Erik Houdini's 2023 essay reveals the blood based economy that powers neoliberalism, by literally draining the most impoverished of their life force for extreme profit.
It's 4am and the sharp, siren sound of my alarm jolts me out of sleep, the loudest alarm setting, the sounds of a tornado warning, the 4:05am alarm following it, making sure that I don't miss my appointment with Dracula. The rude awakening gives way to the echo of dread that soon settles the same as the dirt on the unswept floor. We're giving plasma today. Days like today have a rhythm, a pattern. A 4 am wake-up call leads to a 5:30 am line-up. A 5:30 line up leads to a 6am processing for a 7am 'donation'. And believe me, it's no short queue. It snakes long and weary because you must be there early; by sunrise, to get processed in a reasonable time. Come later, and expect the to be in the line for hours. It's early dawn and the strip mall donation center becomes a hive of human desperation. By opening time, the long line stands testament to many like me. Our shadows, intertwined, cast a dark silhouette on the neoliberalism's humanist facade.
The preparation ritual begins the night before. Forget about sports drinks, think about it it. A Gatorade will run you $4.69, you'd need two, maybe three to match the hydration. That's half the money you're making with your blood. So, if you're in this line, it's the mineral taste of tap water for you. It's relentless, unyielding, with a hard, metallic throat-feel; a reminder of the urban reality. Anything less than a gallon, and you might as well bid goodbye to the blood's flow, and consequently, the money’s flow. You see, this game is about fluid dynamics: the swift flow of blood is directly proportional to the brisk flow of cash. 'Donating' while being dehydrated can be slow, and even painful.
Oh, the shambling. That barren strip mall parking lot, shrouded in the early morning's shadowy embrace, it could be anywhere in America. This is our urban design, how we build out the sprawl of blight in tribute of our car company owning overlords. The landscape tells the story of the extraction. The parking lots the same as the dire-earth left from mining operations. You’d be hard-pressed to find a park where families could relax or children could play— at least not within easy walking distance. However, two plasma clinics? They stood sentinel, right across from one another in some cases, strategically embedded in the heart of strip malls. These malls, with their vast expanses of black tar parking lots, mirrored the desolation of the people the were designed to extract from. Spaces built for profit, not people.
That shambling created a unforgettable tune, the melancholic shuffle of my fellow line-dwellers, each foot in front of the other, moving closer to the door with each "Next!" from the nurse. Those steps resonated with the raw, haunting tune of the downtrodden. Among those advancing, many seemed caught in a far deeper quagmire than I. Over time, you begin to notice. There's no monitoring, no oversight, just a vast gray area where souls tread too often. They have two plasma centers within walking distance of each other. There is no database, no way for the opposing clinic to know they've doubled up. It shows in the weight in their eyes— their pale complexions and gaunt features are telltale signs of over-donation, of desperation pushing the limits of the human body. Vulnerable and overdrawn, their stories seemed written in the weary drag of their feet.
As for me? I a member of that grim club, just newer, just less extracted from, the veins still holding the red gold of blood. My arms had begun to bare the telltale signs, the scars, the tracks. The ceaseless battle to switch arms, to reduce the marks, haunted me just as it did the rest of the shambling cohort. My unemployment, like a specter, shadowed me with every step. How can I pay my existence fees without employment? Plasma donation became more than a choice; it was a forced necessity. Bills, like unwanted visitors, keep coming even if the paychecks don't. We are born to an society that demands we pay a fee for existence. Monthly rent, weekly rent, sometimes daily rent. But let someone see those needle marks, and instantly, you're labeled. No one ever guesses, "Ah, he's just donating plasma." Each donation contributed to the building of the tracks, accusatory marks that can take months to fade.
Inside, the ambiance hits you differently. The "clinic,": if one could even call it that, is unsettling in its sterility. Surreal. Baked in LED light that blinds when paired with pristine white tiles, ceilings and polished floors to match. Walls punctuated with garish stock photos—blatant propaganda. Slogans like "Donate 2 times a week for 6 weeks to get an extra $50!" or "Be a Hero, Donate Regularly" paired with idyllic snapshots of familial bonds or valorous acts. You've got your “hero” firefighters and the suburban dads, blaring messages about the 'nobility' of 'donating'. (Read: Becoming a blood extraction unit). It’s laughable. Fewer words mean less than the word "Hero" after the COVID pandemic. "Hero" meaning, someone who works a minimum wage 'essential' survival job, risking their health so their bosses can continue to profit. A label given by the boss to keep the worker from thinking about why a Burger King worker has to work during a global pandemic.
The extraction chamber was a modern-day Frankenstein's laboratory; medieval stone walls and electrical switches replaced by a monochrome palette of polished white with splashes of stock photo pseudo-vibrancy. A commodified space where liquid gold is drawn from the desperate to line the pockets of the indifferent.
I've given blood. That’s a different ballgame, rooted in altruism. But plasma? That’s commerce. There's a reason schools or churches don’t host plasma drives. With plasma, the transaction is transparent. The stark difference? The payment, the $35 you clutch tightly as you exit, knowing it’s a lifeline. You aren’t there for lofty ideals; you're there because you're hungry and you need food. You know you need food because you're leaving the plasma center lightheaded, the world spinning. Breakfast has long been removed from the schedule, a cost saving measure. Plasma donation isn't about saving someone else’s life; it's about saving your own.
