Plasma Friday

I went to the plasma place over in Gretna on Thursday.

I always go there with tempered optimism, as, it seems like the endeavor is an accursed one.

There are so many things that can go wrong.

I am learning, this late in life to be more like my friend Donna Parrow, whom I used to live with when I was in Florida.

Donna was always very quick to get on the phone to allay any apprehensions that she have, over almost anything.

When she got a letter from her daughter's school, for example, which informed her of when and where the girl would meet the bus every morning, she immediately dialed the "if you have any questions" number listed at the bottom of the letter.

It seemed pretty cut and dried to me. At ten minutes before eight, the bus would stop at the junction of Amanda Lane and I forget the name of the other street. It was, of course advised that she be there fifteen minutes ahead of that time, just in case the bus was early? I wondered. When was a school bus ever early, anywhere, unless the driver had been speeding?

But, she got right on the phone, just to make sure that there had been no misprinted information, I guess. I had thought that she was being a bit paranoid, I remember.

She would do the same thing when the electric bill came: "So, I need to pay at least the $58.73 to keep the service on, right?"
A smart ass utility employee might have been thinking: "Well, what does the letter that you're holding in your hand say?"

To which she may have replied: "I just wanted to make sure...and don't get smart with me, or I'll send my husband down there to give you a piece of my mind," or something.

This is understandable, in hind-sight, as her daughter's catching the bus was important, as otherwise she would be stranded and one of them would have to leave work to come back and give her a ride to school.

And, having the electricity snap off right in the middle of Star Search would have been unacceptable.

So, in this spirit, I called the Octapharma plasma donation center.
I knew that I hadn't been there in a long time, not since the last slow busking season.

I was indeed informed, after giving the lady my name, and the last four digits of my "social," that, since it had been more than six months since the last time I was there, I would have to start over from scratch, as a new donor.

My heart sank.

I remembered that first time, and the five hours of watching videos, filling out forms, answering a battery of questions, the wrong answer to any one of which giving them cause to "defer" me from donating.

"Oh, OK, I guess I'll see you a little later," I said, adding "but I highly doubt it," to the empty room after she had hung up.

I was broke and could use the 15 dollars, which is what I was getting for my first visit of any given week, followed by 25 dollars for the second visit within a 7 day period. What a way to drain you of your vital plasma, a carrot in front of your nose...plus, for 6+ visits per month, there is a bonus. -hey, if you give us a whole gallon of plasma, we'll throw you a fifty, plus give you an Octapharma coffee mug, what do ya say? type of thing.

But, the thought of spending almost a whole day there, having to deal with being the only white guy there, and wondering how much of the waiting has to do with that, having to answer all the questions again.

No way, I would rather take my chances busking for 15 bucks, even though we are in the middle of Essence Fest, a time when I stand just as much chance of a young black kid grabbing my tip jar and running off, as I do of making that much, as, the last time that that happened was during the same festival, when NOLA is invaded by fans of the likes of Beyonce, who happen to be almost all black, with the remainder being big boned, plain looking white women, usually in sandals or flip-flops.

It was either play for a bunch of African Americans at the Lilly Pad, or be the only white guy at the plasma donation place; choose my poison, I thought.
But, then it dawned on me: If I have to start over again as if I were a new donor, then, wouldn't I get paid, er, rewarded (a designation that allows them to maintain the title of being a donation center, and not a plasma buy, sell, trade place) like a new donor?

I called back and confirmed that I would get 50 dollars for each of my "first" 5 visits.

I decided to gamble my last couple bucks that I had on bus fare to get over there, and cautiously optimistic, headed that way.

I had had the experience of being sent away the first time I ever went there, when I arrived at about 1:30 PM, and was told that the process for a first time donor could run up to 7 hours (should I be a slow question answer-er, or if I should answer questions in a way that made them have to call my doctor or something to verify something, and/or if I was a slow bleeder) and that they weren't taking any more for that day.

That was my first taste of having to return empty handed from Gretna. There would be plenty more.

