Golden Goose

THE GOLDEN GOOSE
BY FRED VENTURINI

The community center smelled like a hospital, and the very anticipation
of being penetrated by a needle made Mark woozy-in-advance, fearful
that the very sight of a glistening needle would launch him dizzily
into an instant, embarrassing, sleep-embarrassing because this jaunt
was for extra-credit.
Several of his classmates were at the blood drive, tucked away behind
partitions and lying in stretchers. If he were to faint, word would
spread fast, and Mark, known for his toughness, would never live it
down.
The gym floor morphed into a makeshift office, with cubicles being
molded from cheap-looking, faded gray partitions. Small talk echoed as
the nurses scurried about in oversized, multi-colored flower pattern
hospital tops, with lavender pants to match. They shared laughs with
some of the donors who were patiently being bled-the thick, rusty syrup
pumping from their arm into a plastic bag that hung below them, like a
grotesque blister. A gray-haired man, still in his powder-blue postal
uniform, squeezed a rubber ball in one hand and held a magazine up to
his nose with the other.
Jimmy Rogers, who was always late to Biology 102 and probably needed
the extra credit, was earning it, his face pale and eyes bulging-Jimmy
was trying to avoid gazing at his arm, choosing instead the white,
crusted spackle-panels on the community center ceiling.
Maria Tudor, a good student and a teacher's pet of sorts, was also
being drained. Her stretcher was all the way back, and she had a
relaxed, lazy look in her eyes as her blood slipped away. Mark figured
her for a regular donor-someone who probably carried her donor card in
the front slot of her pocketbook, and always made sure that someone saw
that she donated forty or so gallons when she paid for pencils, books,
and geek-glasses.
Mark played on the football team, and needed-absolutely needed to get
the hundred extra credit points to stay eligible and keep his
scholarship in tact. Biology was required coursework even though his
major was history, and only the lure of potentially catching a
touchdown pass in conference championship game would make him brave his
fear of needles voluntarily.
One of the nurses appeared, then scanned the clipboard with narrow,
focused eyes. "Mark Hanson?" He nervously rose from one of the five
folding chairs that made up the waiting area.
"First time?" she said, managing to sound pleasant despite her
monotone. He nodded, unsure if he had enough breath to talk. Even
though the community center was spacious, the pungent aroma of alcohol
was still powerful, making him queasy.
He sat down across from her, blocked off from the bleeders and the
waiters. Her name tag proclaimed her "Irene," who engaged in a
rehearsed barrage of questions, which Mark skillfully navigated. No
needles. No drugs. No sex with anyone HIV positive.
She never looked at him, not once-only her computer screen. When she
was finished, she struck the return key with force. "And you're in the
system, Mark!" she said with a fake smile, still avoiding his eyes.
"Fill out this survey, and they'll call you over there."
He did. Same questions, this time checking boxes instead of answering
Irene. No HIV, no needles, no sex with prostitutes or men. He didn't
know his bloodtype, and had no anemic or diabetic conditions. He just
wanted the scrawl across the entire survey "yes, my blood is good
enough for you! Either take it, or leave me the hell alone!"
They called him again, this time a portly, black nurse named Rhonda
took him to yet another cubicle. She was more affable, more
understanding of his plight.
She took his survey from him, made a few quick notes, and had a vial
next to her. Rhonda explained that she needed a drop of his blood to
see if there was sufficient iron, and that she was going to drop it in
the vial and see if it sank in order to test just that.
"It's not so bad, sugar," she said, "just like getting a prick at the
doctor's office." Her consolation did little to comfort him, but he let
her click the tip of his index finger, producing one exact drop of
blood when she squeezed his finger. Not so bad, but the horse needle
they were going to jab him with in just a few minutes was going to fill
a whole bag.
The drop of blood sank. The moment was drawing nearer. She handed him
yet another form, this one with a sticker. "If you confidentially do
not want your blood to be used as a donation, please put the sticker on
the square to the right. If you want your blood to be used, please put
it on the left. Simply put, sugar, if you think you've been exposed to
HIV, put the sticker on the right. It's confidential, no questions
asked."
Ah, a glimmer of hope. "If I put it on the right, do you still take my
blood?"
"Yes, we do sugar." He put the sticker on the left. If he was going to
bleed, it may as well benefit more than his GPA.
"One more thing," she said. "First timer, right?"
"Yes."
"Nervous?"
"Yes."
"I can understand that. Almost done. Put your sticker on, and take it
to Mr. Foster. He's in the administration room near the
entrance."
Would the running in circles ever stop? The delay was killing him, but
one more stop and he could get it over with.
Mark walked near the exit, tempted to just walk out the door, but no
donor card, no extra credit, no football game, no glory, no women. The
formula was damn simple. Talking to Mr. Foster would spark a chain of
events that could assist Mark in getting laid after the conference
championship game on Saturday.
