Nobody ever told me that your plasma actually looks a lot like piss. And not your healthy piss either. Drink enough water and it should be nice and clear, yeah? Nope, not like that at all. Say you had a weekend-long binge of Coke. And you were pounding the bottles – I mean hammering them one right after the other. Glug, glug, glug. Pop open one more and repeat. Except that you’re not downing a sixer or a twelve-pack. No siree. You’re sucking down 2-liters like you’ve been lost in the desert. Yeah. Do that over a long weekend and don’t drink any water. That Monday morning when you pay your water bill, take a look at it. That’s what your plasma looks like.
Been coming in here to donate for about the last month or so. Get here early enough, the line isn’t too bad. It’s kinda hard to predict sometimes. You’d think Friday and Saturday night’s would be slammed. Most Saturdays you can be in-and-out, no worries. But those weeknights when everybody’s off work. Yeah. You’re gonna be waiting a bit.
You’ve gotta start with a physical. They ask you about your history, what medicines you take. Tattoos, whether or not you’ve been in jail in the last however long.
Every time you come in, you’ve gotta scan in with your finger at a computer. It gives you a survey, you know. Bunch of questions, pretty much the same ones as the physical. You gotta check in here before your donation.
Their pay system works in tiers, yeah? You come once, you get a little money. You come again that same week, you get a little more. Come back twice that next week, you get even more. Do this plasma thing, and you’ll find out some places pay better than others. Make it a habit, and before long it can turn into some consistent money.
Don’t be scared of the needles, now. I know they look like something medieval at first, but you’ll get used to them. Especially if you have a nurse that’s gentle. Nothing too bad, I promise. They swab your arm to clean it, and then hook up the blood pressure cuff. Then they slip the needle in. Sorta feels like fingernails pinching you a little too hard. But once it’s in, it’s in. Slip. Pinch. Forget.
And the beds. Wow, the beds are so comfy! Where I go, the beds are arranged in rows. So you come in and you see these rows of brown leather moons. It can be easy to fall asleep in one if you aren’t careful.
So that’s pretty much it. You check in, lie down, get stuck. Whole process takes…oh, maybe an hourish, give or take. Like I said before, it can depend on what day you go. But the actual plasma part is roughly an hour.
A lot of people are on their phones for that hour. No judgments, here believe me. Not in a place to judge anybody. Like to read a good book, myself. Right now it’s Your Life, Your Work, Your Way by Archibald Crantz. Trying to find a way to generate some more money in a side hustle. The family’s going through…well, let’s call it a “transitional period.”
Anyways. The biggest downside of this place is that they only let you come twice a week. And you have to have 2 days in between your visits. Sucks, right? So don’t be thinking you can make a career of it. I’ve tried, and they’re really serious about that rule.
I know what you’ll say next. You’ll wonder why a person wouldn’t just go to different donation centers. Well, you might get away with it once or twice. Maybe more. But eventually you’ll get caught. Which means you can’t come back. No plasma, no money. Which the family needs now.
“Transitional period.” Geez, it sounds so clinical when you put it like that. Let’s just face facts. I’m unemployed and we’re broke. My last job I actually liked. But they laid me off after…well, I don’t guess it matters now. It happened, and now here we are.
“We’ve got a head of lettuce,” my wife said. “And some bananas.”
I went to the fridge anyway and peeked inside. Empty.
“And there’s this too,” she said.
She handed me a white envelope. The giant red “urgent” stamp seemed to shake a finger at me. It was a bill from the power company. A cutoff notice.
Nothing in the bank account. Nothing in the savings. Zero. The fridge? Empty. The cupboard? Empty. Number of phone calls this week about job interviews? Zero. My eyes moved from the zeros on the cutoff notice to my wife’s face. Even her gorgeous dark brown irises were zeros. A corkscrew turned in my guts. I swallowed but my mouth seemed full of sand. The kitchen floor gave way and I floated. Nothing beneath my feet.
My wife’s voice muted to an echo.
In the living room, my 2 boys were playing with their Paw Patrol toys. I strode into the living room and knelt down next to them.
“Dada!”
