THE BLOOD SUPPLY CANARIES
Once that first letter was in hand I called Fabio, still believing he was serious about helping independents in film. Well, I was as independent as they get, but then Fabio began instructing me on how to become not so independent and more sociably acceptable. “If you want to get money for this thing,” he said, “you’ve got to kiss a lot of ass and go to the right parties.”
And I figured he was right. But I was so abrasive, and my teeth were so bad, that whenever I went to kiss ass I ended up biting. I had a very difficult time not being myself. I felt it very natural to try to be nice to people, hold doors and say thank you and so on, but I had trouble with small talk. I could not bring myself to say, fine thank you, how are you because it seemed insincere to say that all the time when everybody knows well that we are not fine. There’s quite a bit of work to be done on this consciousness thing. If everything was fine there would be no need to “kiss ass.”
After the dinner I had to lay low until the next payment from the fascist water man, so I turned in the Intrepid and worked the phones, keeping in touch with Craig and BG and others, all the while sending out proposals and calling foundations. Craig had written a letter of support from ACE about AIDS in the blood disorder community and why he felt the story had to be told.
“I need money,” I said in every phone call and proposal. Nothing happened.
When it came time to head North to pick up money from the fascist water man, I went by Triangle for a car. Since they took a signed check and didn’t deposit it until I returned, it didn’t matter that there was no money in the bank. The only car they said they could give me was a candy apple red Mustang convertible. I was only expecting to be gone for a few days so I packed lightly and drove over to have lunch with BG and Craig and thank him for the letter.
The King, Dr. Brinkhaus had mentioned a colleague at the hospital who might be able to direct us to the major funders we needed because of his international connections. Over lunch I discussed this with BG and Craig.
“Call him up and go see him,” BG said with her eyes wide.
I called and made the appointment with the man for that afternoon. When I got back to the table Craig asked me if I had planned on attending the annual meeting for the Foundation in Philadelphia later in the week. He gave me the information I would need to find the hotel and said that he was attending. Brent had mentioned the meeting and planned on having a booth there. BG said that Dale, the Roman and the frizzy blonde from Camp Carefree would be there, as would BG’s boss from New Jersey.
“The entire hemophilia industry is represented there,” she said.
“I have to see the fascist water man first,” I said.
After lunch we dropped Craig back at his office and BG and I went to see the man in Chapel Hill. We spent a short period of time together and he gave me an unedited copy of the 1995 Institute of Medicine Report on HIV and the Blood Supply, “An Analysis of Crisis Decision Making.” “Oh, no,” I thought, “more blood stuff to read.”
“Don’t tell anybody where you got this,” he said.
That remark changed everything. I thought the report was the sacred Torah of the Blood Supply. The blood supply doesn’t just affect the hemophilia community in a country where everybody is fine, thank you, and traffic accidents and violence and burn victims are a normal part of everyday life, not to mention knife happy surgeons. And the hemophilia community is the “canary in the coal mine” when it comes to the safety of the blood supply. Whatever contaminates the blood, they get it first.
The man also gave me a list of companies that might be interested in funding a project about hemophilia. I dropped BG back at her apartment and then headed North in the Red Stang to see Mister J the fascist water man. The weather was fine. I drove with the top down, and I was fine, thank you, how are you?