She looked, frowned, looked some more, shook her head, turned the page, looked again. One of the others looked over her shoulder.
"He's not there," she told her, then me. "Who did you speak to?"
I gave her the name, adding she was from corporate. The name didn't seem to mean anything to either of them. They looked at the list. There were a lot of names. Two were plugged in at 10:30.
"If X and Y don't come in," the one said to the other. "We could squeeze him in."
"But X is here already." And Y, they seemed to think, would be there.
"You could have a seat and we'll get to you when we can."
"How long would that be?"
Neither of them knew.
"I can't be here all day." I just wanted a ballpark number: fifteen minutes, half an hour, an hour...
They didn't know. It would be a while.
"Will things be back to normal on Tuesday?" I asked.
"By Monday." The one girl fired that piece of information off like a shot. Everybody hates training.
I nodded. Fuck Monday. I am not coming back in on Monday.
"Yes," I said. "But I come in on Tuesday. Will this place be back to normal on Tuesday."
"Oh sure."
"Right, then I'll be back on Tuesday. " Then I turned and went home.
I spend a lot of time on the phone and on more than one occasion, I've worked for companies, where it was my job to field ugly phone calls. I don't flip out, not usually.
"As I understand it, they didn't have signage?" She asked me.
"No, they had signs," I explained. "The sign said closed Monday. It was Tuesday. We were told the plasma center would be closed on Monday for training. No one said anything about being closed for the week."
"Uh-huh," she said.
"There were a couple of us in the parking lot," I told her. "The guy who called inside the first time had driven quite a ways. He was pretty pissed off." I wasn't particularly happy about it either. "I called and they told me about the training."
"I'm really sorry this happened to you," she said and I smiled. It happened to me because I'm unlucky, not because it's anyone's fault, say like the plasma center for not knowing what the fuck is going on or the plasma company for maybe not telling them. "We value you as a donor. We need to get you in as soon as is convenient for you. When can you come in?"
It was Friday afternoon. I had shit to do, including lunch and writing up my article on Amy Grant.
"My regular donation times are Tuesday and Saturday," I told her. "How about if I just show up tomorrow?"
"What time?" She asked.
"Let's say 10:30. That's when I usually come in."
While this was clearly no fault of theirs, she told me, "I'd like to compensate you for the time lost, the inconvenience and of course, your travel. How about an extra ten bucks?"
I rolled my eyes: An extra ten bucks, which is what I'd normally get paid for my second donation --never mind the bonus for coming in twice a week all month. Their generosity was overwhelming. I thought I was going to cry.
"Would that be okay?"
I didn't want to argue so I said, "Fine."
Before she hung up, she confirmed the time and wished me a good weekend.
Saturday morning, I went to the plasma center. The parking lot was hopping and for a second I thought, the whole business about scheduling an appointment was much to do about nothing, but there was a sign on the door: "Training. By appointment only."
Inside, a handful of donors waited to be called, while a couple of newbies flipped through the white manuals everybody has to read just once.
The girl at the desk called, "Have you got an appointment?"
I smiled. "Sure, do. " Lucky thing, too.
One of the technicians remembered me, smiled and waved.
"What time?" The girl at the desk asked.
"10:30."
A wrinkle formed over her brow.
"Name?"
"William Lynch."
She looked, frowned, looked some more, shook her head, turned the page, looked again. One of the others looked over her shoulder.
"He's not there," she told her, then me. "Who did you speak to?"
I gave her the name, adding she was from corporate. The name didn't seem to mean anything to either of them. They looked at the list. There were a lot of names. Two were plugged in at 10:30.
"If X and Y don't come in," the one said to the other. "We could squeeze him in."
"But X is here already." And Y, they seemed to think, would be there.
"You could have a seat and we'll get to you when we can."
"How long would that be?"
Neither of them knew.
"I can't be here all day." I just wanted a ballpark number: fifteen minutes, half an hour, an hour...
They didn't know. It would be a while.
"Will things be back to normal on Tuesday?" I asked.
"By Monday." The one girl fired that piece of information off like a shot. Everybody hates training.
