{"id":15647,"date":"2020-01-13T05:00:54","date_gmt":"2020-01-13T10:00:54","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/bullmensfiction.com\/?p=15647"},"modified":"2022-08-03T13:12:42","modified_gmt":"2022-08-03T17:12:42","slug":"among-the-iv-trees","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/fiction\/among-the-iv-trees\/","title":{"rendered":"Among the IV Trees"},"content":{"rendered":"
AGE:<\/strong>\u00a027.
OCCUPATION:<\/strong>\u00a0CORPORATE COMMUNICATIONS FOR A HUGE MULTINATIONAL.
RELATIONSHIP STATUS:<\/strong>\u00a0SINGLE.
LAST BOOK READ:\u00a0<\/strong>CAN\u2019T REMEMBER.
CURRENTLY LISTENING TO:\u00a0<\/strong>NOTHING GOOD.
EMAIL ADDRESS:\u00a0<\/strong>JACKASS@AOL.COM.<\/h5>\n

 <\/p>\n

Jack was sipping from his green beer when his iPhone farted on the bar. When was the last time an email brought anything but annoyance or unwelcome news? Bill reminders, pleas to donate money to his alma mater, a discount offer on Yankees tickets\u2014because those peckers had still not honored his numerous requests to be unsubscribed from all mailings. Obviously it wasn\u2019t a personal email; those things were extinct. He caught Moonie\u2019s drunk, shifty eyes and said, \u201cWanna bet that\u2019s from The New Yorker<\/em>? A subscription reminder?\u201d and he pointed at his phone, which farted again.<\/p>\n

Moonie burped into his fist and rolled his eyes. \u201cMore likely a reminder to renew your subscription to NAMBLA, ya perv.\u201d<\/p>\n

A fat man wobbling behind Moonie gave them the side eye.<\/p>\n

It was actually an email from The New York Blood Center, a reminder that\u2019s Jack appointment to donate was at 1 p.m. tomorrow. Right in the middle of the email: Remember to drink plenty of water starting 24 hours before donation.<\/u><\/p>\n

Jack swished his green beer, said, \u201cThere\u2019s a lot of water in this, right?\u201d<\/p>\n

Moonie pushed the plate of nachos across the bar. \u201cEat.\u201d<\/p>\n

The door of the bar creaked, sunlight sniffing across the beer-soaked floor to nose out the dark nooks of The Windsock. Moonie mouthed a triangle of corned beef hash and chinned toward something of interest. Two girls giggling down the bar. They raised their shot glasses and said \u201cSl\u00e1inte,\u201d curled them to their mouths and slammed them down. One of them with a smudged shamrock under her left eye, she burped and her cheeks bubbled with the promise of puke. Fist-tapped her sternum, followed her friend into the afterlife of sunlight, the crypt closing behind them.<\/p>\n

Day drinking on St. Paddy\u2019s Day, the first day of the NCAA basketball tournament. Fuckin A, right?<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your fucking problem?\u201d Moonie said. \u201cWhat\u2019s it say?\u201d<\/p>\n

The email was anchored with underlined words: Remember, giving blood is a serious commitment.<\/u><\/p>\n

\u201cFuck me,\u201d Jack said. \u201cI gotta go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course you do,\u201d and Moonie pinched the edges of a green Ruffles potato chip and entered it into evidence.<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus Christ, is nothing sacred? That\u2019s rank,\u201d Jack said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s your excuse this time?\u201d and Mooney bit the chip.<\/p>\n

\u201cI have to give blood tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

Moonie laughed. \u201cYou made an appointment to give blood on the day after St. Paddy\u2019s. After taking the day off, telling me we were gonna watch hoops all day. Go fuck yourself, appointment to give blood.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jack crossed his arms and slumped in his chair.<\/p>\n

