BLOOD DROP IN A BIG BUCKET
Downtown Wilmington had been going through a spurt of revitalization. Every day I would walk to a coffee shop to do my research reading to give Brent time to work in the office. The number of beautiful women on the streets never ceased to amaze me, and they all had a wonderful walk. In some of the larger northern cities women had begun to hold their hips stiff so as not to invite any politically-incorrect looking. In Wilmington the female ass moved in an inviting rhythm that seemed to make its own music. It was eye candy. It simply felt good to look. Uh-huh.
Since I walked in and out of the building frequently, the girls at the front desk began to get used to me, as did Cleopatra, the queen of the jungle. I mentioned to her that I was looking for a place to live in the general vicinity. She said she would keep her eye open. Her family owned several patches of the jungle, commercial and residential. Of course, I didn’t have any visible means of support, so she wasn’t about to offer up any of the vacancies she ruled over. I just stayed focused on the task, following my bliss, so to speak. I also made arrangements for a trip up North to deal with the fascist water man.
I found the local office of the company, NABI, that had sent $5,000 for the development of the film, and I registered to begin selling my plasma. I had to prove residency. Brent and I had had a new phone line put in for the project, so I had a phone bill to show. There was a ton of stuff to read about HIV and AIDS and risk groups, so literacy was essential. At least literacy had to be feigned. I could see people following lines with their fingers as though they were reading but I imagined the process could be faked. My arms and veins were checked and then my picture was taken. I was given a brief physical, and then sent into the men’s room to piss into a plastic cup with instructions to leave the filled cup in a chamber in the hallway wall. I wondered how many cups of piss had passed through that wall. And then I signed a form stating that I didn’t fall into any of the risk groups. “How many cups of risky piss have passed through that wall?” I repeated to myself. It wasn’t a lot of money, but it was ready cash if you were accepted.
I had sold plasma once before, in LA for eight dollars back in 1987, while I was staying in homeless shelters on a short trip for some appointments about one of my earlier screenplays. I recalled it being much different then. For one thing, the blood was separated manually before being re-infused. And there was certainly no need to prove residency. The center was a block away from a Mission on a street where people were living in cardboard boxes, BIO-MEDICS LABORATORY PLASMA CENTER. One of my fellow donors had shown me tracks on his arms. He said it was from traveling around to different centers and selling his plasma. Those were the Reagan years when everyone found out that it was important and acceptable and patriotic to tell lies, so everybody lied. The only thing that mattered was the money. No one knew nor cared what the plasma was to be used for. I didn’t have a clue. I needed a few dollars for tobacco. It was a very cold January and a Super Bowl was appearing in LA. The shelters were opened to clean up the streets for the Super Bowl. One of the places I had slept was the floor of the City Council Chambers of LA City Hall. Muchas Gracias, “El Pueblo de Nuestra Senora la Reina de los Angeles.” That’s the full name of LA. Kicky. Supposedly, the blood supply became safer in 1985 because of donor screening and purification. Ya, sure, you betcha. Uh-huh.
Though I had occasionally donated whole blood before, after my trip to LA I became a regular donor of whole blood at blood banks and hospitals and the Red Cross, for a cup of coffee and a donut.
Human source clotting factor products are derived from thousands of plasma donors. With life depending on all that mixing, I doubt if you’ll ever find a hemophiliac who is a true racist. Since I needed the money and the center was right up the road from downtown Wilmington and modern, I had the needle stuck in my arm to draw blood, separate the plasma by aphaeresis on a properly cleaned machine, and automatically re-infuse with a bag of saline, without the blood being taken into a back room, as had happened in LA. Most newbie donors squeezed a sponge. The regulars pumped their hands and some shook their legs, while inclined on the curved, vinyl couches. It was a dance, like Casey would dance. The first donation was for twenty bucks, with follow-ups of twelve. I began going to the center twice a week. I was weighed and questioned. My arms were checked. They took my blood pressure and pulse. A pin was stuck in my finger to draw blood. The middle and ring fingers bleed directly from the heart. It gave me an income. It was still considered a donation: I was being paid for my time, not my plasma, I was told. The questions were automatic, so were the answers: A “yes,” a bunch of “no’s” and a “yes”. It’s like truth or consequences, except the consequences are usually for the beneficiaries of the donation. This is sad. Many states had blood shield laws, where blood products weren’t considered a product, but a service. Huh? Anyway, like I said, I had an income.