I think I blogged about the foibles; just missing every connection of streetcars and buses and jogging from the last stop to the place in time to hear the door lock clicking in my face, having the money not appear on my debit card that they use for the purpose after I had questioned one of the employees there and his supervisor had to correct him, whereupon he went into the computer and "corrected" my deposit, being skipped over a lot, etc.
Murphy's Laws, Plasma Donation Clause
So, Thursday, I tried to be there as early as possible.

The first matter was whether or not to take my bike. It would save me time getting there, unless the bus arrived with 2 bikes already on its rack, and then the next on, 45 minutes later, and then the next one...

Would I lock the bike up nearby and then hop on the bus? No, there are skeezers who linger around the bus stops with bolt cutters, waiting for just that opportunity.

I would just plan upon going the next day if that happened. That would give me a chance to busk that night, giving me more money to go with the 50 bucks, that I would get if everything went OK then.

Plus, I had the ace in the hole of Howard Westra on that side of the river, an easy bike ride away from the plasma place, should I be deferred for any reason (and there are a ton of them -"you look a little tire, why don't you go home and rest, and come back tomorrow?" "I'm not tired, I was meditating, and I don't have the bus fare to go home").

If worst came to worst, again, then I could always crash at Howard's place, and then make the 3 mile ride back the next day, I thought.

I got there at about 11 AM. As I pushed the door to the place open, I let in the sound of a loud clap of thunder. "Thunderstorms," my smartphone was saying.
I couldn't help having the negative thought of being deferred for some reason, and then leaving there penniless, only to become drenched, along with my laptop, as I took the 3 mile ride to Howard's, seeing only soaked cigarette butts on the sidewalks.

I had brought my laptop, because of all the potential waiting that I might have to do, in between watching videos instructing me in a process that I had gone through about fifty times, just not within the past six months.

What if the nurse finds unacceptable levels of ammonia in my system?
I got to the desk where new donors are required to sign in.

There was the little placard with the information that new donors must provide proof of address, along with their social security cards. I didn't have either, and out the door I went.

When I had called back to find out that I would indeed get 50 dollars, for starting from scratch, just like a new donor, the lady had neglected to inform me that, like a new donor, I had to bring those things.

"Isn't my address already in the system, along with my social security number?"
"Yeah, but, since it's been more than six months..."

"Yeah, yeah..." Out the door I went, as the thunderheads gathered overhead.
I had a decision to make. Either become angry, tell them: "You people suck," or take the high road, which I did.

I smiled and said: "I guess I'll just come back tomorrow." Any hopes of them letting me slide on the requirements lay in my being as nice as possible, I thought. Also, not appearing desperate for the fifty bucks, as someone who might be selling their plasma for a drug fix might.

I rode to Howard's, stopping first at the Wal-Mart to use my food stamp card to purchase a nice cantaloupe, to give him as a gift.

Howard had just left "five minutes ago," when I arrived, I was informed.
Friday morning, I managed to borrow some change to complement what I had found, literally, under the couch cushions in my parlor, and I repeated to journey, arriving a bit earlier.

They stationed me in front of one of the bolted to the table tablets, where I attempted to watch the video. The headphones didn't work. Of course the headphones didn't work. How was I to watch the video giving me information that I already knew if the headphones weren't working.

Then, I think the gods smiled upon me, and the staff there, let me skip watching the video. They recognized me as someone who had been there plenty of times, and figured I probably already knew everything on it. Phew!

Thank God, I thought as I walked out of there with a brand new Octapharma debit card, that I was actually able to activate with my smartphone and upon which the balance of fifty dollars had actually appeared.

Harold the cat was going to eat good food that night, after a night when I had broken open a can of sardines and another one of tuna which I had purchased off my food stamp card, which he had eaten only a little of, before scratching at the door to go outside, leading me to believe that he has some other food source out there, perhaps another cat's dish in the neighborhood that he can raid.

I was famished in a way that eclipsed what I had felt even during the water only fast, and grabbed a green veggie drink, a peach and a packet of nut butter protein at the Wal-Mart, while getting Harold some of the salmon Florentine Fancy Feast stuff that seems to be near the top of his list of foods.

