Bleeding out Bond.

"This always hurts more." That's what they always say. They always lie. It never hurts more. It's just their way of setting you at ease. It doesn't work--not for me. Something about lying guys in scrubs makes me more nervous, more tense, like I'm the prologue to some sinister spy movie. Thirty seconds, one jab, and a frothy mouth seizure later it's time for the opening credits. I'm dead before you even get back with the popcorn.

"What happened?"

"Nothing some extra just bit it."

"Oh, ok…"

This extra is sitting in a mini-comb at my local blood bank hive. The attendant is buzzing around, ready to prick me for an iron test. The iron's there. I let him know.

"It's there, " I assure him.

"Nice try," He hums, like I'm trying to avoid the prick, "but I have to check."

Of course he has to check. How can he take my word? Then again, he took my word on question 23, where I professed to never having sex with a heroin addict before. I'm thinking he has strange places to stick on trust.

Jab!

I barely feel it. "This always hurts more." Yeah right. The only time this ever hurts more is when the attendant thinks he needs to ram the collection vial inside the finger to collect the blood. I promise, a simple massage, I bleed out quite nicely, thank you. No need to drive the divining rod into the tip. I swear, I have blood pressure. MyEx might argue that I have no heart, but I assure you, she's only talking metaphorically.

"It looks good," He says pouring a finger jigger of blood into a blue fluid. The blood drops like it's made of…well, iron I suppose.

No, this part only hurts a little. It's the precursor of things to come. The needle gets bigger, the pain gets harder, and the stakes get higher. This is the set up. Roll title credits...

Convinced I'm safe to donate blood, he drags me into the main drip chamber. Beds, TVs, everything to make you comfortable before they--

"OW!"

"See? I told you, the iron test hurts more." He says wiggling the railroad spike in my arm. He is so wrong. He doesn't care; he doesn't see things from my perspective.

"Here, squeeze this." He hands me a heart. Not a real one, a squishy one. It's supposed to pump blood out my arm. I pretend it's his. A Mississippi flood pours through the surgical tube.

At least that's what I imagine; I never look. Ok, I did once. It looks like a violet straw leading from my arm. It's not real blood. It's all movie fiction. In this story, my character knows the straw saps life from his body to serve a greater good.

A greater good.

In real life I watch TV. It seems ironic. I'm wasting my life while they take a part of it to give to somebody else. I should be doing something. Feeding a puppy, plowing a field, flying a plane: something. I'm not. I'm lying on a Vinyl bed/couch thing doing nothing but bleeding.

The TV has Oprah. She's spewing platitudes to her book club author like he's opened a vein. He's telling her that drawing the book out, was like bleeding onto paper. Together they fill the screen with congratulatory fluid. I'm not sure, but I think it stopped being blood when he received the first royalty deposit.

"Is that a big check or are you just happy to see me?"

I'm bleeding. Nobody sees me; everybody's eyes are on Oprah, except my attendant. He's eying the pink haired girl in the lobby. I would too, but I'm too busy bleeding. He doesn't seem to notice that. I think he expects it.

"No Mr. Bond, I expect you bleed."

Bond. There's a guy who never wasted a drop of blood. Each cut bled glory for queen, country, and for whatever sexy love kitten rubbed against him the right way. Bond blood was true blood.

My flesh feels weak.

I'm at a crux without queen, country, or glory, and the only kitten rubbing me belongs to my neighbor. She'd like some cat food. I'm bleeding out, and I'm at a loss for things to be at a loss for. Nobody is watching.

All I can do is flow forward until something clicks and coagulates. The deeper the vein the longer it takes. Some times things like giving blood help heal. Other times it's a mother's kiss on an arterial gusher: It just won't scab. It just won't heal.

In medieval times people believed in bleeding as a process for healing. Leaches, blood letting, you name it. If it bled, it led the badness from your body like a panacea piper. The theory being that you were starting from scratch.

I suppose that works. Keith Richards swears by it. Then again, he swears a lot in between mumbles. He also plays a mean guitar. I don't do that. I bleed different stuff. My bloods a little thicker than water. I'd love to bleed it all out and be a new refreshed Rob, pristine and shiny like a laundry detergent ad. That's not me though. What ails me is made of thicker stuff. It's coffee grounds flushing through a cocktail straw. It ain't goin' nowhere.

I have to handle things differently. My problems require more then letting, they require unmaking. They build up and and drive out all that's clean, but when the blood runs dry there's nothing left to give.

I'm empty. It's just me and my coffee grounds and a cocktail straw. I'm not Bond. I never was. I'm McGyver. When I'm cornered I'm at my most dangerous. Especially if you've left me a cocktail straw. I suppose that makes me a little like Keith Richards too.

The trick is, it never comes easy and it never comes clean, but this is where I'm at my best: back to the wall bleeding out. I'm wounded, I'm woozy, but there's a hunger for survival, and my eyes are keen. There's only one way to go, and I'm waiting for the credits to roll. It's time.

The guy taking my blood is wrong. This part always hurts the most.