They Were Playing Freebird When They Stuck The Needle In My Arm

The Red Cross came 'round again, and they wanted blood. Dutiful citizens that we are, we schlepped down to the Community Center and bared our forearms. It was a bit like going to church, nobody quite sure what they were doing there but everyone happy to see their neighbors and feeling like they were doing something good. We all waited and waited for it to start, and then waited for it to be over. And we exchanged gossip, or, I should say, community news. One of the nurses had brought her laptop and opened up Itunes. The Muzak was a liturgy at its most twisted - white noise to distract you from what you were certain would be painful but were equally certain was something you should be doing. An intangible and unseen benefit would result, one off at a distance and in the future. A car accident? A liver transplant? Tonsils? What I'm doing is gonna help someone in an almost mythical world beyond my ken. I'm here because of a promise of an unseen reward. Several times, sitting in the waiting chair with my overactive imagination, I wanted to run screaming from the building, but knew I would never live it down. The anonymity of urban life does have its benefits - benefits not available to us bumpkins. I got moved into the donor chair, waited some more, got swabbed with some iodine, and waited some more. Skynard came on the Muzak, and my courage bolstered. Come on! my mind pleaded with the nurse. I can take that needle now, but only now! Stick me with two! Three! I'm ready! My courage will last only as long as the guitar solo, so you better get your ass in gear! She came over and unwrapped some plastic things, and then unwrapped some other plastic things. And then she had the needle in her hand. I looked away, and there it was, the slight, inconsequential ping in my arm, and the blood flowed through the tube and it was all over.
You have, like me, I know, wondered why Freebird goes on so long. You may still wonder, but as for me, I know.