The scent of diesel fuel with a hint of garlic swirls through the early afternoon air as as the Blood Bus idles and nearby Italian restaurants begin preparations for this evening's dinner onslaught.
I enter the donation facility on wheels with high anticipation for the greeting of cheery, bright eyed specialists waiting for my arrival. Just like everything else, a modest change has occurred since last check, most notably, Rotund Finger Prick Lady has been replaced by Finger Poker With Disregard To Readiness and/or Nerve Endings Guy.
I attempt small talk. I ask if daylight troubles him.
Nothing.
I notice his coffee mug, filled to the half way with water and notice the logo of a nearby hospital plastered on the side and ask if he works at Mortan-Plant-Mease, which is located a stones throw away from Tampa proper.
A subtle nod and a mumbled "used to," indicating very little passion for the matter. I will not be getting anything from this guy today.
Moving on.
I sit down in the extraction lounger and am promptly greeted by a familiar face, her usual pleasantries notwithstanding. She offers cold hands and stainless steel.
All problems seem to fade and a sense of freedom is renewed the moment that little needle plunges into my vein allowing the blood to escape. In order for regeneration, a liter must go. Creation by virtue of destruction. A red tempest rages out from my body and into the plastic blood holder bag thingy.
The patient across from me comments on the crisp, cool air within the vehicle. Our attentive specialist refrains from the standard response in jest. When my turn is done she offers me an extra large t-shirt and states that it's the only size available. Take it or leave it.
I take it, but not without letdown. Where's the inside joke? Where's the glance between technicians and the devilish smile?
I gather my bearings and acquired belongings, the bag of salty snacks, a soda, an extra large t-shirt, the promise of a free steak dinner, a handful of hypodermic needles and other plastic medical odds and ends for the road, and exit the bus. A waft of garlic filters in and our sourpuss Blood Extraction Specialist hurries to slam the door behind me. These modern vampires do not appreciate the smell of good Italian food.
And it's raining.
Today's Jazz Hands are cold.
Day two-hundred and sixty-one complete.
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