I left with a ray of hope that I could “plass” next month’s rent money. You’ll pass” attitude may have expressed condescension, unprofessionalism, or benevolence. Did he know how desperate I was? His “Don’t worry.

Curiously, while my examiner hurried me through the screening, he did patiently lay out the payment scheme. Plassers receive payments on a special debit card that extracts a surcharge whenever they use it. I spotted a sign: NO PAYMENT UNLESS DONATION IS COMPLETED. But I questioned its efficiency given that my examiner ran through scores of questions so fast I had to ask him to repeat himself. After the clinicians tested a blood sample for protein levels, I underwent a bare-bones medical checkup. Three times I was asked if I had lied and “really” had tattoos. I was not surprised by the many questions about my sexual behavior, but I was taken aback by repeated questions regarding tattoos. All were like me-hopeful, needy, and impatient to get paid. Easily 50 to 60 “plassers” were present at any given moment, the crowd continually ebbing and flowing. There were first-timers waiting to complete the initial medical exam, and regulars hurrying to check in at automatic computer terminals. The facility I entered buzzed like a school lunchroom. Regulars call it “plassing.” The ad I’d seen featuring smiling attendants suggested an experience similar to one at a sedate hospital. That was when I saw an ad offering $50 per plasma donation: blood money, or more specifically, payment for my time and any small pain involved in the process of having protein-rich plasma extracted from the blood. I was 48 years old, a journalist running short on cash from writing assignments and odd jobs. A clinician instructed us both to pump and relax our fists, like cows milking our own udders.īefore leaving I received a calendar that mapped out my pay, if I maintained a twice-weekly schedule for subsequent donations. “My house is so noisy with four kids so I come here for my relaxation,” said a middle-aged, haggard-looking woman on the next couch, the plasmapheresis machine at her side whirring. He separated my plasma from my whole blood into a large bottle, and returned my protein-depleted blood, which flowed back into my arm to rebuild my nutrient supply. A white-coated attendant (workers aren’t required to have medical or nursing degrees) pricked my arm. That was how I found myself laying in a plasma “donation” room filled with about 40 couches, each equipped with a blood pressure cuff and a centrifuge.

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