If you remember, last week I was preparing for a duel over a woman. My predicted outcome: both me and my beloved comrade lying in our respective intensive care beds, as the woman over whom we unsuccessfully dueled "consulted" the on-call resident in the back of the ambulance. Actual outcome: on the way to the railroad tracks, my beloved comrade remembered the Happy Hour at The Press. In the incessant values battle between women and alcohol, the latter, as usual, won out. But such petty concerns no longer require the focus of this weathered senior; yes, this past week the possibility of a greater evil presented itself and could have spelled an end to much of the "field research" that goes into this column.

As the Russians say, "devils lurk in quiet pools," and on this fateful Thursday morning, the quiet pool in question was none other than box #619 in the Smith Campus Center mailroom. Yes, I saw the devil. I experienced the terror that is pure unadulterated fear when I inserted my key, turned, and opened.

Before I divulge the contents of mail box #619, you must first understand a little something about the neurotic East Coast personality of this Boston Jew. My paranoia is impressive. Almost anything–knocks at the door, phones ringing, black helicopters following me in the sky–leaves me paralyzed in a bizarre, pseudo-catatonic shock.

When I was actively participating in the marketing and sales divisions of the burgeoning recreational-pharmaceuticals industry, I was known from time to time to unplug all electrical apparati and lie on the floor below the window level in an attempt to evade "them." Those specific days are part of my past, but my paranoia is not. So please understand that when I reached to open my mailbox, tensions were already high.

What scared me so was a letter sent to me from the San Bernardino Blood Bank. Now, I have given blood before (not only is it a cheap high, but they give you juice and cookies too), but had never received any mail in response. I stood there, frozen. I began to reflect over all the past sexual encounters I could remember (both of them), but then I stopped and realized that those I couldn’t remember posed a significantly greater risk.

I was sure I was clean though; I mean, I felt healthy enough. Besides, I wouldn’t have given blood if I weren’t positive that there was at least a pretty good chance that I had steered clear of many of the possible dangers out there.

Sure, everyone has to lie a little bit in order to give blood (Are you giving blood for the sole purpose of getting tested for STDs? Have you ever served time in a state or federal penitentiary? Do you now or have you ever had contact with any member of Phi Delta?), but I considered these small little fibs to be innocuous. Now, I stood there staring at my fate, trembling. I’m used to such physical occurrences in the mornings, but I had a tequila sunrise with breakfast, so these tremors were most certainly from fear. And this wasn’t the little kind of fear like worrying that she might remember where you live or realizing that you intentionally gave her a fake phone number at breakfast or recognizing the salty taste of GHB. No, this fear was real, total and unmistakable.

As it turned out, the envelope simply contained a thank you note. It told me my blood type and let me know when I could next have a stranger stick a needle in my arm and remove a pint of blood, leaving me one step closer to the slow death I have contemplated on many a lonely night. Last time, I figured that since they were taking my blood, they probably could just as easily leave a little something behind. I mean hell, the needle’s already in the vein. (They were not as receptive as this wide-eyed Pomona senior could have hoped.)

So it turns out that all is well; a good thing indeed. After all, the presence of little nasties floating around my blood stream would have the possibility of hindering my game. As the Russian proverb states, "a freshman need not involve herself in suspect rendezvous." Any other news from the San Bernardino Blood-Bank could have had a disastrous effect on my conscience. I mean, just think how bad I could feel having to lie about my test results to any possible freshman. Whatever, I’ve gotten over it before.