The Beard 2.hro

It was the smell before anything. Salted air mixed with wildflowers and beach grass pulled Hereward Draper to consciousness by the nose. His eyes adjusted slow to the just-past-sunrise light off the water. For a moment, he thought he could make out a large, translucent shape in the distance. Something mostly ovate but with parts that flowed forth like falling water made solid. But as his eyes adjusted, the shape was lost and barely a memory.

A few days ago, Hereward tried to sell his plasma for cash for another tattoo, and if he traded Esther some old 70s comics, a taxidermied bobcat, and a switchblade with “Cool Breeze” engraved in the handle that he knocked off a gutter punk mean on a meth and mescaline cocktail, Esther would probably let him keep most of the money depending on the piece. The rest he could blow on smokes and food, maybe a day drunk for his friends, and some left over to kick to whomever was letting him stay on their floor or couch or in their car for the night. All of these divisions of funds disintegrated, though, when the nurse returned to tell him that they wouldn’t be able to accept his plasma. There was a discrepancy in the blood test. They weren’t sure of the cause, just that it didn’t meet required standards.

Disappointment trickled down his face, through his spine, and washed over him in a familiar panic. It was the first time Hereward had tried selling his plasma. He thought it’d be simple, but now he’d have to re-prioritize and spend his energies figuring out how to get at least enough money for a little food and some thanks for crashing wherever he’d end up crashing. At least he knew the discrepancy.