My favorite word in the entire world. Nothing else I’d rather be called.
“Here Dada.”
My youngest hands me a toy.
“You play too.”
These dogs all have high squeaky voices, but mine won’t go quite that high. But my boys love it nonetheless.
***
Sitting on the edge of the bed, the dark walls stretched out around me. A claw hammer bangs at my head. Massaging my temples, my breath catches in my chest. Can’t seem to inhale, really. Like my ribs have suddenly shrank. No room for any more air.
Get to my feet. An ache in my right hip lurches me off balance. Damn thing always flares up during times like these. Probably ought to stop by the chiropractor for an adjustment. But a forty dollar copay? Hell, that’s a tank of gas. You know what I could do with forty dollars at Aldi?
My wife ran by Aldi just last week. She’s always been the thrifty one, yeah? We budget together, but she handles all the shopping.
“Found some good deals,” she’d told me. “Filled the fridge full for just under a hundred.” The pain in my hip lets off a little and I hobble to the bathroom. Flick on the light and ease the door to.
But there’s somebody else in there.
Resting my hands on the vanity, I glare at him. He does just the same.
He’s got gray spotting through his hair. Pulpy purple splotches hang from his veiny, red eyes. Deep jagged lines, like claw marks, stretch across his forehead. His face twitches, like too little skin drawn over too much bone. A spiky, scraggly beard patches over his chin and neck.
Two months since the last interview. Shaved my face with a safety razor, like the kind our granddads used. Took me nearly an hour, but got it done with no cuts. A friend referred me to a tailor who helped me with an old suit. Brand new haircut, the whole works. Strode into that office with a real bounce in my step. Smiled ear to ear, shook hands good and tight. I’d killed it. Just knew I’d killed it. Nope. Got an email a week later.
Thank you for your interest in the position, it’d said. Your qualifications are impressive, but we have moved on to other candidates whose skill sets more closely align with our needs. Some kinda jargony business bullshit. Sons o’ bitches even got my name wrong.
The stranger in the bathroom leans closer to me. Our faces nearly touch, only separated by a cold pane of glass. The empty, round eye sockets turn to zeros. They laugh at us. Me and the stranger.
The moon outside, itself a giant zero, mocks us from the sky.
We’re the same, this stranger and me. We have zero. And we are zeros.
***
Next morning, in line at the plasma center before dawn. Don’t usually get autumn this early. Air is so cold that it burns. Got on a couple extra layers today, including my old college hoodie. Hop out of the car and get in line with the other worthless bastards. Place runs like a clock, though. Only fifteen minutes in the cold before we make it inside.
Slide my finger over the electronic scanner. But, the computer says I don’t have an appointment scheduled.
“Bullshit,” I whisper.
Shoot a quick glance left, then right, to see if anyone heard me. Nobody’s looking. Put my finger on the scanner again, Computer says the same thing.
“Bullshit.”
Next to me stands a woman in black yoga pants and a baggy pink shirt with the words Live. Laugh. Love. written on it. She looks at me the way people look at shit on the bottom of their shoes.
“Sorry,” I say.
She shrugs and shakes her head.
Put my finger over the scanner again. Guess what? Yep.
Oops, says the screen. We could not find a scheduled appointment.
Another wet curse word spills out of my mouth. Fist pounds on the computer desk. Next, there’s a young doctor with fancy glasses and a Paul Bunyan beard talking to me. He gestures toward the computer.
“Sir, I’m afraid you don’t have an appointment.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Looks like it.”
“Then I’m afraid I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”
In the round lenses of his glasses stands the sorry, sagging image from my bathroom mirror.
“I’m sorry. “Must’ve forgotten.”
“Please come back when you have an appointment,” says the doctor. “If you download our app -”
“I know how it works.”
Several people turn their heads. The conversations around us stop. Ms. Live. Laugh. Love. gives me a grimace, her mouth hanging open like a wall-mounted fish. Clear my throat.
“I’m sorry. Like I say, I guess I just forgot.”
The doctor nods.
“I understand. These things happen. Now please come back when you have an appointment.”
My hands fold. Throat squeezes shut and swallowing is impossible.
