Smuggling Blood

by Mike Gomes

  "That's okay, Sayeed, I appreciate it, and I appreciate the friendship you've shown me. You too, Joti."

  "Gabriella, make sure you get this man. I personally know of two women who have lost children to him," said Joti, walking over to Gabriella and taking her hand gently in her two hands. "Don't worry about mercy, this man's soul has no way of getting to heaven. Let him feel hell here on earth before he feels it for eternity."

  Nine

  "How are we all doing today?" asked Dr. Patel, entering the dark confines of the room. A single light sat at one end of the room hanging from the ceiling, while at the other end of the room, another unshaded light sat precariously in a lamp, giving off minimal wattage. The darkness was filled with the stench of humans not willing to care for themselves, or do what was needed to allow themselves the opportunity to move forward with their lives and take care of themselves.

  "I don't like it when my workers don't talk to me," Patel said sternly, walking over to a man slumped in a ball on the side of the floor, shivering as if he was freezing. "And what's going on with you, sir?" he asked, using his foot to kick on side of the man, looking for a reaction. "Is there anything I can do to help you today?"

  "You can give me some," said the man, lifting his head up, seeing Patel's face. "You can give me a taste. They keep telling me that I can't give blood today, but I need something. I only gave two days ago. They said I gotta wait another day."

  "And what is it that you're looking for a taste of?" Patel asked. "We have water right there on the other side of the room."

  "Doctor, you know what I'm talking about," said the man, scratching at his cheek as his head twitched quickly side to side. "I need the drugs. We had a deal. I'd give you blood. You give me drugs."

  "Sir, you understood what the rules were when you entered here," Patel informed him. "It is my understanding that when we spoke, I told you that you would only be able to give blood a certain number of times a week. And in exchange for that blood, I would help you with your addiction."

  "Yes, yes, I need help with my addiction. I need it now, but I'm going through some bad time. I'm sick, doc," the man said, trying to convince the doctor, but he was unable to pull himself out of the fetal position he was on the ground with.

  "Well, part of helping your addiction, sir, is to not give you drugs as often," Patel said calmly, still using his medical care as a mask for his true intentions. "If I were to give you drugs every single time you asked for them, it would defeat the purpose. Besides, I need your blood clean by the time we take it out. That's why you only get the drugs after. It gives us a few days to purify you a little bit."

  "Come on, doc. Stop!" The man grabbed ahold of Patel's leg and grasped it tight.

  "Unhand me, sir," Dr. Patel snapped, raising his hand to stop the security before they got to him. "Sir, if you do not unhand me now, I'll cast you to the street. Then, you can find your fix in any way you choose, but you won't be welcome here to get it from me."

  The man's hands quickly let go, releasing their grab in the hope that Patel would still give him the disease-ridden drugs that his body so desired.

  "Sir, I'm not sure if I like you for my program. Vermin don't give good blood," Dr. Patel said cruelly, stopping himself from planting his left foot hard into the ground as he drove a hard kick into the lower spine of the man. "If I have this kind of outburst from you again, or I get a report of you pushing these feelings onto any member of the staff or any of the other patients here, then I'll have you removed immediately."

  "Patients?" said the man, looking up in disbelief. "Patients are what real doctors have, Dr. Patel. Patients are people that get taken care of by their doctor, not people that are held in a slum and extorted for their blood so that you can be rich and live in a fancy house on the outskirts of town."

  "How dare you sass me," Patel growled, again driving his foot into the lower back of the man, creating a grunting and a wheezing sound that had become all too familiar to the different people that laid on the floors. "Do you still want your drugs and to be here?"

  "Yes," said the man, grunting out from the pain that was now quivering through his lower back, mixed with his withdrawal. "Please let me stay. I didn't mean it."

  "Well, I can't have you out here with everybody else. That would set a poor example. I can remember one time during my residency at the University of Massachusetts Hospital, I had a man that continually acted out. Eventually, we realized that he had schizophrenia and the only thing we could do for him during his violent states was to strap him down to the bed, and try to ease him with medication, try to help him through his difficulty," Patel mused, leaning over slightly and looking at the man. "And that's what I think I should do with you."

  Patel raised his hand again to the guards who had been waiting at a distance of twenty feet. Motioning his hand for them to come over, the three men stopped as they looked down at the patient who was suffering.

  "Gentlemen, this patient, I'm not sure of his name, he has had difficulty fitting into our system. I think the best thing for him would be to spend some time alone over in the other room," Patel instructed them. "Is that clear?"

  "No, I don't want to go to the other room," the man groaned, turning himself on his back, looking up with his eyes fully widened as if he had heard the horrors of what his life was yet to come. "I'm calm, I'm peaceful, I don't want any trouble. Just let me stay where I am. I don't need to go to the other room. People don't come back from the other room."

  "Gentlemen, he may put up a small struggle with you, but I understand that you need to do what you need to do to get someone to the place where we need them." Dr. Patel paused briefly, before looking again to the man on the floor, and saying, "And maybe people don't come back from the other room because they get better."

