Blood Money

My sweetie was reading a health magazine article one day. "Maxwell," she said to me, "do you know what the number one cause of death is for men?"

"Aggravation."

"Don't get smart with me, you little worm. It's heart attacks. And this article says that what mostly causes heart attacks is too much homocysteines. I think you might be a homocysteic."

"What did you call me?"

"Oh, don't be so sensitive. That means you have too much iron in your blood, which is very bad for men. And the article says the best way to lower those levels is to let them take blood from you."

"Yeah, well, they take plenty of blood from me at the card casinos."

"No, dummy. I mean literally giving blood. Why don't you go donate some blood. It's good for you."

"You mean like stick a needle in my veins and suck out blood? No, thank you," I said, turning pale.

"It's not just for your health, Maxwell. You're also doing a good deed. Your blood goes to very sick people. You could be saving someone's life – maybe even a little child's."

Tears were streaming down my cheeks. She had me. So, the next day I got up bright and early, drove off, and donated a pint of blood. Two hours later I returned. "I did like you told me," I said, beaming. "I donated a pint of blood."

"Good. Where's the money?"

"Money?" I replied, puzzled. "What money? The Red Cross doesn't pay you."

"What!?" my sweetie screamed. "You gave my blood away for free?

"Your blood? I don't see a bandage on your arm."

"My blood, your blood, what's the difference? Why did you give it away?"

"Well, it wasn't completely free. They gave me orange juice and a cookie."

"Orange juice and a cookie? You idiot. Do you know how much you could have gotten for it at a commercial blood bank? A hundred bucks! Do you know I could have bought a nice pair of shoes for that?"

"You've got plenty of money. Why don't you spend some of that?"

"Are you crazy? Use my bankroll for shoes? You better find a blood bank today, Buster, and sell some of your blood for more than cookies! Of course," she added sweetly, "I was only thinking of your homocysteine levels, darling."

Yeah, I was sure she was. Glumly, I looked in the yellow pages, found a place where they bought blood, and drove down. It was located downtown, right in the heart of skid row on a block lined with bars, pawn shops, tattoo parlors, and flop houses. As I pulled to the curb, three derelicts ran up with dirty cloths, begging me to let them wipe my windshield. I fought them off, stepped over several comatose bodies on the sidewalk, and entered the blood bank. The place was jammed, and most of the customers were poker players. I saw Jenny Kaye sitting on a bench, waiting to be called. "Hi, Jenny, how are you doing?" I greeted her.

"No bloody good," she replied.

For years she had been telling me that things were "no bloody good," and finally I had learned what the term meant. Looking around some more, I spotted Robert Turner sitting in a chair with a tube in his arm. He was frantically straining, but no blood seemed to be coming out. I asked Jenny what the problem was.

"Oh, you know the old expression," she explained. "You can't get blood out of a turner."

Down the hall, I heard someone whimpering like a baby. It was "Super" Mario Esquerra. "Oh, please, don't hurt Mario," he begged. "Mario scared of needles."

I recognized Phil Hellmuth standing at the payout window, arguing that he deserved more money than the other donors. "I should get a lot more money than these people," he said, waving his arm dismissively. "After all, I have seven bracelets."

I went to the registration desk, signed in, and sat down. About a half-hour later I was called and directed to a cubicle. Manning the equipment was some bozo in a soiled undershirt and dirty pants. He had a three-day growth of beard and was smoking a smelly cigar. "Hi, he said, "my name is Sluggo and I'll be your nurse today. How many, please?"

"How many what?"

"How many pints are we donating today?"

"How many!? Just one, of course."

"Are you sure? We have a special today. Give us three pints and we throw in a six-pack of beer."

He seemed disappointed when I emphasized that one was my limit. Probably working on commission, I guessed.

"Oh, very well," he said petulantly. "But first I have to ask you: Do you have any diseases that might contaminate your blood?"

At last, a way out of this nonsense. "Well," I replied, "I have hepatitis A and B, malaria, jungle fever, dengue, and I think I'm HIV positive."

"OK, no big deal. Let's get going." With that, he pulled out a tube attached to a filthy-looking needle.

"Hold it!" I screamed. "Aren't you going to clean that thing?"

Sluggo made a face. "Oh, another fussy one," he complained, wiping the needle on his pants. "How's that, grandma? This is my first day, so be patient because it might take me a little while to find a vein."

He began jabbing me in the arm, looking for the proper spot as I screamed in agony. After a dozen tries he got lucky, found a vein, and started drawing out my blood. As much of it spilled onto the floor as into the bottle, and every time he leaned over to inspect it, cigar ashes floated in. Finally, moments before I passed out, the bottle was filled. Sluggo yanked me to my feet and directed me to a pay window where the cashier checked my voucher and handed me $20. "Hey," I complained, "the sign says you pay $100 for a pint of blood."

"That's for healthy blood," he answered. "With all the garbage you told us you had in your blood, you're lucky we pay you anything. Take it or leave it."

I took it. Walking outside, I discovered that two of my tires had been stolen. After getting towed to a garage and buying replacements, I drove home and handed over my payment to my sweetie.

"Twenty bucks!?" she yelled, smacking me on my aching, needle-punctured arm. "What kind of shoes do you expect me to get for twenty bucks? You march right back, give them another donation, and get the full $100 this time."

I was starting to get faint, but I knew that my sweetie could do a lot more damage to me than Sluggo could, so I drove back to the blood bank, being careful to park several blocks away this time. I went through the same routine, except that Sluggo seemed to be getting better, jabbing my arm only a half-dozen times. I collected the money and somehow, woozy and semidelirious, managed to find my way back home again.

"Now, that's more like it," my sweetie smiled. "Say, there's a big tournament tomorrow, and I could use a little money for the buy-in. Do you think you could go another pint?"

"Let me get some sleep, and I'll let you know tomorrow," I promised.

I collapsed on the couch and fell asleep, dreaming that I was being attacked by a colony of vampire bats. The next day I awoke with a splitting headache and noticed that my skin had turned yellow. "I don't think I can do it," I told her.

"Oh, don't be such a wuss," she chided me. "Of course you can. Now hop on down there like a good little boy and get your mommy a buy-in."

Obediently, I went back a third time. It was hard getting out a full pint this time. Sluggo had to jump on my chest, but he finally managed to fill the jar. I drove home in a fog, handed over the Franklin, and lost consciousness. An hour later my sweetie shook me awake. "I just remembered that it's a rebuy tournament," she said. "Do you think … ?"

Too groggy to argue, I got into the car and gave myself over to the tender mercies of Sluggo. It was no use. All he could get out of me this time was 2 ounces. Once again I passed out, and this time I awoke in the emergency room of a hospital. An attending physician stood over me, shaking his head. "That was a close call, Mr. Shapiro. We had to give you a transfusion of three pints. Your bill is $2,700."

"Nine hundred bucks a pint?" I moaned. "That's robbery."

"Well, you were lucky. The blood we had on hand was totally fresh, and it matched your type perfectly."

"Oh, very well," I said, giving up and handing over my credit card. Then I sniffed. "Say, what's that funny smell, and how come my arm is itching?"

"Nothing to worry about," the doctor assured me. "Just a few cigar ashes that somehow got into the bottles."