Back in the late 90s, when Louis was a fresh-faced pup out of high-school and entering the big, mean ol’ real world, one of the quickest ways to earn a couple of bucks for an impromptu date night, an evening of much-needed laundry or just something to eat other than Ramen, was to sell plasma at the Centeon donation center up on NW 23rd Street.
For about an hour’s worth of work—usually reading a book or watching a VHS copy of Major Payne—you could walk away with a cool $25 and only a slight case of Hepatitis A. Because banks were for rich white people, the only place to cash the dot-matrix printed blood money was at the run-down Asian convenience store up the block or across the street at the friendly neighborhood Church’s (with a meal purchase).