The door was open, and a diminutive man with small, round glasses sat
behind the desk, scrawling madly on forms. Mark gave a polite knock on
the frame of the door. "I'm supposed to take this form in here, I
think."
"Oh yes," Foster said, rising to his feet. "Please, please, sit for a
second. Shut the door behind you."
Yes, Mark thought, this blood donation was getting awfully annoying.
He sat down in a folding chair across from the desk. Papers were
stacked everywhere in no particular order that Mark could decipher. The
desk's body was metallic and gray, the top was smooth, greenish, and
cracked.
Mark slid the form to him, with the sticker on the "donate" box.
"Very good," Mr. Foster said, putting it one of his piles.
So much for confidential.
"Marcus Alexander Hanson. Six foot, one inch tall. One hundred and
eighty seven pounds, brown hair, brown eyes. Athletic build. Blood
type, O negative." Foster's eyes caught him. They were burning eyes,
confident and lethal-looking-or perhaps they just felt that way because
Mark didn't share any of that information on any of the surveys-only
his name. He didn't even know his blood type.
The drop of blood, he thought. They got it from the drop of
blood.
But so fast?
"You are undoubtedly wondering why I know so much about you. Simple
observation," Foster said, scribbling. "I'm just recording this
information so we'll be able to recognize you. In case we have to look
for you."
A different kind of fear was setting in-not the "hot damn the needle
hurts like a some-bitch and I'm going to pass out and everyone's going
to make fun of me" fear, but the "I don't know what's going on but it's
not good and it's scaring the shit out of me" fear.
Mark could only express this variety of fear with a squeaking, choked
attempt to speak, which was unsuccessful. His brown eyes lacked the
strength to blink.
"Don't be frightened, Mr. Hanson," Foster said. "I'm sitting right
across from you, making it quite easy to ascertain your build and eye
color, etcetera. Your blood type, on the other hand . . . well, do you
know how a cultured woman, or simply an observant one, can tell what
type of cologne you're wearing? How it amazes you when they guess it
right?"
Mark nodded. He was frozen on autopilot.
"It's kind of like that. We can smell it on someone, their blood type.
O negative isn't particularly tasty, but it'll do. The proverbial
"tastes like chicken" of this important food group."
The absurdity drew Mark away from the fear. He blinked, smiled, and
pointed at Foster. "I'll be damned," Mark chuckled. "Who put you up to
this? Bolden? Carter? Them fucks, I'll jock them fuckers at practice
tonight. Is there a camera in here?"
"No cameras, Mr. Hanson," Foster said, smooth and calm as a pane of
glass. "No tricks. You are a first-timer, so you must be made to
believe as all first timers do."
Mark laughed. "I'm no first timer. Ask Bolden's sister, I broke her
cherry." He laughed some more, wanting to the joke to end, because this
Foster guy-he was an Oscar-caliber actor.
Foster looked at him sternly.
"OK OK," Mark said, "it's three in the afternoon. What about the
sunlight, huh Dracula?"
"There are ways around such things," Foster said, his voice losing
bass, turning into a melodic hiss. "A hundred or so years ago, there
were no cell-phones. No computers. No technology, as we have now-the
science that breaks barriers each day. Our kind has broken the barrier
of sunlight, and this partnership that you are being anointed in today
is beneficial to everyone."
"I'm outta here," Mark said, leaping out of his chair. Foster's eyes
flashed yellowish white. "Attempt to walk out of that door, and you
will never be seen alive again."
This was no joke-the eye-trick that Foster turned out was special
effects too complicated for a practical joke. Forget being embarrassed,
even if it was a joke. Mark was playing it safe, so he sat down, and
looked into the face of a vampire, something he wasn't banking on doing
when he woke up in the morning.
"Your immediate reaction is fear, which is understandable. Allow me to
explain a few things. Life is not like it is portrayed in the movies.
We do not wear capes, or sleep in coffins. We run businesses, have
children, and want to have fruitful lives, which is difficult when
they're immortal lives, Mr. Hanson. In exchange for this immortal life,
we have a hunger that is dangerous to the partnership between humans
and ourselves, you see?"
It seemed like a good place for Mark to nod, so he did.
"If we were maniacs who wanted to rule the world, we'd suck the blood
of every living and breathing human. It could be easily done. We're
very hard to kill now, immune to silver, garlic, and sunlight. It's
tougher than you may think to penetrate the sternum and actually drive
a wooden stake into the rather small heart region. Only a surgeon could
do it with any accuracy, and with our strength? Fighting such a blow?
Mr. Hanson, we could've turned every human a long, long time ago, but
such domination is not beneficial. If we were to do that, where would
the blood come from? Animals? And then when they're gone? If we were to
let our hunger get the best of us, it would be the end of both humans
and vampires, so humans must be kept around, you see?"
