There’s this old-head from the neighborhood named Harold, sixty-three, gray beard trimmed neat, still rocking the same Kangol he bought in ’92, rolled up to the clinic on Ford Road like it was just another Tuesday.
He had seen the flyer taped in the corner store window: “Donate Today – Help Save Lives – Quick & Easy.” Harold figured it was blood donations. This man has been giving blood since the ’80s, universal donor, proud of that shit. Felt good walking in knowing he was about to do something useful.
Harold sat in the waiting room flipping through an Essence magazine, humming some old Luther Vandross song . Nurse finally called him:
Nurse: Mr. Jennings?
He stood up smooth, no cane yet, back still straight.
Harold: Yeah, that’s me. Y’all ready for this good blood?”
The nurse led him down the hall to a little room with dim lights, a reclining chair, some magazines on a side table that definitely weren’t Jet or Ebony. Couple of plastic cups with lids stacked neat on a tray. Flat-screen on the wall paused on some menu screen.
Harold chuckled, sitting down.
Harold: Look, Y’all got the needle and the bag ready or what?”
The nurse—young, maybe thirty, scrubs tight, name tag saying “Kayla”—froze for a second, then her face did that thing where she’s trying not to laugh but also feeling sorry for you.
Nurse Kayla: “I understand that, sir, “but this is a sperm bank. It doesn’t exactly work that way.”
Harold blinked. Looked around the room again. Saw the box of tissues. The little sink. The sign on the wall that said “Please refrain from using scented lotions.” Shit clicked all at once.
“Oh Shit.”
Dead silence for a good five seconds. Kayla just stood there, polite, waiting for him to process.
Harold rubbed his beard, exhaled through his nose.
Harold: “Well… damn. My bad.”
He thought about just getting up and leaving, but hell—he was already here, pants still on, pride halfway intact. Plus, the flyer did say “quick cash for donation,” and his Social Security check was three weeks away.
Harold: “Alright, Show me how this go.”
Kayla gave him the rundown—no eye contact needed, just handle business, clean up, label the cup, drop it in the slot. She handed him a remote.
Kayla: “Whatever you need is on the menu. Take your time.”
Door clicked shut.
An hour and thirty minutes later, Harold shuffled past the reception desk, face shiny with sweat, shirt sticking to his back like he'd just run a marathon in a sauna. Man's sixty-five, knees creaking, pride leaking out every pore. Took longer than he thought—way longer—but he got the job done. Barely.
The receptionist, same young sister with the long braids and them acrylics nails looked up and hit him with that bright, trained smile.
Receptionist: "Thank you for coming, Mr. Jenkins!"
She said it loud too. Real loud. Like the whole waiting room needed to know Harold had officially come and gone.
Harold froze mid-step, felt every eye in the place looking at him. He nodded quick, eyes glued to the floor, mumbling under his breath as he pushed through the door.
Harold: "Could’ve gave me a damn Gatorade or something… shit."
Harold Stepped out into the cold December air, pulled his coat tight, and swore on everything he loved—that he would never tell a soul about the day he walked into a sperm bank thinking it was the Red Cross.
Some stories? Better left buried deeper than the sample he just dropped off.