before you possibly donate today, tomorrow, the remaining days of this week on campus, or maybe regularly in your future.’
The main door opens and light streams into the dark lecture hall. Justin Hitchcock enters, the concentration on his face illuminated by the white light of the projector. Under one arm are multiple piles of folders, each one slipping by the second. A knee shoots up to hoist them back in place. His right hand carries both an overstuffed briefcase and a dangerously balanced Styrofoam cup of coffee. He slowly lowers his hovering foot down to the floor, as though performing a t’ai chi move, and a relieved smile creeps onto his face as calm is restored. Somebody sniggers and the balancing act is once again compromised.
Hold it, Justin. Move your eyes away from the cup and assess the situation. Woman on podium, five hundred kids. All staring at you. Say something. Something intelligent.
‘I’m confused,’ he announces to the darkness, behind which he senses some sort of life form. There are twitters in the room and he feels all eyes on him as he moves back towards the door to check the number.
Don’t spill the coffee. Don’t spill the damn coffee.
He opens the door, allowing shafts of light to sneak in again and the students in its line shade their eyes.
Twitter, twitter, nothing funnier than a lost man.
Laden down with items, he manages to hold the door open with his leg. He looks back to the number on the outside of the door and then back to his sheet, the sheet that, if he doesn’t grab it that very second, will float to the ground. He makes a move to grab it. Wrong hand. Styrofoam cup of coffee falls to the ground. Closely followed by sheet of paper.
Damn it! There they go again, twitter, twitter. Nothing funnier than a lost man who’s spilled his coffee and dropped his schedule.
‘Can I help you?’ The lecturer steps down from the podium.
Justin brings his entire body back into the classroom and darkness resumes.
‘Well, it says here … well, it said there,’ he nods his head towards the sodden sheet on the ground, ‘that I have a class here now.’
‘Enrolment for international students is in the exam hall.’
He frowns. ‘No, I—’
‘I’m sorry.’ She comes closer. ‘I thought I heard an American accent.’ She picks up the Styrofoam cup and throws it into the bin, over which a sign reads ‘No Drinks Allowed’.
‘Ah … oh … sorry about that.’
‘Mature students are next door.’ She adds in a whisper, ‘Trust me, you don’t want to join this class.’
Justin clears his throat and corrects his posture, tucking the folders tighter under his arm. ‘Actually I’m lecturing the History of Art and Architecture class.’
‘You’re lecturing?’
‘Guest lecturing. Believe it or not.’ He blows his hair up from his sticky forehead. A haircut, remember to get a haircut. There they go again, twitter, twitter. A lost lecturer, who’s spilled his coffee, dropped his schedule, is about to lose his folders and needs a haircut. Definitely nothing funnier.
‘Professor Hitchcock?’
‘That’s me.’ He feels the folders slipping from under his arm.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ she whispers. ‘I didn’t know …’ She catches a folder for him. ‘I’m Dr Sarah Fields from the IBTS. The Faculty told me that I could have a half-hour with the students before your lecture, your permission pending, of course.’
‘Oh, well, nobody informed me of that, but that’s no problemo.’ Problemo? He shakes his head at himself and makes for the door. Starbucks, here I come.
‘Professor Hitchcock?’
He stops at the door. ‘Yes.’
‘Would you like to join us?’
I most certainly would not. There’s a cappuccino and cinnamon muffin with my name on them. No. Just say no.
‘Um … nn–es.’ Nes? ‘I mean yes.’
Twitter, twitter, twitter. Lecturer caught out. Forced into doing something he clearly didn’t want to do by attractive young woman in white coat claiming to be a doctor of an unfamiliar initialised organisation.
‘Great. Welcome.’ She places the folders back under his arm and returns to the podium to address the students.
‘OK, attention, everybody. Back to the initial question of blood quantities. A car accident victim may require up to thirty units of blood. A bleeding ulcer could require anything between three and thirty units of blood. A coronary artery bypass may use between one and five units of blood. It varies, but with such quantities needed, now you see why we always want donors.’
Justin takes a seat in the front row and listens with horror to the discussion he’s joined.
‘Does anybody have any questions?’
Can you change the subject?
‘Do you get paid for giving blood?’
More laughs.
‘Not in this country, I’m afraid.’
‘Does the person who is given blood know who their donor is?’
‘Donations are usually anonymous to the recipient but products in a blood bank are always individually traceable through the cycle of donation, testing, separation into components, storage and administration to the recipient.’
‘Can anyone give blood?’
‘Good question. I have a list here of contraindications to being a blood donor. Please all study it carefully and take notes if you wish.’ Dr Fields places her sheet under the projector and her white coat lights up with a rather graphic picture of someone in dire need of a donation. She steps away and instead it fills the screen on the wall.
People groan and the word ‘gross’ travels around the tiered seating like a Mexican wave. Twice by Justin. Dizziness overtakes him and he averts his eyes from the image.
‘Oops, wrong sheet,’ Dr Fields says cheekily, slowly replacing it with the promised list.
Justin searches with great hope for needle or blood phobia in an effort to eliminate himself as a possible blood donor. No such luck – not that it mattered, as the chances of him donating a drop of blood to anyone are as rare as ideas in the morning.
‘Too bad, Dover.’ Another scrunched ball of paper goes flying from the back of the hall to hit Ben’s head again. ‘Gay people can’t donate.’
Ben coolly raises two fingers in the air.
‘That’s discriminatory,’ one girl calls out.
‘It is also a discussion for another day,’ Dr Fields responds, moving on. ‘Remember, your body will replace the liquid part of the donation within twenty-four hours. With a unit of blood at almost a pint and everyone having eight to twelve pints of blood in their body, the average person can easily spare giving one.’
Pockets of juvenile laughter at the innuendo.
‘Everybody, please.’ Dr Fields claps her hands, trying desperately to get attention. ‘Blood For Life Week is all about education as much as donation. It’s all well and good that we can have a laugh and a joke but at this time I think it’s important to note the fact that someone’s life, be it woman, man or child, could be depending on you right now.’
How quickly silence falls upon the class. Even Justin stops talking to himself.