14th of June - Blood Donors Day (Seb)
I was profoundly bored. The house was deserted and silent. As I gazed aimlessly into the blue light of my computer, I heard a thumping. I looked around me, but was unable to pinpoint the origin of the strange noise. I was confounded. The noise continued. I stood up; a veritable river of cigarette filters rolling out of my lap and onto the floor. The sound got louder. In a panic I spun around, knocking empty cups to the ground as I did. And then I realized where the sound was coming from. I let out a deep sigh and sank back into my chair, running my hands through my unwashed hair as I did.
It was only my heartbeat. The incessant thud was coming from within my own chest. However, I was not yet at peace. Why was the noise so very loud? One can always hear one's own heartbeat, but mine was so loud that it was all I could hear. Something was wrong. I had too much blood.
After a period of wild, naked panic a solution presented itself, clear as crystal in my mind. Why not donate blood? I would kill two birds with one stone; first by getting rid of the excess blood that was allowing me no peace, and second by ensuring that some other poor loser had too much blood. It was too easy.
I descended the ladder from my attic and arrived in Jackson's office. The floor creaked beneath my feet, and the bossman looked up. He was not pleased to see me.
"Yes?"
"I need the day off. I have..." I glanced around suspiciously, "Too much blood."
Jackson said nothing.
"I also need your Wagon Wheels." I said, "For charity."
Jackson sighed and gazed out his window, staring wistfully as he often did at the cracker factory across the street.
We're crackers for crackers!
"Y'know Seb, blood doesn't.... you're not thinking-"
I was gone.
I arrived at the Donor's half an hour later. The air was sterile in that cold, hospital fashion. I immediately felt uncomfortable, and unzipped my fly to take the edge off. I made eye contact with a woman seated behind a large service desk made of some cheap low density wood, and approached her with a grin. This was all too easy.
"Hi. My name's..." I decided it proper to give a fake name, "...Seb." I couldn't think of one. "I'd like to donate blood please." The woman looked at me with curiosity. Maybe annoyance.
"Ok... have you ever donated blood before?" She asked. I nodded, then coughed on the desk in front of her. She was not impressed; obviously my winning charm was not having the desired effect.
"Ahem, yes, yes I have." I responded, slyly wiping away the phlegm I had hacked up onto the desk. "Many times in fact. Back when I lived in England I-"
"Hold it," the woman said, her cheeks wobbling disagreeably, "Did you say that you'd lived in England?"
"Yes I did man. Ma'am. Sorry." I grinned at her. This was going too well.
"Well I'm afraid you're not going to be able to donate for us sir." She said, barely concealing a self satisfied smirk, "The risk that you have a dormant, lethal blood disease is so great that we can't accept your offer."
I was confounded.
"Confound you!" I said, making use of the word I'd just remembered, "How dare you deny me the right to donate blood?! I've had blood tests! Honey if you'd slept with half as many men as me you'd need to get it checked!
"You've had sex with men sir? Well then I'm sorry but we really cannot accept your donation. You probably shouldn't even be in this building." I was mortified; my plan was unraveling before my very eyes, like a mummy preparing for a bath. (Probably)
"Wait... so because I'm gay I can't donate?"
"No sir... because you've had sexual intercourse with men you can't donate. Your preference is irrelevant."
"So what, the only queers who can donate blood are monks? How is that fair?"
"It's a matter of people's lives sir. We can't risk-"
"Don't talk to me about risk! You're discriminating against people based solely on their sexual orientation! Straight people get AIDS too you know!"
"Yes but sir-" She didn't finish because I had again hacked up a huge wad of phlegm and let it fly all over the counter, some of it breaking away from the lager mass and flying into her coffee. I turned on my heel and marched out of the door, my blood pumping even louder than it had been before.
I was down, but not out; like any good war hero turned writer, I had my heroin works close at hand, and for a change, I intended to use them to improve my health (not give me temporary super powers).
I got this for Christmas on my eleventh birthday.
I ran into my office and fumbled through the various boxes until I found a hypodermic needle; last used to stab a homeless man in a fight over someone's discarded hamburger pickles. I had of course not cleaned the needle, as that would have sapped it of the profound, magical powers it gained when used in my defense. I stuck it into my arm and withdrew as much blood as I could. I shuffled over to my desk and inhaled twelve poppers, thus maintaining my clarity of mind and counteracting the wooziness resulting from the blood loss. I stumbled down my ladder into Jackson's office. He was eating his wagon wheels; both at once as was his custom. He made me sick.
"Hey Seb," he said, through an overstuffed mouth, "What's happening?" He swallowed as much as he could and looked at me peaceably. He was always nicer when he'd had his lunch.
"Not much. Well, no, actually, I have some pretty damn great news. You know the cracker factory across the way?" Jackson's eyes lit up. I had him now.
"Well, they have a job opening. They need a new... guy who turns on the... cracker... machines."
Jackson gasped, and spun around in his chair to gaze at the source of this newfound opportunity. I stepped closer to him.'
"You don't think I could..." he said, trailing off in silent wonder. I nodded pensively.
Then I stuck the hypodermic needle full of my blood into his neck.
"Arghhhhh! Ah, Ah!" Jackson cried, as the blood drained from the needle into his veins. His arms flailed, but his puny efforts were no match for my inexplicably robust 1940's physique. The last of the blood left the cylinder and I jerked the needle out of his neck, wrapping it in a sacred velvet cloth and placing it carefully into my breast pocket.
