Harold Jennings stood in front of his bathroom mirror adjusting his thick- gold trimmed glasses and flattened down his collar on his silk shirt. At sixty-seven, he carried himself on being helpful and direct. The brightness in the waiting room of the clinic felt unusually quiet, all you hear is the turning of pages from an outdated magazines and the humming of the fluorescent lighting.
Harold Jennings report to room 3. Harold Jennings report to room 3. Harold stood up cleared his throat. "I'm here to donate," he shouted. Okay right this way sir in room 3 you can have seat and the doctor will be with you in a minute the nurse said. A minute later the doctor entered the room.
Good morning you are Mr. Jennings? Are you ready to donate? Harold replied, Yes ma’am I’m ready the question is are you ready. "This is like when I donate blood. The nurses does all the extraction right."
The young nurse looked confused. "Sir, this is a sperm bank."
Harold was beginning to unzipping his pants. "Yes, that's right. Im ready to give you my donation."
"Sir," she repeated, no zip your pants up, "this is not like donating blood."
A moment of silence hung between them.
"Oh," you mean y’all don’t extract I have to do it myself. The young nurse nodded yes.
An hour later, Harold dragged past the reception desk, with sweat and embarrassment on his face. The receptionist, maintaining a professional demeanor, shouted, "Thank you for coming!"
Harold nodded, avoiding eye contact, mumbling something that sounded like "Could’ve gave me a damn Gatorade" as he made his exit.
Outside, he promised to never bring up his awkward medical misadventure that had just unfolded.