\u201cRun along, then,\u201d Moonie said and finished the chip.<\/p>\n

Jack scooched forward and lifted his green beer.\u00a0 \u201cFine, but I at least have to slow down.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure, I\u2019ll slow you down,\u201d and Moonie stumbled up and hugged a big-breasted waitress in shamrock glasses. \u201cTwo shots of Jamo, darling,\u201d and she blushed and wriggled free.<\/p>\n

\u201cFine, two shots of Jameson. Keep your hands to yourself, Moonie.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jack shook his head. \u201cHow do you know her?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShe knows me<\/em>; there\u2019s a difference,\u201d Moonie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re Satan.\u201d<\/p>\n

Moonie shrugged, acknowledging this could be true. \u201cAnd you\u2019re an idiot. Now man up. Can\u2019t have you donating the blood of a pussy-ass quitter.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The blood in Jack\u2019s temples was beating to the rhythm of \u201cOde to Joy,\u201d a paradox given the loathsome hangover quaking his body. The right hand encased in blue gauze, a shameful reminder of his late-night boast, \u201cThrow the dart, fucker, I\u2019ll catch it.\u201d The puncture wound had gone right through his lifeline. When Moonie pulled on the dart\u2019s thin blue plastic flight, the white wound filled with blood that quickly overflowed the sides of the hole, and Jack felt light-headed at the sight of the blood and slumped against the silent jukebox. The big-breasted waitress pushed a green Guinness T-shirt into his wounded paw and told him to raise it over his head. And that\u2019s where it was now, with \u201cOde to Joy\u201d blaring as his iPhone alarm. He rolled through the sweaty sheets and fumbled to the freezer for the box of sausages, dumped a smattering of the frozen turds onto a plate and put them in the microwave for 90. He put his head under the kitchen sink, the water cascading through his hair and around his ears to bathe his mummified possum tongue. The grease popped from the sausages and they came to a cook. Pulled them from the microwave and gnawed on them with swallows of orange juice. He had 55 minutes till his appointment with the needle. Time enough to ride the bike, sweat out the sins.<\/p>\n

He leaned into the closet, wrested his orange Asics from the clutter, his stomach pitching forward with acid to his throat. With the resistance set to high, he gripped too tightly with his wounded palm, shame fuel to the veins. He hadn\u2019t given blood in months, the recent emails from the New York Blood Center\u2014subject line: Severe shortage of your blood type\u2014helpful reminders that he needed to shed the blood as much as they needed it. When he lived in Connecticut, he would skip his appointments on the regular, not feel guilty about it. After all, he wasn\u2019t actually donating blood; they were drawing it out of him and tossing it away. He had hemochromatosis\u2014a blood condition that causes your body to create too much iron \u2014 so the blood was considered tainted, unusable. On par with someone with HIV or hepatitis. In Connecticut, anyway. Not the case in NYC.<\/p>\n

The 7 train was SRO, a rolling sea of St. Paddy\u2019s survivors blinking madly against the accusations of the day. Plenty of aspiring Wall Street humps encased in shiny suits and slicked back hair, toting leather satchels tucked in with legal pads and r\u00e9sum\u00e9s. One of the established financial types, a bald white guy whose red headphones looked like earmuffs, was flapping a newspaper. Jack noticed the ink stains on the man\u2019s stubby fingertips and he inhaled deeply to try to catch a whiff of some newspaper ink. Instead he caught some coffin of underarm, farts and parmesan cheese.<\/p>\n

He missed his newspaper hours, the 10-6 in the Greenwich Time features department, working far ahead on profiles, book reviews and health stories. But the money had sucked, living paycheck to paycheck. And then newspaper journalism more or less vanished as a profession, with colleagues cast to new jobs in disparate sectors. He knew he was one of the lucky ones, landing a gig writing corporate communications for a giant multinational. But he still lived as if tomorrow were promised to no one. His phone rang with his sister\u2019s ring tone\u2014the sound of the shower scene from\u00a0Psycho.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cGo for Jack,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cGo for Jack, right. You sound awful,\u201d Sara said. \u201cGo for Jack.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI rode three miles this morning, plus the usual pushups, curls and sit-ups,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cPenance for last night, no doubt.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, we went out, nothing too crazy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJesus Christ! You posted a goddamn, I\u2019m looking at your Facebook, a goddamn picture of a dart in your fucking hand.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sat down on a park bench encrusted with pigeon shit and closed his eyes against the sunshine, a boy and a girl running by in laughter with the girl lunging to yank the green scarf about the boy\u2019s neck. A blonde nanny dawdled behind this kid\u2019s version of attempted murder and shouted, \u201cStop, before one of you gets keeled!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d Sara said to him. \u201cWhere are you? Obviously not at work.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m on my way to give blood.\u201d<\/p>\n