"Well, I should get going," I said, opening his drawer and withdrawing three wagon wheels intended for tomorrow's lunch, "Be seeing you Jackson. Happy Blood donor's day!" Jackson writhed about on the floor as I left, cursing me in a raspy, broken voice. I lit a cigarette and sighed, surveying the landing and the stairwell with a sense of deep satisfaction. The thumping noise from within my chest was faint and soothing, and Jackson was likely to be in hospital for the rest of the week. All was well.
It was only my heartbeat. The incessant thud was coming from within my own chest. However, I was not yet at peace. Why was the noise so very loud? One can always hear one's own heartbeat, but mine was so loud that it was all I could hear. Something was wrong. I had too much blood.
After a period of wild, naked panic a solution presented itself, clear as crystal in my mind. Why not donate blood? I would kill two birds with one stone; first by getting rid of the excess blood that was allowing me no peace, and second by ensuring that some other poor loser had too much blood. It was too easy.
I descended the ladder from my attic and arrived in Jackson's office. The floor creaked beneath my feet, and the bossman looked up. He was not pleased to see me.
"Yes?"
"I need the day off. I have..." I glanced around suspiciously, "Too much blood."
Jackson said nothing.
"I also need your Wagon Wheels." I said, "For charity."
Jackson sighed and gazed out his window, staring wistfully as he often did at the cracker factory across the street.
We're crackers for crackers!
"Y'know Seb, blood doesn't.... you're not thinking-"
I was gone.
I arrived at the Donor's half an hour later. The air was sterile in that cold, hospital fashion. I immediately felt uncomfortable, and unzipped my fly to take the edge off. I made eye contact with a woman seated behind a large service desk made of some cheap low density wood, and approached her with a grin. This was all too easy.
"Hi. My name's..." I decided it proper to give a fake name, "...Seb." I couldn't think of one. "I'd like to donate blood please." The woman looked at me with curiosity. Maybe annoyance.
"Ok... have you ever donated blood before?" She asked. I nodded, then coughed on the desk in front of her. She was not impressed; obviously my winning charm was not having the desired effect.
"Ahem, yes, yes I have." I responded, slyly wiping away the phlegm I had hacked up onto the desk. "Many times in fact. Back when I lived in England I-"
"Hold it," the woman said, her cheeks wobbling disagreeably, "Did you say that you'd lived in England?"
"Yes I did man. Ma'am. Sorry." I grinned at her. This was going too well.
"Well I'm afraid you're not going to be able to donate for us sir." She said, barely concealing a self satisfied smirk, "The risk that you have a dormant, lethal blood disease is so great that we can't accept your offer."
I was confounded.
"Confound you!" I said, making use of the word I'd just remembered, "How dare you deny me the right to donate blood?! I've had blood tests! Honey if you'd slept with half as many men as me you'd need to get it checked!
"You've had sex with men sir? Well then I'm sorry but we really cannot accept your donation. You probably shouldn't even be in this building." I was mortified; my plan was unraveling before my very eyes, like a mummy preparing for a bath. (Probably)
"Wait... so because I'm gay I can't donate?"
"No sir... because you've had sexual intercourse with men you can't donate. Your preference is irrelevant."
"So what, the only queers who can donate blood are monks? How is that fair?"
"It's a matter of people's lives sir. We can't risk-"
"Don't talk to me about risk! You're discriminating against people based solely on their sexual orientation! Straight people get AIDS too you know!"
"Yes but sir-" She didn't finish because I had again hacked up a huge wad of phlegm and let it fly all over the counter, some of it breaking away from the lager mass and flying into her coffee. I turned on my heel and marched out of the door, my blood pumping even louder than it had been before.
I was down, but not out; like any good war hero turned writer, I had my heroin works close at hand, and for a change, I intended to use them to improve my health (not give me temporary super powers).
I got this for Christmas on my eleventh birthday.
I ran into my office and fumbled through the various boxes until I found a hypodermic needle; last used to stab a homeless man in a fight over someone's discarded hamburger pickles. I had of course not cleaned the needle, as that would have sapped it of the profound, magical powers it gained when used in my defense. I stuck it into my arm and withdrew as much blood as I could. I shuffled over to my desk and inhaled twelve poppers, thus maintaining my clarity of mind and counteracting the wooziness resulting from the blood loss. I stumbled down my ladder into Jackson's office. He was eating his wagon wheels; both at once as was his custom. He made me sick.
"Hey Seb," he said, through an overstuffed mouth, "What's happening?" He swallowed as much as he could and looked at me peaceably. He was always nicer when he'd had his lunch.
"Not much. Well, no, actually, I have some pretty damn great news. You know the cracker factory across the way?" Jackson's eyes lit up. I had him now.
"Well, they have a job opening. They need a new... guy who turns on the... cracker... machines."
Jackson gasped, and spun around in his chair to gaze at the source of this newfound opportunity. I stepped closer to him.'
"You don't think I could..." he said, trailing off in silent wonder. I nodded pensively.
Then I stuck the hypodermic needle full of my blood into his neck.
"Arghhhhh! Ah, Ah!" Jackson cried, as the blood drained from the needle into his veins. His arms flailed, but his puny efforts were no match for my inexplicably robust 1940's physique. The last of the blood left the cylinder and I jerked the needle out of his neck, wrapping it in a sacred velvet cloth and placing it carefully into my breast pocket.
"Well, I should get going," I said, opening his drawer and withdrawing three wagon wheels intended for tomorrow's lunch, "Be seeing you Jackson. Happy Blood donor's day!" Jackson writhed about on the floor as I left, cursing me in a raspy, broken voice. I lit a cigarette and sighed, surveying the landing and the stairwell with a sense of deep satisfaction. The thumping noise from within my chest was faint and soothing, and Jackson was likely to be in hospital for the rest of the week. All was well.