I step in closer to the doctor.
“Please,” I whisper. “My family, we…we need the money.”
He moves back, getting some distance from me. He waves his hand toward the folks in line behind me.
“I understand,” he says. “But right now there are other people waiting. And they have appointments. I’m going to ask you to leave.”
Like a rocket, my hand shoots out and grabs hold of his lab coat.
“Please,” I shout.
He narrows his eyes.
Sweat dribbles down the bridge of my nose. A room full of zeroes spins around me like a carousel. Whispers and side conversations fill the lobby. My heart jackhammers. Letting go of the doctor’s coat, I dash to the bathroom. Hoping some water on my face will calm me down. But there, above the sink, stands the stranger. The one I’ve been seeing in my bathroom at night. Kicking open the bathroom door, I leave without bothering to dry my face. Back out in the cold, yanking off my hoodie. It drops onto the freezing concrete sidewalk. My hands scrape the sides of my temples.
Urgent, the cutoff notice said. Immediate response needed. Late. Past due. Final notice.
When I get home, my wife will tell me she understands. She’ll hug me and tell me it’s ok. And she’ll want to believe it. She’ll look at me with those big brown eyes and tell me she’s got faith in me. That she trusts me. And I’ll look back and see only the zeroes.
The plasma center doors open behind me and somebody comes outside. Somebody says my last name and I turn around.
It’s a young nurse. She has burgundy hair pulled into two pigtails on either side of her head. She smiles. A smile somebody like me doesn’t deserve. She repeats my last name.
“Yeah?” I ask.
“I heard what happened in there.”
She tilts her head toward the lobby, her frosted breath flowing around her. Shoving my hands into my pockets, I shrug.
“Not one of my better moments.”
She nods.
“I know. We all have those sometimes.”
Shove my hands into my pockets and lower my head to look at the concrete.
“I’m Gossamer,” says the nurse. “Think I might be able to help you.”
I look up at her.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She steps towards me and reaches into the pocket of her lab coat. Hands me a business card. Drawn on one side, a little heart. It’s got a halo and two wings. On the other side is a phone number. Angelheart Investors it says. “Another place I work,” Gossamer explains.
“Investors? Like stocks?”
She shakes her head. “No, not like that. It works kinda like this place. But they call it ‘investing,’ because you’re making an investment into someone else’s well-being. Making their life better. Even giving them a second chance.”
Flipping the card over in my hands and reading each side again. Keeps me from looking at her while she’s this close to me. “Have they got limits on how much you can donate? How many times can you go?” She fidgets with one of her pigtails and smiles.
“Mm-mm.”
Put the card in my wallet and smile back.
“You come in here a lot,” Gossamer says.
“Complicated. Hard to make ends meet. So I do whatever I can. Got a family to provide for.”
She points.
“Call that number. They can help.”
“I will.”
We exchange smiles.
“Sure am glad you caught me out here,” I say.
“Same.”
She steps closer to me and takes my hand. Folding both of her hands around mine, she looks me dead in the eye. That dessert smell slaps my brain.
“Believe me,” she says. “Your luck is about to change.”
She walks back inside, her ample hips rolling beneath her lab coat.
Clinching the card between my thumb and index finger, I breathe out between my teeth. “Hope so.”
***
Angelheart Investors, the card read. Finally found the place downtown on Main Street. Huge building. Really black, shiny glass all the way to the top. Not an expert on stocks and investing, but the place is obviously not hurting for income. Kinda wanna choke my high school guidance counselor for not telling me about stuff like this. Whole lotta zeros behind this place. I walk inside and pull down the hood of my jacket. A big marble desk takes up most of the space in the lobby. Floor’s even shinier than the windows outside. Even my reflection looks good in it.
A young woman with black glasses and her hair in a neat bun sits behind the desk. She looks up from her typing.
“Good morning sir, how can I help you?”
I show her the card Gossamer gave me.
“Got this at Lifeline Plasma Services. Called earlier in the week and made an appointment.”
She asks for my name, types a little.
“Yes. I have you here. Your broker will be Mr. Prince. He’ll be with you shortly.” She holds out a hand.