  "I don't think dead's better," the man bit out, looking Patel directly in the eyes as two of the men grabbed hard under his shoulders and lifted him up.

  "You don't think it's better than being dead? Well, sir, I have a hard time respecting what you think is appropriate. I also have a hard time respecting what you think is satisfying for your life. You have made a string of horrible choices that have landed you exactly where you are now, and I will not take responsibility for your failures as a man."

  "It's a disease," said the man, begging as he was being dragged from the spot he was in, his feet pulling across the ground, creating a small groove in the dirt.

  "Hold him right there for a moment," Patel barked at the guards. "Sir, what you have done is a choice. It's not a disease like so many people say. Nobody made you pick up a drug. Nobody forced you to do this to yourself, and for you to now act like I should be casting mercy upon you for your dreaded decisions, is laughable. Take him to the cage and keep him in there as long as I say."

  Heads from around the room popped up as the words left Patel's mouth, admitting that the other room held cages. Not that the room he currently stood in was much better, but at least the people had the opportunity to move around. The other room held pain and suffering that could be heard through the wall, and a lack of treatment of any kind other than milking them for their blood every other day, all the while not supplying them with the drugs that they so desperately wanted.

  "Do the rest of you see this?" Patel shouted, as the screaming man was dragged through the doorway and the door slammed behind them. "I hope you all saw that, I hope you all have got a good idea about what can happen if you're not respectful, if you're somebody that decides to go their own way and not follow the rules that we've set in place for all of us."

  Walking his way down the line of bodies that sat in a huddled mass, the change over from suffering and pain to patients now delighted with the drugs that had entered their body was apparent, much like the changing of the tide and the marks of the water it made moving in and out.

  "You all know you're a collection of junkies." Patel folded his arms in front of him, shaking his head in disgust at the drug addicts that heard no words from him, or
anything else for that matter. Their glaze into their addiction was in full swing from giving their blood that day and getting their fix. "I must say that I give a better chance to you folks than anywhere else out there. The others think the way to treat you is with this 12-step program. Maybe put you on Suboxone or something else that imitates the feelings of the drugs you want. But what I do for you, is I move you along slowly. And do I charge you anything? No, I don't. Not a dime. The only thing I ask of you is to voluntarily give your blood. To sign the waiver form that said that this is of your own accord. I offer you a place to stay here rather than on the streets, and this man gave me the attitude and the aggravation he did. It's disgraceful." He turned, moving over to the table where one of the inhabitants was currently giving their blood as their body shook uncontrollably.

  "How about you, ma'am? Do you like it here?" Patel asked, leaning into the woman whose arms were covered with tracks from needles going in and out both, from her drug addiction and giving blood. "What is it that we help you with? Is it heroin?"

  "Yes... Yes, sir. Heroin," said the woman with a hoarse voice. "You won't get any problem from me. I realize what you're helping me with."

  "That's what I like to hear from somebody. Somebody that understands my commitment to you." Dr. Patel looked at the young man who served as a phlebotomist, but had no training. "Young man, if you could, make sure you leave the port in her arm, if it's heroin that she deals with, we may as well just give it to her through the same port as we do for taking her blood. There's no need to change it each time, we can't go through that many materials."

  "Thank you, sir. And if there's anything I can do for you, please let me know," the woman said. "I'd do anything for you so I can stay here, you just have to tell me what to do."

  "Young lady, you sound like you're talking about sex." Dr. Patel leaned into her, placing a hand on her shoulder. "I can assure you that none of that goes on here. I know on the streets that trading sex and other perversion for drugs is commonplace. But that doesn't happen here. That's not acceptable. And if I were ever to find out that one of my employees were doing that, they would be struck down and placed in prison before you could say anything. You will all be protected from that. All I ask is your donation of blood, and then we all win, we all live a better life."

  "Thank you, sir. Thank you so much for taking care of me," the woman said, bowing her head as a rumble of others gave their thanks at the same time. A thanks that was given not with enthusiasm and love, but out of fear that the man may take away the only thing that let them maintain their addictions. A man who they knew needed to maintain the false identity of his practice of medicine in order to ease his mind on what he had become.

  "This is why I like to come down here. You people are always so friendly. I make sure to not let that one bad apple spoil what the rest of you are, and how friendly and delightful you are. Have no fear, we'll continue to work on your addiction and help you to get better."

  Shifting and turning to the guards, Patel walked over, huddling himself with them closely. "Make sure the kid taking the blood doesn't keep using so many supplies. That stuff doesn't grow on trees, and we need to maintain as much of it as possible. Nobody gets a changeout unless it breaks or there's a problem. Let them keep the ports in their arm. They're not going anywhere," Patel said, looking at the guards, who nodded in affirmation, for the words he had said. Patel then turned to again address the room.

  "Ladies and gentleman, I have to leave you now, but I have asked the guards to make sure that they bring in some food for all of you. I have just received a basket of fruit as a thank you from one of my patients. I'll have it brought down for you, many oranges, apples, bananas, pears, good vitamins to help you in your recovery. And that's what we're all about here, helping you get back to a healthy way of life. Just always remember, your healthy way of life is in my hands, and I take that very, very seriously."