Your smartphone becomes a sanctuary here. An escape from the unsettling hum of machines and the weight of your own thoughts. But I learned the hard way. With a dead phone and nothing but the white void and the infernal rhythm of the machines, one’s mind can spiral into unsettling territories.
Mistakes were inevitable, and perhaps, even predictable given the circumstances. Picture the scene: staff, underpaid and overstressed, wrestling with responsibilities far beyond their pay grade. On inquiring, I discovered the unsettling truth: a measly $13 an hour. This was no ordinary job, no run-of-the-mill 9-to-5. In this role, tasks tiptoed the grotesque boundary between life and commerce. These women are prodding needles, checking machines, dealing with bodily fluids, doing physicals, processing hundreds of people a day. The facility, perpetually awash with the desperate hum of activity, was chronically understaffed. A cost saving measure designed to maximize profits made from the veins. 35 machines in a room. 3 workers.
It must be a delicate balance, each attendant caught between the needs of donors in line and the machine-bound "customers" awaiting their turn. They danced to a harrowing symphony—blood for cash, cash for blood. Let's do the napkin math: A vial of plasma is sold for $300 to $800 dollars depending on the market. So let's take the high end of that. $800 per person drained. 50 machines, about an hour per session. The plasma center is making about $25,000 an hour. The center is open 12 hours per day. $300,000 before upkeep, rent and other expenses are factored. Each attendant makes $13 an hour. 2 shifts of 3 nurses each. 6 hour shifts. Each shift, they'll make $78 before taxes. Collectively the nurses will make $468 each day. Each donor is paid $30. These plasma centers are some of the most lucrative businesses, raw extraction from human material.
The life essence of the downtrodden, is being syphoned to swell the coffers of those seated comfortably atop the socioeconomic pyramid. There's a certain grotesquery to the impoverished drawing from their peers, a relentless cycle of taking from those with little to give, only to enrich the already affluent. The real vampires don't reside in the place they fed from. The donors aren't the only poor here; the poor were also the very hands that facilitated the extraction of the material. They are miners poorly paid to operate machinery.
Those at the top reaping the benefits of this sanguineous exchange, while those at the bottom traded in plasma pints and pennies. Recalling one episode where a mistake led to a ballooning blood pouch, a vein missed. A machine pumping without the ability to know it is causing such pain. A man screaming, his body begging for the tube to be removed. I can still hear the rising shouts of panic, the stunned expressions of horrified onlookers as the blood pocket emptied onto the chair, crimson hues painting the sterile navy blue chair. That moment, juxtaposed against the constant hum of machinery, continues to echo in my memories, the machines analogous to the systems that force us into into the position to be mined from. Without emotion, without empathy. Those droning plasmatic extractors, ever indifferent, standing in stark contrast to the very human drama unfolding before them like a backdrop to a theater of blood. The eyes of the stock image characters, the heroes fighting fires, looking out with a cold, barren stare. It's an image that refuses to fade, a chilling reminder of the risks taken, prices paid.
Over the weeks and months, as the routine of donation became almost second nature, a chilling insight began to take root. Observe the locations of these “donation” centers and you'll find a chilling pattern. In the rich neighborhood, the parking lots are replaced by public parks. The blood fracking operations are targeted, specific. Plasma centers are strategically sprouted in the more deprived areas, akin to wolves settling around the periphery of a wounded herd. In the poor neighborhood, the plasma center is down the block.
The barren landscape of the strip mall parking lot, with it's pawn shop, it's smoke shop and decaying, empty shops would slowly awaken with the rising sun, but for those of us departing with bandaged arms and a slightly lighter step, the world felt a shade heavier. The $35 would be spent at the local grocery—bread, milk, overly processed lunch meat, a pack of cigarettes to keep the hunger at bay. Basic survival. It was a journey from the cold vinyl bed of the clinic to the grocery store, walking lightheaded, the sidewalks spinning. The sun felt hotter on that walk. The cars passing by felt that much more indifferent, separated. Even the grocery store itself was decaying, inflated process, overly processed goods, and the type of selection you'd expect from a 'Food Mart' corner store. Each shambling step a testament to the extreme lengths one might go to in order to simply get by under neoliberalism. Under a system that has turned everything, even the blood flowing in our veins, into a transaction point.
We, the donors, the shamblers, our shuffling shadows navigating the grey-blacktop of life under capitalism, find ourselves entwined in this dance of exploitation, orchestrated by the neoliberal extraction machine. Trading our very essence, drop by precious drop, for the basics to survive another day. For the hope of being able to pay our existence fee. Some will donate again tomorrow, at the other center, in the other strip mall, pushing their body beyond it's natural limit. The modern America, a landscape where our desperation becomes a resource, our literal organism vitality commodified. With every exit from these centers, $35 richer but unmistakably drained, the shambler is compelled to reflect: Have we invited the Nosferatus into our proverbial home? Allowing our spaces of potential community to become the puncture point of the neck? It is an unsettling ballet with modern-day vampires, human existence under capitalism. We must continuously question our role and the price of the dance. How long until we must force the curtains closed?