I nodded. Fuck Monday. I am not coming back in on Monday.
"Yes," I said. "But I come in on Tuesday. Will this place be back to normal on Tuesday."
"Oh sure."
"Right, then I'll be back on Tuesday. " Then I turned and went home.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Blood: Email
So I was annoyed about the plasma center being closed yesterday. I found their website, which is based out of Europe. I couldn't really afford to call Europe and I don't speak European. Anyway, I fired off an e-mail. They got back to me this morning.
Dear Mr. Lynch
I have received your letter of concern regarding the Charleston WV center. I would very much like to discuss the situation at your earliest convenience. Please feel free to call me at xxx xxx xxxx.
I appreciate your feed back and look forward to speaking with you.
The main thing, I think, is do I mention I'm working toward writing a book?
I have received your letter of concern regarding the Charleston WV center. I would very much like to discuss the situation at your earliest convenience. Please feel free to call me at xxx xxx xxxx.
I appreciate your feed back and look forward to speaking with you.
The main thing, I think, is do I mention I'm working toward writing a book?
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Blood: Training
We stood outside the locked, glass doors and waited. It was after 8 and they should have had the place opened up, but the lobby was dark. A sign hung in the door said, "Closed Monday For Training. Sorry for the inconvenience."
"Do you think they just forgot to unlock the doors?"
He looked at me and frowned, took out his iPhone and dialed the number below the plasma center's hours. It took a while for the call to get routed to an operator.
"Hey," he said. "We're standing out here in the parking lot. Are you opening up or not?" He listened and frowned. "But that is not what your sign says. It just says Monday." He listened and shook his head. "So, you're telling me you don't want my plasma." He huffed. "I drove an hour to be here."
She hung up on him.
"They're only taking appointments," he said. "Did you make an appointment last week?"
I shook my head. First, I'd heard of it.
Grumbling, he stalked off, got in his beat-up minivan and drove off. I kind of hope he didn't drive an hour. Two hours in that thing would dig pretty deep into the 21 bucks he got for the first donation of the week.
I picked up my phone and called, asked what was going on.
"We're in training this week," she said.
I looked at the sign. It said Monday.
"All week?" I asked.
"All week." She could give two shits.
"So, you will reopen next Monday?"
"Yes."
Well, that does simplify my week. Of course, that's 52 bucks I was expecting that I won't be getting --maybe more. There was some sort of bonus for donating twice a week this month. I hadn't missed.
Other people were pulling onto the lot as I was talking to the woman and I thought, you assholes. How many people count on this to make the rent, to cover their groceries and you do this at the end of the month? How many times over the last couple of months have I relied on it to soften a rough patch? More than I like to admit.
They treat us like cattle about half the time. I noticed this early on and it's why I still call the phlebotomy technicians "milkers." They'll talk over us and sometimes look at us like we're subhuman, like there is something defective in our personalities for allowing ourselves to be here --other than the fact we're broke. All of us are broke. Some of us are drug users. Some of us are prostitutes or ex-cons or welfare cheats. Some of us are liars and they don't care. Many of us, however, are not, but to a man, we're all just trying to scrape by.
I thought about this and almost unloaded, but there was no point. She'd just hang up on me the same as she did the other guy. Besides, she was the wrong person to talk to.
"Do you think they just forgot to unlock the doors?"
He looked at me and frowned, took out his iPhone and dialed the number below the plasma center's hours. It took a while for the call to get routed to an operator.
"Hey," he said. "We're standing out here in the parking lot. Are you opening up or not?" He listened and frowned. "But that is not what your sign says. It just says Monday." He listened and shook his head. "So, you're telling me you don't want my plasma." He huffed. "I drove an hour to be here."
She hung up on him.
"They're only taking appointments," he said. "Did you make an appointment last week?"
I shook my head. First, I'd heard of it.
Grumbling, he stalked off, got in his beat-up minivan and drove off. I kind of hope he didn't drive an hour. Two hours in that thing would dig pretty deep into the 21 bucks he got for the first donation of the week.
I picked up my phone and called, asked what was going on.
"We're in training this week," she said.
I looked at the sign. It said Monday.
