Wednesday, November 19, 2003
"Giving Plasma" OR "How Willy found alternate income."
I walk in at 7:20. I wait behind the man in front of the counter who is stooped over, writing. I step up, I write. The kind, vague woman tells me to sit down to my left. I wait.
My name is called. I walk up. I receive a binder and a form to sign. I read. I sign. I read. I return. She thanks me and asks me to have a seat. I have.
They call my name. I sit in a little room and watch a video of a bald doctor that blurs and skips occasionally. I fill out the form. I stop and rewind the tape. I return the form. I have a seat.
They call my name. It's a mistake. Have a seat again. I sit.
They call my name. OK, I have a seat in a new room. They prick my finger, take my blood pressure, take my picture. Oh, no, there's been a problem. This lady tells me I'll have to wait as they sort it out. I go back to the room.
The man next to me has begun talking.
"Damn $20 a day in Milwaukee. You know, in Minnesota, they pay less, but there're JOBS in Minnesota. They help a MAN over there. They don't help no one on their feet here. They help a MAN in Minnesota. They help -- women with kids -- they try to keep folks together. Not this damn $20."
They call my name. I return to the room. I lift my tongue over a plastic piece while my blood is taken. We finish the interview. I am asked to sit again. I sit.
The waiting room is quieter now, and less filled.
They call my name. I walk to a new room. I answer many questions, sign many more papers. I urinate in a cup and leave it at the back of the toilet. I remove my shoes and socks and lie flat on the papered table. She listens to my heart. She prods her cold hands against my stomach and asks if this tickles. When she briefly touches a toe, I tell her they're only that bad because I'm a distance runner. She tells me I should see some of the other feet she has to touch. She asks if I have any more questions. She directs me to a new hallway. I sit.
I wait next to the cash machine that whirs and spits. I am called up. They need a new copy of my social security number. They'll need me to bring in a new letter that's postmarked. I sit.
They call my name, and I walk into the room. It is very clean, white, and sterile. There are two wide aisles of couches placed next to machines with stovetop-like tops to them. A Martin Lawrence movie is playing on five televisions. I wait a long time.
A man I can't understand gives me instructions. I lay back and extend my arm. He drops a blob of black liquid on my outstretched arm. The liquid turns orange when he swishes it into the skin. I feel a plunge, and he tells me to make a fist as the pressure around my bicep continues.
A woman called Sister Jean ambles up and down the aisles, talking to everyone. I watch several of the televisions, I look at the wall, I turn my head. People leave. More enter. Sister Jean and I agree that turkey bacon is rough and flavorless, but disagree on the value of baked beans. A new movie comes on. Thirteen Ghosts. I wait and wait.
The grunting man returns, takes the needle out, and I press the cottonball into my arm. Sister Jean places two band-aids on the slight, red hole with the care of a grandmother. I stand up and walk out of the room to the desk. They hand me my card. I walk to the machine and press the screen. I press 13 buttons. My cash arrives, firm and new.
I turn and walk out the door that says "Donor Exit, No Reentry". The clock above the door says 11:17. I push open the door. The midday sun meets me full in the face, and I pause for a moment, blinking, before I turn left . . . .
My name is called. I walk up. I receive a binder and a form to sign. I read. I sign. I read. I return. She thanks me and asks me to have a seat. I have.
They call my name. I sit in a little room and watch a video of a bald doctor that blurs and skips occasionally. I fill out the form. I stop and rewind the tape. I return the form. I have a seat.
They call my name. It's a mistake. Have a seat again. I sit.
They call my name. OK, I have a seat in a new room. They prick my finger, take my blood pressure, take my picture. Oh, no, there's been a problem. This lady tells me I'll have to wait as they sort it out. I go back to the room.
The man next to me has begun talking.
"Damn $20 a day in Milwaukee. You know, in Minnesota, they pay less, but there're JOBS in Minnesota. They help a MAN over there. They don't help no one on their feet here. They help a MAN in Minnesota. They help -- women with kids -- they try to keep folks together. Not this damn $20."
They call my name. I return to the room. I lift my tongue over a plastic piece while my blood is taken. We finish the interview. I am asked to sit again. I sit.
The waiting room is quieter now, and less filled.
They call my name. I walk to a new room. I answer many questions, sign many more papers. I urinate in a cup and leave it at the back of the toilet. I remove my shoes and socks and lie flat on the papered table. She listens to my heart. She prods her cold hands against my stomach and asks if this tickles. When she briefly touches a toe, I tell her they're only that bad because I'm a distance runner. She tells me I should see some of the other feet she has to touch. She asks if I have any more questions. She directs me to a new hallway. I sit.
I wait next to the cash machine that whirs and spits. I am called up. They need a new copy of my social security number. They'll need me to bring in a new letter that's postmarked. I sit.
They call my name, and I walk into the room. It is very clean, white, and sterile. There are two wide aisles of couches placed next to machines with stovetop-like tops to them. A Martin Lawrence movie is playing on five televisions. I wait a long time.
A man I can't understand gives me instructions. I lay back and extend my arm. He drops a blob of black liquid on my outstretched arm. The liquid turns orange when he swishes it into the skin. I feel a plunge, and he tells me to make a fist as the pressure around my bicep continues.
A woman called Sister Jean ambles up and down the aisles, talking to everyone. I watch several of the televisions, I look at the wall, I turn my head. People leave. More enter. Sister Jean and I agree that turkey bacon is rough and flavorless, but disagree on the value of baked beans. A new movie comes on. Thirteen Ghosts. I wait and wait.
The grunting man returns, takes the needle out, and I press the cottonball into my arm. Sister Jean places two band-aids on the slight, red hole with the care of a grandmother. I stand up and walk out of the room to the desk. They hand me my card. I walk to the machine and press the screen. I press 13 buttons. My cash arrives, firm and new.
I turn and walk out the door that says "Donor Exit, No Reentry". The clock above the door says 11:17. I push open the door. The midday sun meets me full in the face, and I pause for a moment, blinking, before I turn left . . . .