She sighed.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat, I made a promise, I\u2019m keeping an appointment.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLike it\u2019s a good idea to give blood after the night you\u2019ve had.\u201d<\/p>\n

Was he still drunk? Good chance. \u201cWhat\u2019s the worst that could happen?\u201d<\/p>\n

She hung up.<\/p>\n

He pushed through the glazed doors and the waiting room was a fever of people filling out paperwork. \u201cFuck me,\u201d he said, the eyes all shifting to him. He grabbed a pen and the requisite sheets and lowered into a soft leather chair. He awoke with a start and a nurse in aquamarine scrubs was standing in front of him with arms crossed and \u201cWhat the fuck?\u201d plastered across her face.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d and he rose and shuffled along into the next room. Nurses were working a grove of IV trees, where donors\u2014with those long monstrous needles javelined into their arms\u2014were thumbing their cell phones. The wall-mounted TV was turned to The Price Is Right<\/em> and Drew Carey was shouting \u201cSpin the wheel!\u201d<\/p>\n

An unshaven man was smacking through the pages of Vanity Fair<\/em>, huffed and tossed the magazine toward an end table; it landed short. Jack\u2019s reed thin nurse dipped forward at the waist like a shoreline bird plucking a snail from the water\u2019s edge and picked up the magazine and tucked it under her arm. She sidled up to the magazine thrower\u2019s IV and traced her fingers down the line to a mason jar pooling with red wine blood. She raised the jar between them and said, \u201cFive more minutes, Mr. Dinan,\u201d and he winced and looked away. The first time Jack had given blood, the nurse had also showed him a jar of progress; he woke up on the floor.<\/p>\n

The nurse guided him to a tan leather recliner, and he hopped in and pulled the lever to recline at 180. \u201cDon\u2019t tell me,\u201d the nurse said, raising a hand for halt. \u201cAn ice pack for your neck, and tape the needle in place with two\u2014not one\u2014strips of tape. Also, take off the tourniquet as soon as I get a good flow going. And under no circumstances am I to show you the bottle or tell you how much longer you have.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cImpressive, surprised you remembered,\u201d and Jack accepted the ice pack wrapped in a paper towel and placed it behind his neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe always remember the eccentrics,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

He laughed; she didn\u2019t.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou drank a lot of water last night and this morning,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYup.\u201d<\/p>\n

She slid the blood pressure sleeve around his bicep and pumped the black balloon a few times, sighed with release.<\/p>\n

\u201c140 over 90,\u201d she said. \u201cA little high. You nervous?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cShould I be?\u201d<\/p>\n

She pressed two fingers against the inside of his wrist. She leaned away from him and gave him a once over. \u201cRough one last night? Quite the Budweiser cologne,\u201d and she scribbled something on his sheet. \u201cYou really shouldn\u2019t be giving blood if you\u2019ve been drinking,\u201d she went on, and heads rose among the IV trees and perused to find him.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ll be fine,\u201d he said. \u201cJust make sure you only have to poke me once.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re not afraid of needles.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo, but I am afraid of nurses who can\u2019t find veins.\u201d<\/p>\n

She laughed. \u201cYou\u2019re as white as my bedroom sheets. I\u2019d have to be Stevie Wonder not find a vein on you.\u201d<\/p>\n