"All week?" I asked.
"All week." She could give two shits.
"So, you will reopen next Monday?"
"Yes."
Well, that does simplify my week. Of course, that's 52 bucks I was expecting that I won't be getting --maybe more. There was some sort of bonus for donating twice a week this month. I hadn't missed.
Other people were pulling onto the lot as I was talking to the woman and I thought, you assholes. How many people count on this to make the rent, to cover their groceries and you do this at the end of the month? How many times over the last couple of months have I relied on it to soften a rough patch? More than I like to admit.
They treat us like cattle about half the time. I noticed this early on and it's why I still call the phlebotomy technicians "milkers." They'll talk over us and sometimes look at us like we're subhuman, like there is something defective in our personalities for allowing ourselves to be here --other than the fact we're broke. All of us are broke. Some of us are drug users. Some of us are prostitutes or ex-cons or welfare cheats. Some of us are liars and they don't care. Many of us, however, are not, but to a man, we're all just trying to scrape by.
I thought about this and almost unloaded, but there was no point. She'd just hang up on me the same as she did the other guy. Besides, she was the wrong person to talk to.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Blood: Palm reading
I've seen and experienced a lot of creepy things while bleeding at the plasma center. I've gotten used to the needles and watching the blood flow out of my arm. I've been able to be amused by the way the milkers sometimes forget you're there when they're talking to each other about their lawns, what they had for dinner and how much they don't like such-and-such because he/she is incompetent.
Let me tell. That last one will make you perk right up and try to see if they'll the name again.
The worst, even worse than listening to Rain King by the Counting Crows (seriously, don't do that) on the way to the bank or converting the cash to be used to buy cat litter is sitting, pinned to a chair with the tube snaking out of your arm and watching Matlock on television.
Imagine this is the way it's going to end for you: reclining in a bed in a utilitarian place with fluorescent lights and hooked up to a machine. You're surrounded by strangers and technicians who think of you most of the time as a job to do, a chore to complete. What a terrible way to go, utterly alone, except for the the company of the immortal Andy Fucking Griffith.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a word from our sponsor. It's the man from U.N.C.L.E.. He wants us to sue the shit out of somebody or maybe buy gold. Neither seem too likely.
Let me tell. That last one will make you perk right up and try to see if they'll the name again.
The worst, even worse than listening to Rain King by the Counting Crows (seriously, don't do that) on the way to the bank or converting the cash to be used to buy cat litter is sitting, pinned to a chair with the tube snaking out of your arm and watching Matlock on television.
Imagine this is the way it's going to end for you: reclining in a bed in a utilitarian place with fluorescent lights and hooked up to a machine. You're surrounded by strangers and technicians who think of you most of the time as a job to do, a chore to complete. What a terrible way to go, utterly alone, except for the the company of the immortal Andy Fucking Griffith.
This is the way the world ends, not with a bang, but with a word from our sponsor. It's the man from U.N.C.L.E.. He wants us to sue the shit out of somebody or maybe buy gold. Neither seem too likely.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
blood: t-shirt and a beard
We talked about my shirt.
A couple of years ago, my sister gave me a Banana Republic t-shirt she didn't particularly like. It looks real good on me. I'm not really sure why exactly, whether it's the cut or the fabric, but it hugs my shoulders and chest and clings in such a way that I feel and look a little like a God.
The shirt seems to enhance or compliment the better parts of my body, makes my arms look a little bigger and the damned shirt didn't have holes in it, I'd wear it every day of my life.
I love that shirt.
She read my vitals: 127 over 78 with a pulse of 69. Not bad.
"I need to work on the cardio a bit more," I said.
"You work out?" It was almost flirting.
"Yeah, weights and an arc-trainer at South Charleston Rec." Where elderly gay men openly stare at my package, but I didn't mention that part. Instead, I posed and flexed a bicep.
She laughed.
"Do you have kids?"
I nodded. Yes, I have many kids. I have no idea why you are asking me this, but yes, I have many, many children. I am the father of nations.
She checked my blood.
"You're always in a good mood," she told me, which wasn't entirely true, but could be as far as she was concerned. "Some people don't even want me to touch them." She shook her head. "They get mad about drawing blood, start yelling."
