The intern took the blood smear. He reeled off a long string of questions about diseases I wasn't allowed to have.
"No," I said, "and I haven't given blood in the last thirty days."
He took my sample of blood and left.
I had to have eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents. They paid you twenty dollars a pint for blood here.
One government bond held for centuries would pile up a fortune in interest. The smallest bond you can buy is twenty-five dollars face value, and it costs eighteen seventy-five.
If I had kept that twenty, I would have had a buck and a quarter change. But if I hadn't have gotten cleaned up, the hospital might not have accepted me as a donor at all. They had had some bad experiences from old bums dying from giving too often.
I only hoped I could force myself to let that bond go uncashed through the rest of my life.
The intern returned, his small mustache now pointing down. "Mr. Hagle, I have some bad news for you. Very bad. I hardly know how to tell you, but—you've got lukemia."
I nodded. "That means you won't take my blood." Maybe it also meant that I would never be allowed to have eighteen dollars and seventy-five cents in one lump again as long as I lived.