NORMAN — The people at our company must have gallons of excess blood sloshing around in their bodies.
Every four months, Vampira, a member of our property management department, sends out a companywide email. “Be the first to sign up and donate your excess blood.” How can it be excess when it flows evenly through the veins?
The Dracula Wagon appears in our parking lot and employees pretend it is grownup recess time. They march to the draining center because they get cookies, juice and a T-shirt.
After years of non-participation in this ritual, I lost my mind and signed up. Admittedly, I was curious about the process, but perhaps willingly puncturing a vein may be a bit extreme just to satisfy an inquisitive itch.
I grabbed my driver’s license (for identification purposes) and my security badge (because after nearly twenty years they would not recognize me when I reentered the building) and walked downstairs on shaky legs. The elevator was far too quick. Besides, I did not want to appear too eager.
When I tried the bus door, it was locked. With a sigh of relief, I started to leave. Then someone opened the door. Drat!
The bus rumbled when I stepped inside. It sensed that another victim had entered its clutches. I presented my arms, a victim ready to be led to the ritual table. Actually, it was a lounge chair, but there would be no relaxing and napping in that bloodletting seat.
But first, a smiling woman led the way to a cubicle, complete with two seats, a desk and computer. Following a few preliminary questions, out came the blood pressure cuff.
As the blood flow returned to my arm, all manner of gauzes, swabs and strange looking gadgets appeared, including a stabber. “I’m going to prick your finger for a blood sample,” the lady explained. Wait was that an evil smirk she hid?