Margen
"Morning. Fidel Arteaga, I'm here for the hundredth."
"Morning, Fidel. I'm Celsa, the unit nurse. Sit there and give me your arm."
"The left one — the right's been useless since I retired off the ambulance. Thirty-one years driving and what went on me was the shoulder, from shutting the door."
"The left one then, and roll that sleeve right up."
"..."
"Fidel. What's that?"
"A ninety-nine."
"I can see it's a ninety-nine. I'm asking you since when."
"Since Thursday."
"Since Thursday."
"I had it done to celebrate the ninety-ninth. Here, on the forearm, where it shows. I thought of it in the donation hall while I was drinking my juice. I said: when I get to a hundred I'll add the nought and it'll be a round number."
"Fidel, do you know how long you have to wait to donate after a tattoo?"
"No."
"Four months."
"..."
"Four months, Fidel. It's in the rules, and the rules are the same for everyone: tattoo, piercing, acupuncture. Four months from the needle."
"But the place was clean. Gloves, sealed ink, the lad showed me the autoclave, the pot that sterilises the needles, and everything."
"I don't care if the lad had an operating theatre. It isn't about the place, it's about the wait. Some things take a while to show up in a blood test and that's why you wait. You drove an ambulance for thirty-one years, you're not going to argue a window period with me."
"I'm not arguing."
"Right then."
"But so..."
"So you come back in February."
"Celsa, it's just that I had the hundredth planned for today. I've come with my daughter, she was going to register as a donor and watch me do the hundredth."
"Is she outside?"
"In the queue, card in hand."
"Look, that I can fix. I'll take your daughter now and the family's first donation today is hers. And you get the deferral stamp and I'm booking you for the 16th of February, which is a Tuesday, by appointment and with no queue."
"All right. Here, Celsa."
"Yes?"
"What if I have it removed?"
"Worse. The clock runs from Thursday's needle and taking anything off won't reset it."
"..."
"And don't you dare, Fidel."
"I won't. One more thing."
"Yes?"
"I'll add the nought in February, once I've actually got it."
"I'll add the nought myself, today, in marker pen, over the ninety-nine. And it'll come off with soap and water."