The white ceiling tiles with their rolling rivulets were like the surface of the moon and he tried to picture himself hopping across it in a space suit. The nurse said, \u201cSqueeze this ball in your fist\u201d and she wiped the inside of his elbow with a sterilizing pad and said, \u201cYou\u2019re gonna feel a small pinch\u201d and the thorn was there and the tightness of his skin resisting the needle\u2019s intrusion. It poked into his arm, his throat catching. He exhaled and glanced and a dollop of blood had seeped away from the wound and coursed a stream to the tan armrest. She shifted the needle and the nausea ballooned and he pushed his neck into the ice pack. He was on the ceiling bouncing away from the moon like an untethered astronaut. \u201cDamn,\u201d she said, and the needle tilted in his arm again and he thought of her threading his skin like a seamstress.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cMr. Mayes?\u201d<\/p>\n

He opened his eyes and she was offering him a Dixie Cup. \u201cApple juice. You passed out. We\u2019re going to run you a saline IV, OK?\u201d and he nodded yes. Whispers and Drew Carey saying, \u201cSpin the wheel!\u201d and Jack scooched to sit up higher and his back felt cool, the ice pack there. The nurse placed a palm on his forehead, said, \u201cFeeling better?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHow much did I give?\u201d<\/p>\n

She brought the jar up as evidence; he jolted away.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry,\u201d she said. \u201cAs you can see, we didn\u2019t get much.\u201d<\/p>\n

He closed his eyes and nodded. \u201cLet\u2019s go again. Other arm,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m not sure that\u2019s a good idea.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWell, can\u2019t do anything until you\u2019ve finished running this IV.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve got time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen just sit back and relax. Anything I can get ya?\u201d<\/p>\n

Yeah, a nurse who doesn\u2019t work a needle like a toilet brush.<\/p>\n

\u201cSorry about the needle,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cOK.\u201d<\/p>\n

She smiled and tapped his chart. Probably reading that he had hemochromatosis, realizing now that his desire to continue was driven by a lot of self-interest. Donating blood allowed him to get rid of the excess iron that could accumulate in his organs, build-up that could lead to cirrhosis of the liver and countless other life-threatening shit. His skin was noticeably less red in the days after a phlebotomy; he had more energy. He focused on this now, his future self.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhen did you start exhibiting symptoms?\u201d the nurse asked him.<\/p>\n

And so he recounted the fortuitous incident at the dentist, when a hygienist who had been cleaning his teeth said that he was bleeding excessively, not clotting properly. She recommended that he get some blood work, a precaution.<\/p>\n

\u201cMy primary called me back within days and told me, said I was lucky. Said I\u2019d probably have been dead by the time I was 30 if I hadn\u2019t started getting the bleeds, that\u2019s how high my iron levels were.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s a lot more common than people know. My dad has it,\u201d the nurse said.<\/p>\n

\u201cRuns in people from the Celtic regions, Ireland. Part of why they have a reputation for drinking,\u201d Jack said. \u201cPeople who don\u2019t even drink that much \u2013 or at all \u2013 retain iron from eating red meat or shellfish or red wine. And then they develop ruddy skin, cirrhosis. So they get a bad rap.\u201d<\/p>\n

The nurse laughed. \u201cSays the guy who came in here smelling like the floor of a bar.\u201d<\/p>\n

He blushed.<\/p>\n

\u201cBy the way,\u201d she went on. \u201cWhat happened to your hand?\u201d<\/p>\n

He shook his head no.<\/p>\n

\u201cOf course,\u201d and she patted his leg and went off to slalom among the IVs.<\/p>\n

He logged onto Facebook; he had 127 new comments.<\/p>\n

Idiot.<\/em><\/p>\n

Nice catch<\/em> \u2014Moonie.<\/p>\n

Grow up.<\/em><\/p>\n

LOL.<\/em><\/p>\n

Funniest thing I\u2019ve ever seen.<\/em><\/p>\n

How is the hand?<\/em><\/p>\n

Moron.<\/em><\/p>\n

Loser.<\/em><\/p>\n

Loser.<\/em><\/p>\n

JFC, go to rehab already.<\/em><\/p>\n

He closed Facebook. He thought-bubbled some quick, ramshackle poems, \u201cA house in disarray, what else is there to say?\u201d and \u201cFool for the people, impaled on your steeple.\u201d<\/p>\n

