I moved to Los Angeles when I was 23. Puffy yet still fresh-faced, all I had was a bag of clothes, a computer, and $15K. It took me years to save up that money. It was more than I’d ever had and I thought it was plenty to last until I was cast as the deadbeat son who lives in his parent’s basement on a hilarious, yet-to-be-written sitcom.
Within two months it had dwindled to under two thousand dollars. $9500 went to a car, $1000 for a security deposit, and another $1000 for rent. Throw in some food and startup costs to get on casting websites and bing bang bong, my 5-year plan was completely shot to shit. Every day became an endless search to find employment. I had spent years as a server and a tour guide so I figured I’d go for similar positions out here. After hundreds of applications and a few interviews, I quickly learned Los Angelenos did not want me to go anywhere near their food. Since I was brand new to the city, no one wanted me to be a roving raconteur either.
Eventually, I found a job at a call center. From 7 AM to 1 PM, I would cold-call businesses in a feeble attempt to trick them into buying a box of packaging tape. If it sounds seedy, it’s because it was. The “company” was called Dynatek and their slogan, “Tomorrow’s Solutions Today” was plastered all over my tiny desk. In a single day, I would dial hundreds of numbers, hoping a couple would listen to my pitch that included a “free” sony digital radio.
I realize that I’m using a lot of quotes, but honestly, everything about this job seemed to require them. The call center was filled with wannabe/failed actors and I used them all as a cautionary tale of what not to become. The most well-known was the actor who played Tank in the Matrix. One of the biggest movies ever, a huge supporting role, and yet here was this man trying to swindle overpriced adhesives to unsuspecting companies. Shady doesn’t even begin to describe what was going on in this place.
I quickly realized I would have to get stoned to do this job. Not a buzz, but a “punch me in the eyeballs until I bleed red” level of inebriation. The only issue was my budget. With what I was bringing in I couldn’t justify spending money on marijuana. When I mentioned it to Mike, a budding white rapper who sat across from me, his eyes went from closed to barely open.
“Ahhh bro, I’ve been there. Have you thought about donating plasma?”
I’d heard of donating blood, but plasma? What does that even mean? It sounded alien in concept. Don’t I need my plasma? What would others do with it? Make TV’s?
Mike wrote down an address for me and that very same day I drove out to a clinic deep in the San Fernando Valley. Lined up outside there were about 20 people who ranged from obvious methheads to recently unemployed blue-collar workers, all awaiting their chance to collect $35 by being stuck by a needle.
I remember how desperate I felt at that moment. Is this my life? I vowed early in my psychedelic use to never do an intravenous drug. Nothing positive comes from a street drug that requires a syringe. Yet here I was, my desire to get high overtaking all other thoughts that were begging me to get in my car and drive away.
After 45 minutes of waiting, it was my turn to get the life-blood sucked out of me. I don’t have an issue with needles but I certainly don’t like them either. Deep breaths. As I attempted to relax, the phlebotomist came over to prep me. My eyes met hers and instantaneously, I fell in love. While I can find beauty in anyone, a strange combination has always destroyed my ability to communicate with a woman. I call it “Doe eyes, bitch face.” Huge, round, sparkling peepers with a visage that appears as if she would eat your head immediately after sex. Mila Kunis, Anne Hathaway, Elizabeth Hurley. All of these goddesses came to mind as she tapped my arm looking for a vein.
I couldn’t stop staring at her. She made small talk but I was a blithering idiot. Too infatuated with her, too embarrassed by what I was doing to even attempt conversation. As she pushed the needle in with a supple approach, it couldn’t have been smoother. A tiny prick, but inside I was exploding. A million euphemisms could be written here but I’ll save you the time.
She asked if I was OK. I told her I was amazing. She giggled and in her few seconds of spontaneous laughter, I began to imagine our life together. “I’ll be a famous actor and you can lay by our pool all day. I’ll give you whatever you want.” Obviously, I didn’t say that but I blazed the message into her subconsciously, knowing she could pick up the vibrations of my emotions.
When it was over, she pulled out (the needle), put a bandaid on my arm, and sent me on my way. No kiss. “I’ll see you next time,” she quietly whispered. I floated out of the clinic as if I had just been given the golden ticket to the chocolate factory. $35 in my pocket and a new prospect of love. The weed I bought got me high, but I was already dancing on a cloud.
This became a ritual. I kept telling myself I wasn’t addicted to marijuana yet here I was week after week, returning to the faceless clinic to have the nurse of my dreams drain me of my excess plasma. I wasn’t here to support my drug habit. No. I was here because I found myself needing her. Our relationship may have been platonic, but when someone looks in your eyes as they insert a small piece of sharp metal into you, it’s difficult to not feel an intense level of intimacy.
I was smitten. For the next four months, I donated plasma, too afraid to establish any real connection. What was I going to do? Ask her on a date where we couldn’t spend more than $35? She would see right through my pathetic self. So I’d lay back and watch the blood circulate through the machine and back into me, quietly dreaming of what could be.
Eventually, I got a higher-paying job and was able to walk away from Dynatek. I had definitely not solved Tomorrow’s Solutions. I was tired of the shadiness and knew that this was not the way to make the world a better place. This new job meant that I no longer had to get stoned day in and day out. It also meant I could afford pot when I wanted it without having to wait in line with the dregs of society (of which I always claimed I was not…but I was). I never went back to the clinic.
13 years later I still think about Nurse Pricksalot. I hope she found someone who looks at her the way I did. That’s all any of us really want. To be noticed. To be seen. To be desired. To have a beautiful stranger tie a piece of rubber around your arm and ask you to squeeze a ball for thirty minutes. And of course, to get high without breaking your bank account.