I frowned.
"You kind of have to, right?" I tried to think of some way where no contact was possible. "And if they hate that part, with the lance thing, how are they going to feel about what goes on in back."
There was no other way to put this.
"This isn't for fun," I said. "I'm not doing it... none of us are here because we want to do this. This was not our first choice." She nodded. I was preaching to the choir. It wasn't her first choice either. "I guess you've got to wrap your head around what's being done. If you think of it as a job, it's not so bad --and better than fast food."
OK, that last thing was pure bullshit. Bleeding isn't better than a shift at McDonalds. It just sounds like it would be.
The tech smiled. My blood work checked out. She sent me on my way.
It might have been the beard, but I could have swore, by the way she looked at me, she thought I was cute.
It had to be the t-shirt.
A couple of years ago, my sister gave me a Banana Republic t-shirt she didn't particularly like. It looks real good on me. I'm not really sure why exactly, whether it's the cut or the fabric, but it hugs my shoulders and chest and clings in such a way that I feel and look a little like a God.
The shirt seems to enhance or compliment the better parts of my body, makes my arms look a little bigger and the damned shirt didn't have holes in it, I'd wear it every day of my life.
I love that shirt.
She read my vitals: 127 over 78 with a pulse of 69. Not bad.
"I need to work on the cardio a bit more," I said.
"You work out?" It was almost flirting.
"Yeah, weights and an arc-trainer at South Charleston Rec." Where elderly gay men openly stare at my package, but I didn't mention that part. Instead, I posed and flexed a bicep.
She laughed.
"Do you have kids?"
I nodded. Yes, I have many kids. I have no idea why you are asking me this, but yes, I have many, many children. I am the father of nations.
She checked my blood.
"You're always in a good mood," she told me, which wasn't entirely true, but could be as far as she was concerned. "Some people don't even want me to touch them." She shook her head. "They get mad about drawing blood, start yelling."
I frowned.
"You kind of have to, right?" I tried to think of some way where no contact was possible. "And if they hate that part, with the lance thing, how are they going to feel about what goes on in back."
There was no other way to put this.
"This isn't for fun," I said. "I'm not doing it... none of us are here because we want to do this. This was not our first choice." She nodded. I was preaching to the choir. It wasn't her first choice either. "I guess you've got to wrap your head around what's being done. If you think of it as a job, it's not so bad --and better than fast food."
OK, that last thing was pure bullshit. Bleeding isn't better than a shift at McDonalds. It just sounds like it would be.
The tech smiled. My blood work checked out. She sent me on my way.
It might have been the beard, but I could have swore, by the way she looked at me, she thought I was cute.
It had to be the t-shirt.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
blood: walking
One of my most consistent complaints about going to the plasma center is I have to give up a morning at the gym to go. I'm on the Tuesday/Friday donor schedule and among the seemingly endless rules, regulations and guidelines for bleeding, they recommend you don't do any heavy lifting afterward.
Specifically, they mean yard work. That's what the nurse told me, which I thought was funny at the time --who would do that? Sell some blood; go hack down weeds.
Well, people who do yard work, as in the guy who drags the mower up and down the street looking for lawns, the guy who makes his living clipping hedges, spreading mulch and moving the dead limbs in the backyard.
More than a few of the local guys sell their plasma. Maybe, just consider, if you hire some greasy longhair to cut grass and put mulch out on your lawn, you could tip.
But me, I lamented the fact I couldn't lift weights. In fact, the nurse recommended I not even get on a treadmill for half a day after a donation for fear of it causing bruising.
Mind you, the bruising isn't really a health issue. It just makes the needle work a little more problematic. It can actually disqualify a bleeder from donating.
Anyway, today I finally got my car into the garage. It needed an inspection in August and while the local cops may not always be so hot at catching the bad guys, they are like Spider-man and the Batman rolled into one when it comes to minor traffic violations.
I've been living on borrowed time for weeks.