He snorted himself awake. The nurse patted his arm and said, \u201cSorry, Mr. Mayes, I don\u2019t think it\u2019s going to happen today.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

She crossed her arms and drummed an elbow.<\/p>\n

\u201cPlease,\u201d he said. \u201cIf you have to keep sticking me, fine, just don\u2019t hunt around with the needle.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOK,\u201d and she waved for him to sit up higher. She replaced the ice pack behind his neck and he eased back into it and stared up at the surface of the moon.<\/p>\n

\u201cHere we go, you\u2019re gonna feel a little pinch.\u201d<\/p>\n

He felt nothing.<\/p>\n

\u201cOK, we\u2019ve got a good flow,\u201d she said, and she taped the needle in place.<\/p>\n

He watched the wall clock with the second hand sweeping and he squeezed the red ball to keep the blood flowing, each squeeze a blast of the astronaut\u2019s pack. He felt the old familiar nausea and the rubber ball fell from his hand and bounced on the floor. The nurse laid her palm against his forehead, said, \u201cHow you feeling? Are you OK?\u201d and he closed his eyes and shook his head no. She rubbed the outside of his thigh and said, \u201cOK, OK, take it easy.\u201d<\/p>\n

He sighed, the shame washing over him.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve done your duty,\u201d and she raised the jar of blood. Almost fucking full. He smiled, closed his eyes and leaned into the cool of the ice pack.<\/p>\n

The nurse gave him a large Dixie cup of apple juice and a small sleeve of Oreos and he sat on the recliner and crossed his legs. He opened Facebook.<\/p>\n

Fucktard.<\/em><\/p>\n

You left your credit card at the bar.<\/em><\/p>\n

Some things never change.<\/em><\/p>\n

Looking real good, Mayes.<\/em><\/p>\n

Ignore these assholes<\/em>\u00a0 \u2014Moonie.<\/p>\n

He negotiated the labyrinth of IV trees and pushed through the glass doors into the midday of Lexington Avenue, its mix of tourists and business types all sampling the sunburst sky. Outside the Waldorf, he leaned against the cross beam of a scaffold, with the metal cool and calming to his temple. He slumped to a sit. A black doorman leaned down next to him and laid a hand on his shoulder. \u201cCan\u2019t sit there, man. You OK?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCome inside and sit down,\u201d the doorman said. \u201cCan\u2019t stay there.\u201d<\/p>\n

Jack\u2019s pocket farted with a new message. Fuck off, please; everyone. It\u2019d be another comment about last night\u2019s idiocy. Or a text from his sister. He stared at the Band-Aid on his palm.\u00a0 He opened his phone, an email from the New York Blood Center.<\/p>\n

Jack, thank you for your donation. Abby, 7, is among the many recipients who benefit from the generosity of people like you. Please click below to read a personalized video message from Abby, a leukemia survivor. Like you, she has the rarest blood type.<\/p>\n

\u201cReally, man, you gotta get up, can\u2019t sit in the front like this,\u201d the doorman said. \u201cYou need me to call someone?\u201d<\/p>\n

Jack leaned his neck on the cool of the scaffold and clicked the video below.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Moonie laughed. \u201cYou made an appointment to give blood on the day after St. Paddy\u2019s. After taking the day off, telling me we were gonna watch hoops all day. Go fuck yourself, appointment to give blood.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":15819,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[702,2122,2123,2124,1097],"class_list":["post-15647","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-alcohol","tag-blood-donation","tag-hemochromatosis","tag-needles","tag-st-patricks-day","writer-cam-martin"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15647","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15647"}],"version-history":[{"count":7,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15647\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15836,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15647\/revisions\/15836"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15819"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15647"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15647"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15647"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}