  Ten

  Jay Chatterjee had left his home, closing the door behind him, frustrated with his wife's unwillingness to understand the pain he was in over the loss of their child. Looking down the street, his eyes saddened and his heart dropped watching the young kids playing football in the street, where his son had once joined them in playful afternoons as the sun went down.

  Turning away and placing his hands into his pockets, he strolled down the street, rarely removing his eyes from the ground in front of him. His mind flashed with images of his son, only to be brought back down again by the deepening and saddening feeling that he would no longer ever get to hold the boy, to listen to his laugh, or to talk to him about his latest and favorite show. The days of sitting on the sofa having his son cuddled up next to him, enjoying one of the many movies that took place in the land of cartoons, making the boy's smile broader and brighter than it ever had been before. It was now gone, gone forever, and only a memory of them held anything to the man, but at this point, those feelings were of sadness and longing and had not yet crossed over to good memories of the boy he loved.

  "A gun is what I need," Jay said, cracking his fingers and looking down the road that led to the local district police office.

  Making the turn, he walked his way up knowing the only way to secure a firearm in India was through your local district police. But he needed to have a reason why, why would he be in search of such a weapon, and why would the police be willing to let him have it. Any weapon would most certainly be traced back to him if there was a death to Patel or his family. Despite the strict gun laws and the few homicides that existed, 0% of those homicides were committed by gun, making Jay's job all the harder.

  Jay walked to the bottom of the stairs of the police station, the stairway was wide and able to accommodate dozens of people at a time. The steps were wider at the bottom, funneling up closer as they got to the door that felt as if it was a story higher than the ground level on the street. Due to the time of day, police officers ranged in and out, as well as civilians, all looking for some help or being able to provide it to others.

  Traversing the steps, Jay got to the top, opened the door and walked in, finding a long counter with several officers standing behind it, smiling and waiting to take the next person and hear the issue they needed to speak about.

  "Next please, sir, that's you," said the woman dressed in the police officer's outfit and waving Jay over.

  "Hello, ma'am," he said, trying to make eye contact, but feeling as if he also needed to look away, and that what he was doing was dirty. "I was wondering if I could get some help from you."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you for coming," she said politely. "My name is Officer Sufi."

  "It's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am. Please call me by my first name, Jay." He nodded his head profusely and rubbed his hands slightly together at the fingertips, unsure what to do with his body in this situation. He knew that she didn't know what was going through his mind, but he still felt as if murder sat on his face, and that everybody could see it.

  "So how can I help you, Jay? If you need any forms, I can direct you if there's been a traffic accident," the officer said as she pointed over to a rack that held dozens of groupings of papers, all designed to help people out once their car had collided with another.

  It's not that, officer. I'm coming here to ask for something that's difficult for me to say," Jay cleared his throat before continuing. "It's just that I feel like I need a gun. I never thought in my life that I'd ever say that, but I think I need one now."

  “Well, sir, I can tell you that possession of a firearm is a difficult thing to get in India, and of course, you know that. We have extremely strict laws, and if you are given a gun, you know that we do the periodic bullet check to make sure you still have the same number of them as you did when you first got the weapon. India doesn't take this lightly at all, sir. If there's one bullet missing, we wanna know where it is."

  "I understand that, ma'am. It's just I believe I'm in a situation now where I need this kind of help," Jay said. "Is it as simple as filling out a
form, or will I need to do more?"

  "Sir, I can tell you there's a lot more to it than that. The simple documentation that you're going to need will be extensive, probably things you don't have with you here right now. You're gonna need a copy of your ration card, you'll also need a copy of your election card. We'll need your last three years of tax returns, as well as any assessment orders. Then we're gonna need to get character certifications from the responsible citizens in your area. After that, we're gonna need a physical fitness certification, and then we're going to need proof of an educational qualification, which means you're just going to have to take a class and prove that you can go through it, and that having a gun in your possession won't be dangerous based on lack of knowledge. And then there's going to be supporting documents to justify the need for having a firearm in the first place," the woman explained, reaching below the counter and pulling up a sheet of paper that held all the things that she had just mentioned.

  "Wow, that's a lot," Jay sighed, lifting up the paper and looking at it. "I had no idea it was this extensive. I've never met anybody that's even had a gun, other than police officers."

  "Yes, well, we believe it's better to have things quite strict on the front end, and that way, we don't have to go to people and try to confiscate their guns from them," said the officer. "Now, please keep in mind, sir, it's not as if the government is trying to keep the weapons from people. We have issued many guns to the public, it's just we want to make sure that we know what they're for, and keep any illegal firearms off the street."

  "I understand that. The last thing you want is to have someone out there that's causing some kind of trouble with a gun," Jay said, thinking that his words may have given him away. The twinge he felt up inside him as the words left his mouth made him think that the officer would see right through his comments, seeing that he was a man with blood lust in his mind and revenge in his heart.