“Take a seat please and I’ll let him know you’re here.”
Doesn’t take long. Hadn’t been sitting there for five minutes when a guy comes out and says my name.
He’s got a thick, trimmed beard. Wet-looking hair combed by an expert. Gives me a real handshake and looks me right in the eye.
“Dale Prince.”
“Good to meet you.”
Leads me through the door and into his corner office. Walls are all floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the river.
“Must be a hell of a view at night.”
“It is indeed,” he says.
His manicured hand invites me to sit. He slides into a black leather chair with a high back. The laquered desk between us is clean. So clean it doesn’t look like it’s ever been used.
“So,” says Prince, folding his oily hands on the desk. “Tell me how you found us.”
“Was Lifeline Plasma. Girl there named Gossamer gave me your card.”
Prince nods with an ear-to-ear smile.
“Grand isn’t she? One of our very best recruiters.”
Prince opens a drawer on the side of the desk. Slides a stack of papers toward me, each with the winged heart and halo from the business card. He steps over to my side of the desk and hands me a pen from the inside of his coat. A marble white fountain pen. Thing probably costs more than I make in a month. Or, more than I used to make in a month. “Just some official paperwork to get out of the way. You understand.”
He goes back to his chair.
Looking over the paperwork and then Prince chimes in. Just about like he was reading my mind.
“Angelheart Investors is a worldwide financial investing firm,” he says. “We help everyday people find creative ways to make their money work for them. People work hard for their money. In these uncertain times, not to mention the worst economic recession in recent memory, normal folks like yourself have got to learn how to make your money work for you.” Let the pen fall out of my hand. Slide the paperwork across the desk.
“I think there’s been some misunderstanding.”
“How so?” Prince asks.
“I’m not in a position to be doing any investing. I can’t afford that right now.” Prince leans forward and presses his fingertips together. He purses his lips and inhales. “I know exactly what you mean.”
“How’s that?” I ask with a squint.
He gets up, comes around to my side of the desk. Picks up the papers and taps them on the desk. Opens my hand and presses the pen into it.
“When this opportunity, an opportunity to be a broker for Angelheart. When it came along I was in no place for it. My personal life was in shambles. A complete mess. But the company invested in me. Put resources and time toward my development. Not just as a broker, but as a human being.”
He tightens his silky tie.
“I’m offering you the same thing,” Prince goes on.
I glance down at the papers. Then back at Prince.
“Sir, I can’t even afford to keep my lights on. There’s a quarter tank of gas in my family car. Our mortgage payment is overdue. These are real-world problems. I’m sorry, but this isn’t for me.”
Place my hands on the desk and push the chair back.
“How much money do you have in your wallet?”
“Scuse me?”
“How much?”
Cut him a frown and reach for my wallet. Walk my fingers over the wrinkled bills. “Ten bucks.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than a one-hundred dollar bill appears in Prince’s hand. Turns his hand over. Poof. There it is. A clean, crisp bill that looks like it’s fresh off the printing press.
“Finish the paperwork. And you’ll have increased your investment by ten.” Shake my head and laugh.
“You’re gonna give me a hundred dollars for filling out paperwork?”
“No,” says Prince. “You’re investing ten dollars and multiplying it tenfold.” He’s still standing over me, smiling. Slide down in the chair, pick up the pen, and complete the paperwork. Prince grinning over my shoulder the whole time. Next, pull out my wallet and give him the bills. He holds the hundred out to me like he’s serving an entre. When I look at him, he nods toward it. My shaking hand reaches for it, grabs it, and stuffs it in my pocket.
I stand up.
“That it?”
Prince picks up the pen and caps it. Slips it inside his coat. Takes my papers and places them in a desk drawer.
“Keep it. Spend it. Or invest it.”
“Invest it in what?”
“With me as your broker, I can show you how to multiply that by ten thousand.” A laugh bubbles up out of my stomach.
Prince’s smile fades.
“I assure you, this is no laughing matter. Look what you’ve done with some simple paperwork and ten dollars. Imagine what you could do with one hundred dollars and sixty seconds of your time.”
