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No.

“Have you injected illegal drugs with a needle in the last three years?”

No.

“Have you had surgery in the last twelve months?”

No.

“Have you had sex with another man, even once, since 1977?”

Man, ’77 was a rough year, eh? No.

“In the past twelve months, have you had sexual contact with anyone that can answer ‘yes’ to any of the above questions?”

No and no.

“Where were you when Kennedy was shot?”

Huh?

“Just making sure you’re paying attention.”

I was in.

After proving I was worthy to donate, I was led to the donating room, an expansive area with stations lining every wall. While the process was certainly much more scientific than it appeared, for me, the donor, it was actually quite simple. One of the three or four attendants on duty would finally get around to coming over to service my donation. He or she would stick a needle—a thick needle, not the type they use to inject the flu shot—into my forearm. Blood was drawn from my arm through sterile tubing into a centrifuge. The centrifuge would spin, separating the plasma from the cells and platelets of the blood. The plasma was then fed through another tube into a quart-sized plastic bottle, while the remaining blood components were fed through a second sterile tube that was connected to the needle and back into my body.

It would take four or five cycles to fill the bottle with the yellowish liquid. The length of time averaged around forty-five minutes and depended upon a variety of factors, including whether or not we were fully hydrated and whether or not our plasma was loaded with protein and iron. The more meat and water we had consumed, the more fit we were to donate.

The process was safe and secure. All of the materials—needles and tubes—used in the donation procedure were sterile and disposed after our donation. Our body would re-supply itself with plasma within twenty-four hours, and we could come back after forty-eight hours for another shot at $30. We were allowed two visits within a seven-day period, although some people would abuse that privilege by donating at the other plasma donation center in North Charleston in between their visits at SerumOn. By the end of the week, they would have twice as much money as the rest of us, but I could only imagine that it took its toll on their bodies.

While we were in West Ashley, Marco and I had the opportunity to apply for several jobs—two restaurants and a grocery store. The opportunities were just as sparse as they had been downtown, if not worse, although the manager at O’Charley’s restaurant told us to come back on Wednesday as he should have a couple of openings for dishwashers. We continued our search with the idea that we could always come back there.

Since Marco had the day off and I clearly didn’t have any better plans, we made the trek up Rivers Avenue on the No. 10 bus. Spike (who didn’t have a single strand of hair on his head), one of the guys at the shelter, had told me to stop by the car wash at the top of Rivers Avenue.

“The turnover at car washes is ridiculous,” he had told me. “They’re always hiring. You just gotta show up.”

And boy was he right. The manager, a gentleman with a Slavic name that I couldn’t re-spell now or even pronounce at the time, offered us a job on the spot. No questions asked.

“Herde are your shirts,” he announced in his heavy accent. “Be herde tomorrow at seven thirty.”

I was a bit overwhelmed at first, with both the satisfaction that I was getting a job and with the idea that it seemed a little too easy. I retracted a bit and asked him what the pay was. He said that all his workers started at $6.50 an hour plus tips and received raises based on their performance.

“Sometimes you get quvick raise, sometimes you stay at six-fifty. You verk hard, you get raise.”

Marco wasn’t interested at all, although he tried to sneak out with the shirt. Even though I was in no position to be greedy with my salary, $6.50 was lower than I was looking for, so I deferred, deciding that if I didn’t