So I dropped the car off, grabbed my pack full of library books and hiked over to the Plasma Center. It wasn't a bad walk --about twenty minutes up, about twenty minutes back. I didn't mind it at all and it was a change of pace from slinging my limbs to and fro on the arc trainer.
Next time, I will do it without so many graphic novels, cookbooks and a boxed lunch --I also had the Bret Easton Ellis book, which I finished.
I was worried about feeling weak on the walk back, toward the library then work. Sometimes after I bleed, I feel a little out of sorts, just a little bit drained. I'm always hungry, but I planned ahead. I sucked down a Slimfast right after I left the plasma center. They recommend food and drink after donating and what better way to both than in a convenient steel can.
I chose the strawberry condom flavored slimfast. It's my favorite.
Anyway, the walk wasn't terrible and it's a good way to make better use of my time, get out a little bit and find some time to exercise. Hell, it may even save me a buck or two in gas, which is good. Repairs to my car are going to run $800.
That's a lot of blood.
It never ends.
Specifically, they mean yard work. That's what the nurse told me, which I thought was funny at the time --who would do that? Sell some blood; go hack down weeds.
Well, people who do yard work, as in the guy who drags the mower up and down the street looking for lawns, the guy who makes his living clipping hedges, spreading mulch and moving the dead limbs in the backyard.
More than a few of the local guys sell their plasma. Maybe, just consider, if you hire some greasy longhair to cut grass and put mulch out on your lawn, you could tip.
But me, I lamented the fact I couldn't lift weights. In fact, the nurse recommended I not even get on a treadmill for half a day after a donation for fear of it causing bruising.
Mind you, the bruising isn't really a health issue. It just makes the needle work a little more problematic. It can actually disqualify a bleeder from donating.
Anyway, today I finally got my car into the garage. It needed an inspection in August and while the local cops may not always be so hot at catching the bad guys, they are like Spider-man and the Batman rolled into one when it comes to minor traffic violations.
I've been living on borrowed time for weeks.
So I dropped the car off, grabbed my pack full of library books and hiked over to the Plasma Center. It wasn't a bad walk --about twenty minutes up, about twenty minutes back. I didn't mind it at all and it was a change of pace from slinging my limbs to and fro on the arc trainer.
Next time, I will do it without so many graphic novels, cookbooks and a boxed lunch --I also had the Bret Easton Ellis book, which I finished.
I was worried about feeling weak on the walk back, toward the library then work. Sometimes after I bleed, I feel a little out of sorts, just a little bit drained. I'm always hungry, but I planned ahead. I sucked down a Slimfast right after I left the plasma center. They recommend food and drink after donating and what better way to both than in a convenient steel can.
I chose the strawberry condom flavored slimfast. It's my favorite.
Anyway, the walk wasn't terrible and it's a good way to make better use of my time, get out a little bit and find some time to exercise. Hell, it may even save me a buck or two in gas, which is good. Repairs to my car are going to run $800.
That's a lot of blood.
It never ends.
Saturday, October 2, 2010
blood: scar tissue
"What, no hippie book today?"
"No," I said and held up a copy of "Imperial Bedrooms" by Bret Easton Ellis. "No, this isn't about starting a commune."
She smiled and had no idea whatsoever what I was reading. She just wanted to say hi. After 32 visits to the plasma center, I'm now a regular and since I bathe, don't come in drunk or high, don't appear to be fresh from a prison chain gang and don't act like I'm a good candidate for a restraining order, they're trying to make me into a character in their ongoing drama.
This is completely reasonable, since they are all characters here.
"Right or left arm?" The milker asked me.
As usual, I said, "left."
She sat me at a recliner that, unfortunately, was facing away from the big screen tv playing "Walk The Line." I haven't actually seen the film and had just caught enough of it out in the lobby to be sort of interested.
Everybody else had a great view and seemed completely enraptured, including the bleeder come to stick me, which is always a little nerve wracking.
"No commune book today?" She asked.
"No," I said and again held up what I was reading. "Just this."
The milker looked over to her co-worker.
"No commune today."
"Oh, too bad," the girl said. "We were both hoping to join."
And this, I thought, could be flirting, except it isn't. At best, they were gently mocking me, which is sort of annoying when you want to believe that attractive strangers might flirt with you. That stopped a while back. Time to move on.