Gnaw the inside of my lip and stare at the floor.
“Will one hundred dollars keep your lights on?” Prince asks.
Shake my head.
“Then you have two choices,” says Prince. “You’re welcome to keep the fruits of your investment. Or…”
Raise my eyes to look at him.
“Or,” he goes on, “you could return to my office this evening after nine. Bring the one hundred dollars back with you. One hundred dollars and sixty seconds of your time. And I guarantee you a ten-thousand percent increase.”
“That’s insane,” I say.
“Perhaps. But that doesn’t mean it isn’t so.”
Shove my hands in my pockets and make for the door.
Prince calls after me.
“One more small bit of information. How are you with a claw hammer?”
I shrug.
“I’m no carpenter. But I can drive a nail.”
“Marvelous,” says Prince.
Before the door closes, he reminds me.
“Remember. Nine o’clock. I trust you’ll consider my proposal.”
***
8:55 pm and shivering in the cold outside the enormous glossy building. My wife told me it was nuts. I didn’t disagree.
“What other choices have I got?” I asked.
And we both knew the answer. Zero.
“Well don’t be out too late,” she’d said.
“Promise.”
The hundred is still inside my pocket. And can’t keep my hand off of it. Rubbing it between my fingers and something about it makes me not regret being out here in the cold. Almost hate for the time to tick by. Means I have to part with it. It’s the most money the family’s had in weeks.
Ten-thousand percent? Unbelievable, not possible, no way in Hell. And yet, here I am. One minute after nine. Open the door and head inside. Shiny floor looks even shinier than it did earlier today. Guess they had it buffed.
The brunette still sits behind the desk.
She stands.
“Please go in. Mr. Prince is expecting you.”
He greets me on the other side of the door. Still wearing the same suit.
“I knew I could count on you,” he says. “It’s good to have a new business partner.”
He holds his hand out for me to follow him. On the one wall of his office that isn’t a floor-to-ceiling window, two rectangular doors slide open. We step through the doors into an elevator. It’s moving, I’m sure of it. But can’t tell it we’re going up or down. My mouth parches and breath stops in my throat.
“Can you please tell me what’s going on?”
Prince adjusts his jacket and rubs his hands together.
“Your life is about to change.”
When the elevator stops, Prince leads me out.
He escorts me into a huge room with a stainless steel floor. Very shiny steel, of course. From there, up above us the room expands like a stadium. Tables of well-dressed men and women sit at each layer, chattering among themselves.
My hand grips Prince’s shoulder and pulls him in close. He leers at me, like you do a turd that won’t flush.
“What the hell is this?”
Prince brushes my hand away and smooths out the shoulder of his jacket. “An audience.”
Clinch my eyes and shake my head. Talking through my teeth.
“I can see that. What are they here for?”
Prince doesn’t even look at me.
“To see what kind of return they’re going to get on their investment.”
Enormous lights cut on above me, preventing any further questions. The talking from the audience stops.
“Investors,” says Prince. “Welcome to this month’s Angelheart Investors banquet. We appreciate all of you taking time out of your busy schedules to attend. Our first client is brand new. He was recruited by Gossamer Sterling. Goss, please stand up won’t you?”
Gossamer sits at a table in the front row. She’s wearing a flashy purple gown that’s dotted with sparkles. Like something a movie star would wear. And next to her sits a clean-shaven man in a navy suit. When Gossamer stands up, the audience applauds. I hurry toward her and shout.
“Hey, what is this? What have you gotten me into?”
Several of the audience members gasp. The man next to Gossamer rises. But before I can get to him, two large men with sunglasses and wires in their ears hook their arms around me. They drag me back to the center of the floor with Prince and let me go.
“What did I tell you?” Prince sneers. “One hundred dollars and sixty seconds. You’re free to leave if you don’t wish to multiply your capital.”
Make for the door.
“Good,” I say.
Hear his voice behind me.
“What about your lights?”
My feet halt. They won’t move. Sigh and hang my head.
Prince steps toward me.
“What about your mortgage?”
Wringing my fist around the hundred dollar bill in my pocket, I turn around. Pull the wadded bill up and slap it into Prince’s hand.