"I . . . I don't see. I'm just . . ." Mark felt as if he were just
outside of his body, watching everything. He'd distanced himself from
Foster in that fashion, and consciousness as well. Dizzy-spots
surrounded him, but Foster's words still registered.
"Now Mark, do you know the story of the golden goose? We are not in the
business of killing your kind, the only true golden goose. In exchange
for your blood, you get to lead your lives in any way you see fit, as
long as you donate blood every donation cycle."
He continued. "You have been led to believe there is a shortage of
blood-the numbers are quite crooked. There is plenty, if not for the
immense amounts that must be distributed and ingested on a nightly
basis. Everyone involved in the donor program donates regularly, but
you've been fed a misconception in order to get you here out of guilt,
and now, you're here, Mr. Hanson. You will continue to come
back."
"The human body can generate blood at a rate which allows you to
donate every 43 days with no detriment to your health. From now on, you
will donate every 43 days. You will not miss a day, or you will die.
You will not speak of this meeting, or you will die, and when I say
die, I mean it. You will not be anointed as a vampire. Only a precious
few qualify for such an honor. No, Mr. Hanson, you will die bloodless,
and you will die permanently."
Mark's fear of needles was quickly getting replaced with something
much more sinister. "Ok," he said, short of breath. "Whatever.
Just-please let's get this over with. I want to go home."
"Don't look so pale, Mr. Hanson! All will be normal! All will be well!
You'll just have to learn to wrap your mind around this, the truth, and
let go of all your horror-movie exaggerations. Understand that I'm not
here to harm you, none of us are! You pass us every day, perhaps have
even befriended our kind, made love to our kind. At our very core, we
are human, just slightly more evolved, that's all. For instance, HIV is
just as lethal to us as it is to you, a danger to us all. We're working
on a cure, of course."
So HIV can kill vampires, Mark thought, amused. A hundred years ago,
it was silver bullets and garlic cloves. Now, it's "don't come any
closer Mr. Vampire, I've got a junkie's needle here and I'm not afraid
to use it!"
"I'm afraid of needles," Mark contemplated aloud.
"You'll get over that fear after a couple of cycles," Foster said.
"Just let the fear of two of the most painful puncture wounds you can
ever experience drive you, Mr. Hanson. I've heard it hurts in a
legendary fashion, especially when penetrating that cord of muscle
beside your larynx."
There was a long pause. Foster was allowing it to sink in.
"Should I go now?" Mark said.
"One more thing," Foster added. "Are you an . . . organ donor?"
"No," Mark replied. The very thought of being picked apart for parts
like an old El Camino made him sick.
"You have one month to become one."
"I'll do it," Mark said, "but . . . never mind."
"Go ahead and ask, Mr. Hanson. You were wondering why, no? I'll spare
you the discomfort of asking that simple question. It's part of
partnership with our brothers. You might know them from the movies as
well, and they were quite pleased to hear of our solution to
silver-poisoning."
Things were getting better by the minute. Mark imagined himself after
death, his bowels being scooped out and handed to hairy men with yellow
eyes, so that they may eat without going on a full-moon killing
spree.
"In case you're wondering about the people that truly do need organs,
when our brother-wolves are taking up too much of the supply, those
waiting on organs are received into our vampire brotherhood as
immortals as part of the deal we have with humans. It all depends on
what insurance they carry, of course." Foster smiled again, his teeth
were small, straight, and perfectly white. "Goodbye, Mr. Hanson.
Chances are, you'll never have to speak to my kind again-at least
knowingly. Just tell yourself it was all a bad dream. You'll believe it
in a few years, that is, unless you fall behind on your donations."
Foster waved him away and returned to his papers.
Mark went back into the gym, trying not to stagger. He was pallid and
visibly shaken. Rhonda gave him a smile as she took him to one of the
cots. He passed Jimmy Rogers, who gave him a quick glance and then
looked away.
"It was his first time, too," Rhonda said, swabbing the inside of
Mark's left elbow. He didn't watch the needle go in, and was surprised
when he didn't so much as jump, hiss, or become queasy during
insertion.
Mark looked around him, pumping his left fist to make the blood gush
into the bag. They lay all around him, their little bags brimming with
gore. Golden eggs, he thought as they swelled around him. His bag
swelled to completion, and after some juice and cookies, which he
politely declined, Mark stumbled out the doors and into the sunlight,
where it was no longer safe.
The beams struck him, but did not warm him. Fall had come, the leaves
were dying and the sun was powerless.
The cotton-ball was pressed upon his puncture wound with medical tape,
where the modern, singular fang had struck him, curing his fear of
needles while striking him with another affliction-Mark swore he would
never, ever sleep with the lights off ever again.