I canceled the 3 mile ride to Howard's. I hadn't slept much the past day and felt pretty light-headed.

As soon as I got back to the apartment, and was watching Harold ravenously attack the salmon Florentine, I got a text from Jacob Scardino, informing me that he was at the Uxi Duxi.

I had to text him back, telling him that I had undergone a "blood-draining" day, which had begun early that morning, and that I needed to take a nap. I looked pretty drained in my bathroom mirror.

Plus, after a week without kratom, and the discovery that my ability to write hadn't deserted me when I was off the stuff, I had a good mind to just give it up.
The strong cup of coffee that I was sipping when Jacob texted me wasn't waking me up, only putting me in something like a half dream state, and so I just worked on a Frank Zappa inspired song that I had written in 1987, and then slept, moving between couch and bed, flipping on the radio for a while, letting Harold outside...
 
But, I had gotten the fifty dollars, and can go back and get another as early as tomorrow (Sunday). Any thoughts of busking for the Essence Festival crowd dissipated with the knowledge that I could do this.

The trip to Gretna, where I was the only white man, took its toll on me. There was another cashier at the Wal-Mart, who seemed to only want to fulfill her minimum requirement to tell me the amount of my purchase and say "Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart," and then to stare at me dumbly with a "I don't have to talk to you," look on her face when I tried to make small talk.

It is very possible that she doesn't understand my language. You would think, though, that her teachers, should she have gone to school up until some grade level, would have used the queen's English, and that she would have understood me after I had said: "I got lucky, as soon as I went in the plasma place it started pouring, then it stopped, and then as soon as I came in here it started raining again. So far, I haven't gotten a drop on me," I said this as I was swiping the Octapharma card, which I'm sure she recognized, since she works at a Wal-Mart a half mile away from the place.

All I got from her was the "I'm not required to talk to no white people except to tell them the amount of their purchase, and then to say 'Thank you for shopping at Wal-Mart'" look.

"No, English, huh?"

Another dumb stare.

"Fucking colored people!" I said, after I lost my cool and walked away.

The all black staff at the plasma place had actually been pretty nice to me. Most of them, I recognized from last year, when I had gone there a lot. They may think I'm sent there from headquarters, to spy on them to see if they are doing their jobs right, as they might believe that everyone there, making the big bucks, would be white.

But, if Stevie Wonder and Paul McCartney are right, there is good and bad, in everyone; and these are at least somewhat educated blacks.

The black bus driver who had driven the bus over the river, me being the only white guy on it, had given me a dumb stare, when I had said something to him, just to be friendly, as I was putting my money in the machine. It is usually a hassle sliding the bills in, and I think I said something like: "It sure will be nice when they do away with this paper money and put bar codes on our retinas..."
Nothing but a dumb stare from him.

His face then contorted into an annoyed expression, as if he was thinking: "My job is to drive the damned bus, I'm not required to interact with no white people. That is probably a joke that a white bus driver would be more prone to smile at, possibly, rejoining with: "The day is coming!," or something.

Still, I had to suppress my urge to say: "Well then go to hell, nigger!"

I think that is what he wanted me to do, so that he could kick me off the bus: "I don't have to stand for being talked to like that!" Suddenly, he would have found a voice.

As I had walked the aisle to an empty seat, all I saw were hateful looks on all the faces that weren't staring at phones.

At least a couple of them would be saying: "There you go, get the hell off da bus!," and their days would have been brightened to a degree.
To Busk Or Not To Busk  
So, here it is Saturday night. I feel no pressure to go out and busk, as I can go and get another fifty bucks tomorrow, and staying out late to do so might even jeopardize that.

Besides, I could go to Howard's to partake of the Sunday dinner that Berta is famous for, and then kill two birds with one stone by hitting the plasma place later, having followed their instructions to "eat a good meal," before going there, so that my plasma would be nice and hearty.

I think I will be able to make my trip up north, funded by the five visits to the plasma place that will net me $250, plus whatever I can get from the meager busking proceeds that are half the reason I am splitting.