"Khan, you bloodsucker. You have to do your own dirty work now, do you hear me?" -The One True Shatner, Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan

Darth Vader reminds you to do your taxes. And buy bonds. And give blood.

The Boy and I went out and about the other day. It was a nice warm day, in the 20’s. But I had a duty to do.

It started with a phone call. The Mrs. answered. “It’s for you. It’s the bloodsuckers.”

Now, when your wife says to you that someone known as the bloodsuckers wants to talk with you, well, that gives you pause.

Who in the heck could it be? Did I borrow Mafia money and then at some point forget that I’d ever borrowed it, and now owed someone named ‘Vito’ $100 at 350% per week interest two decades ago? (Note if you insert “credit card” for “Mafia” and “VISA” for “Vito” it reads about the same.) I picked up the phone gingerly. This might be ugly. The Mrs. generally saves the term “bloodsucker” for lawyers and former Playboy models that go to the Supreme Court. “Hello?”

“Hi. This is the Alaska Blood Bank.” Oh. Those bloodsuckers.

So I made an appointment. Before I hung up I asked . . . “Do you have something for a little boy to do?”

“Oh, yes. We can take care of him.”

I liked the sound of that. Take care of him. Now we were back to Mafia lingo. I would take The Boy in, and they would threaten him, and perhaps make him do drudge work around the hospital for a bit. Yeah, that would show him the world was no creampuff!

Now, I like to donate blood because I like to think that maybe, in some small way I’m helping out. I have friends who build housing in third world countries while on missions, and friends who adopt special needs children, and other friends who assist in bringing charity to the world by donating copiously of their time. Sometimes I feel more than a little inadequate just talking to these folks. The problem is that most of them are genuinely nice and probably way better people than I am. Heck, I don’t even recycle aluminum, and I could get paid for that. So, in my book, giving a bit of blood is the least I could do.

A week later, I got to the blood bank (located in the Fairbanks Hospital) and checked in for my appointment, The Boy in tow. First they had me fill out a form. The Boy looked at the plate of cookies, treats, and juice. Even though he’d just had breakfast, I could see the gears turning.

Then came the part of the blood giving where they ask if I had unprotected intercourse for money with a SARS infested mad cow while injecting illegal substances with a dirty needle while taking Propecia. They have to do this in a separate room, in case I had come in to give blood (for the jillionth time) after knowing all the things that make the giving blood thing a moot point and would be embarrassed to admit about the cow in front of everyone.

“Great,” I think. Now they’ll put The Boy to work, maybe scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush. This will be wonderful.

Nope. They put a video (Monsters, Inc.) on for him. Fed him cookies. Rubbed his tiny feet. Gave him calendars, a nametag, bumper-stickers! They even peeled grapes for him. This was not the “take care of” that I’d envisioned.

While The Boy was in this nirvana of attention, I was hooked up to a machine that patiently sucked my blood out, separated the red part with a centrifuge, and then reinjected the other parts of it back in. I think they took a gallon.

While I was swooning down the hall from my recent exsanguination, on the verge of passing out, The Boy remarked how I should give blood more often.

Maybe I need to get him a VISA.