“I guess this is the right place,” I thought to myself as I took
a seat in one of the blue vinyl chairs. They had very uncomfortable metal arm
rests that dug into my elbows. “God, I hope this doesn’t take all day.”
But it did. The purpose of sitting in a dank, overcrowded
room full of the slobs and misfits of my adopted state of North Carolina? To
get paid.
Being as broke as I am, I decided to go and sell plasma. I’m
not too proud to do something like that. So, I searched on the internet for a
place that did it, found one close by and went.
After filling out endless rounds of paperwork, I found out
that my first trip was a test. Of my blood. To make sure I didn’t have AIDS or hepatitis
or some other awful disease. It was good to find out that I didn’t have any of
those things.
However, I never went back. I just couldn’t deal with the
masses of people sitting there, waiting to donate. Talking to each other.
Trying to talk to me. It freaked me out. It made my inner misanthrope want to
grab a pair of scissors and start stabbing. Going for the jugular kind of
behavior.
So, instead of going there to sell my body for the good of
mankind, I sold my record collection. At least I can pay the rent this month.
Next month? That’s going to be dodgy. But, we’ll cross that bridge when we get there.
We? The collective we, I suppose.
It’s late May and I’m wondering whether I’ll survive the
summer. I’m debating moving out of my house to a place two hours from where I
work. A two-hour drive to and from work every day will be expensive and
tedious. It will also save me about $400 a month. No rent payment and all. But,
of course, the cost of car maintenance will all but destroy that saving.
Finding a job outside of my current job has proven to be
impossible. The will is there, but the effort hasn’t been outstanding. I’m
disappointed in myself a little bit more each day. And disappointed in the employer
of today. They seem to want something that I either don’t possess, or don’t
know how to articulate that I do, indeed, possess it.
So, instead I stew. And bake. And cry. And wonder why.
Outside my window they are doing landscaping to a parking
lot. So they can charge people to park there. It’s quite sad to watch. I don’t
like it when they charge. I do, however, wish I could take the attendant’s job.
He or she just sits there for hours doing nothing except reading. Or maybe
writing. And occasionally talking to someone who decides that the lot furthest
from civilization is worth paying to leave behind their car.
A sign says that they must leave by 5 p.m. as well. The bar
that owns the lot – which I’m sure gets some kind of cut – mandates it. Will
they tow the cars away this year, I wonder to myself. Of course, who else would
I wonder it to?
The stereo isn’t on. That’s odd. Music doesn’t soothe the
way it used to. You listen to the same lyric too many times and it loses
impact. The pain fades, I guess. Just like the songs tell you.
I think about shooting a machine gun. Wonder how it would
feel in my hands as the bullets flew out of it. But guns scare the shit out of
me. I don’t even like holding them for a second.
Eating tacos on the beach. It’s not pleasant. During or
after.
Some days they flow like wine. Other times I have to extract
them like rotting teeth. Putrefied and black. Puss flows from gums that are
swollen epically from neglect.
“My head doesn’t so much hurt as throb,” I told the nurse at
the free clinic that I paid $30 to have services rendered.
She looked at me with a bored, sullen face. She didn’t give
two shits about my head. It was 4:45 p.m. and she got off at 5. Margaritas with
the ladies were waiting for her, and hopefully some stud from the accounting
firm would fuck her silly tonight.
“How long has it throbbed like that,” she said. Her mind was
thinking about another kind of organ throbbing. She giggled a bit and hope that
I didn’t notice.
“Three days or so,” I replied. “Right after I was stung by
some kind of bug.”
I showed her my wound. It was on the back of my neck.
Swollen and red. It didn’t hurt, it just existed. But it had existed much too
long for a bug bite.
“That’s not a bug bite,” she said with a gasping quality. “I’ll
be right back.”
Three days later, I was under a white sheet. They thought I
was dead. But I wasn’t. Just immobilized by whatever venom was inside of me. I
thought back to the plasma office. Maybe this was the plasma karma ghosts
fucking with me.
“See, you should have kept your appointment, mother fucker.
Now, these doctors are gonna bury you alive!”
I chuckled inside a little. Then I started thinking about
porn. I don’t know why. I figured it would put my mind at ease. Then I remembered
Christopher Reeve. When his wife talked about them having sex after his
accident. That they did it “whenever he rose to the occasion.” Or something
similar to that.
So, I dreamed of Smokie Flame and Neesa and Gianna Michaels.
And before I knew it, I had a hard on. And before I knew it,
the nurse noticed.
That was the day a hard on saved my life.
At least that was the name of the show when I went on Maury
Povich. Why Maury? He paid better than Jerry.
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