Anyway, I considered explaining what the book was about, how it was a sequel to "Less Than Zero," and go into how much fun that is --not to mention the rest of Ellis's catalog, which is largely for masochists, but I wasn't up for the contempt.
If I was so damned smart, what was I doing here?
It was an argument I could not hope to win.
Meanwhile, the milker assigned to me, looked at the scar in my elbow sourly.
"This vein sucks," she said.
"I'd switch to the other arm," I told her. "But that vein is crooked and last time I tried it, that hurt --a lot."
She looked at me. Her friend and fellow commune enthusiast was interested, too.
"Who did that"
"I don't remember." Though, I did. She just wasn't visible at the moment and I don't speak ill of people who might be sticking me with needles.
"Was it a man or a woman?" She asked.
"A woman," I told her, the truth, though neither of them seemed happy to hear that. They'd both been complaining about some other milker, a guy, who neither of them trusted. I didn't catch the name and they didn't seem interested in passing along the information a second time.
"How bad is my arm?" I asked.
She shook her head, frowned.
"It's got a bunch of knots and lumps from the scar tissue. The vein is hard."
I nodded. This will only get worse.
"Will this become too difficult to get a needle into?" I asked. "Is this going to eventually stop me from donating?"
She shook her head.
"No."
But she seemed to be saying it was going to make it more likely that getting stuck would hurt.
It doesn't matter. I'm good at that.
"No," I said and held up a copy of "Imperial Bedrooms" by Bret Easton Ellis. "No, this isn't about starting a commune."
She smiled and had no idea whatsoever what I was reading. She just wanted to say hi. After 32 visits to the plasma center, I'm now a regular and since I bathe, don't come in drunk or high, don't appear to be fresh from a prison chain gang and don't act like I'm a good candidate for a restraining order, they're trying to make me into a character in their ongoing drama.
This is completely reasonable, since they are all characters here.
"Right or left arm?" The milker asked me.
As usual, I said, "left."
She sat me at a recliner that, unfortunately, was facing away from the big screen tv playing "Walk The Line." I haven't actually seen the film and had just caught enough of it out in the lobby to be sort of interested.
Everybody else had a great view and seemed completely enraptured, including the bleeder come to stick me, which is always a little nerve wracking.
"No commune book today?" She asked.
"No," I said and again held up what I was reading. "Just this."
The milker looked over to her co-worker.
"No commune today."
"Oh, too bad," the girl said. "We were both hoping to join."
And this, I thought, could be flirting, except it isn't. At best, they were gently mocking me, which is sort of annoying when you want to believe that attractive strangers might flirt with you. That stopped a while back. Time to move on.
Anyway, I considered explaining what the book was about, how it was a sequel to "Less Than Zero," and go into how much fun that is --not to mention the rest of Ellis's catalog, which is largely for masochists, but I wasn't up for the contempt.
If I was so damned smart, what was I doing here?
It was an argument I could not hope to win.
Meanwhile, the milker assigned to me, looked at the scar in my elbow sourly.
"This vein sucks," she said.
"I'd switch to the other arm," I told her. "But that vein is crooked and last time I tried it, that hurt --a lot."
She looked at me. Her friend and fellow commune enthusiast was interested, too.
"Who did that"
"I don't remember." Though, I did. She just wasn't visible at the moment and I don't speak ill of people who might be sticking me with needles.
"Was it a man or a woman?" She asked.
"A woman," I told her, the truth, though neither of them seemed happy to hear that. They'd both been complaining about some other milker, a guy, who neither of them trusted. I didn't catch the name and they didn't seem interested in passing along the information a second time.
"How bad is my arm?" I asked.
She shook her head, frowned.
"It's got a bunch of knots and lumps from the scar tissue. The vein is hard."
I nodded. This will only get worse.
"Will this become too difficult to get a needle into?" I asked. "Is this going to eventually stop me from donating?"
She shook her head.
"No."
But she seemed to be saying it was going to make it more likely that getting stuck would hurt.
It doesn't matter. I'm good at that.
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