Delaney and I met my dad outside of the diner for his birthday. We scooted into a booth and my dad asked the waitress for her name. She smiled and he told her that she had Nice Teeth. I couldn’t stifle my laugh, so he asked, “What?”
“No… I just wouldn’t have said that,” I said.
*
One week later I was at the doctor.
“And how much tobacco do you consume?” she asked me.
“Maybe a cigarette or two once a month, it’s super random, I haven’t really had one in a while,” I lied.
“Congrats on quitting,” she maybe lied back to me. “Someone’s going to come take your blood and do your urine sample and you’ll be all set.”
I sat back. I didn’t mentally prepare myself to get my blood drawn, or to pee into a cup, but I had been dragging my feet about going to the doctor for years. I thought about whether or not I would watch the needle go in, if I could handle watching the needle go in. I felt intrigued by the prospect of being able to stomach that, even more intrigued by the idea of watching my blood spurt into a vial in a controlled environment. But then the door opened, and I didn’t get to think any more.
“Which arm?” the phlebotomist asked. I shrugged and said, “I guess my left,” presenting my arm to her.
My left arm has a huge vein, one I imagine a phlebotomist would cream their figs for. But my roommate, a recently graduated nursing student, told me that my right arm could still be good because your dominant arm often has a better vein.
“I haven’t really had my blood drawn in years, so I forget which one is better,” I admitted.
The phlebotomist widened her eyes when I showed her the difference. The left was, indeed, a no-brainer. She looked at me like I was crazy. I chuckled. She remained stoic. YOU’RE about to take MY blood, dude. I was trying to play it cool but there could have been a little less rigidity to this process. I wanted to say it out loud, but I also wanted to not be a bitch. The needle went in and I did not watch. I stared into the wall the way you stare into the ceiling at the dentist.
“Stop leaning on this arm,” she said.
“What?”
“You’re leaning on the arm I’m trying to push blood out of,” she explained. I shifted my weight. I thought about the blood leaving my body. I wiggled my toes. I took deep breaths. I thought about the phlebotomist. Something tickled the back of my neck. A shiver ran deep.
“This is the second to last vial,” she said. I nodded and focused on the stone in my throat. I listened to the vial clink as she replaced it. “Almost there,” she muttered. And then the needle came out. And so did:
“Do they have you do this cuz you’re the pro?”
The silence between us was brief but deafening. I said that.
“What, draw blood all day?” she exhaled.
“Yeah…” I squeaked, “my roommate just graduated nursing school and told me they don’t even get to practice doing it.”
“Nurses are the worst at drawing blood,” she said, handing me the cup for my pee.
*
“Do they have you do this cuz you’re the pro?”
It haunted me while I sat on the toilet. Where did that come from?
“Do they have you do this cuz you’re the pro?”
I winced in the elevator, alone. Why did I say that?
*
Two weeks later, I stand in the smoke shop staring at the Labubu Bongs. The Labubongs. Delaney directs the new guy towards the papers and tips we’re running out of. I am staring at everything in the store, silently. The smoke shop is in a constant state of disarray; they’re trying to sell a sleeve of water crackers? Like, a sleeve? In the fridge, on the bottom shelf, there’s Indian food in takeout containers. “Is this for sale?” I want to say. But this time, I keep it in.
__________
Mikee Parangalan is a Midwest apologist and carpe diem evangelist, writing and creating in Chicago, Illinois. You can find her online @mkprngln and most anywhere else if you look hard enough.