The audience applauds.
Once their clapping dies down, another sound creeps into the stadium. Faint at first, then louder. A squeaking, like a rusty wheel. On the other side of the room, the two large bodyguards are rolling a table into the center of the floor where Prince stands. On the table lies a balding man with a long, rough, gray beard. Each of his limbs are drawn away from his body by restraints. A wide chain anchors his midsection. His clothes are weathered and moth-eaten. He smells like a gym sock.
“An indigent,” says Prince. “My associates located him not three blocks from here holding a cardboard sign.”
A thick leather strap binds the man’s mouth closed, forcing a plastic ball between his lips. In protest, he sputters out gooey gobs of saliva and mucous.
“Please.”
We can all hear it. We all know he’s saying it. Instead, it just comes out like a car engine that won’t turn over.
One of the bodyguards steps toward me and reaches inside his jacket. He offers me a brand new claw hammer. The label’s still on it.
My trembling hand squeezes the handle. Before he lets go, the bodyguard pulls me in close.
“No funny business now. We have people with scoped rifles on the top row in case you become unruly.”
He releases the hammer and disappears from the stadium lights.
On the wall above me, two giant numbers appear.
:60.
Prince addresses the crowd.
“Sixty seconds, friends. Sixty seconds to see if our investment in our new client has been worth all of our seeded capital.”
The clock starts counting.
Prince hovers at my ear.
“Do you know what one-hundred multiplied by ten-thousand is?”
Drops of sour sweat roll down my face. The handle of the hammer feels wet and slippery.
A foggy musk of beard oil and cologne creeps into my nose. Prince continues. “Say it.”
The crowd fades from my vision. Can only see the circular outlines of their faces. They look just like…
“How many zeroes is it?” Prince asks. “How many?”
Don’t even recognize my own voice.
“Louder, friend,” says Prince. “Didn’t catch that.”
“A hundred-thousand dollars.”
Prince claps his hands together. My body shudders. Inside of my throat grows together. Can’t even swallow.
“For how many months could you keep your light on with that kind of capital?” Loose my bearings. Prince’s voice booms into my left ear. Then whispers into my right. Then, it lurks behind me. And before too long, it teases me from inside my own head.
“You could pay off all of your debts. Several times. You could start over. Be a new man.” On the bed, the bearded man cries and chokes.
A sound comes up from my guts, and explodes through my lungs. Lunging toward the bed and the hammer goes up. And comes down. The head of the hammer cracks right through the bearded man’s cheek bone. Rip the hammer out, lift it, and bring it down again. Right into an eye socket. Then the nose. Next, his lower jaw and several teeth roll across the metal floor. That done, the hammer pelts away at the skull. My right arm hums through the air.
Exhaustion finally sets in. Once finished, there’s a body. Legs, a torso, arms, and a neck. Where formerly a head begged for mercy from beneath a ball gag, now stews a red and purple mass that looks like mashed fruit.
Hot blood drips from my jacket. Soaks my jeans. Pools of it underneath my shoes. From the claw hammer hangs a wriggling nugget of bloody meat.
The audience claps. But not like their star player just scored a last-minute goal. They clap restrained. Muffled. A courtesy clap.
Two bodyguards wheel the table away.
Prince steps toward me, offering a suitcase.
He opens it and shows me several stacks of crisp, green bills. All nearly banded together.
“Would you like to count it?”
Collapse onto my hands and knees. Vomit. The hammer clangs on the steel floor. Prince shuts the suitcase and places it next to me, sloshing the man’s blood. “It’s a time to celebrate,” says Prince. “You’ve proven to be a worthwhile investment. He motions to the bodyguards. They lift me up off the ground and hand me the suitcase. “Please show yourself out,” Prince goes on. “And remember. Angelheart Investors expects our clients to continue participating in their own futures. You’ve seen what we can do with ten dollars. And one hundred dollars.”
He leans in so close, our noses nearly touch. “What do you think we could do with one-hundred-thousand?”
Can’t get a single word out.
“Now go,” says Prince. “Enjoy all those zeros.”
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