A Bottle of Coke

September 19, 2005

The "headless doll" book cover I designed won Tony Pierce's contest. He very promptly sent me a congratulatory note, along with the $66.66 in prize money. I'm not sure what to do with it. The Red Cross? I decided to use it for a ticket to the Mojo Aid Hurricane Relief Benefit Concert held at Irving Plaza last night. A friend of Deborah's helped organize it and bought us two tickets. Going to a benefit on a free ticket didn't seem right, however, so I dug into the prize money to pony up the cash.

I arrived early to get the tickets and waited for Deborah to get out of work. As I waited, I watched the procedure for entering the club. Two hipster goons stood guard, checking tickets, looking inside purses and knapsacks, patting everyone down, and giving a final cursory pass with a metal detector. I saw the taller of the two hipsters reach into a girl's purse, pull out a half-empty bottle of water, and throw it in the trash without a word. I thought about all the things I had in my bag, and anticipated a scene.

While diabetes can lead to several serious complications such as blindness, impotence, kidney failure, amputation, heart attack, and stroke, until these things begin to manifest, it's mostly a condition of inconvenience. Taking several shots a day, monitoring your blood sugar levels, watching what you eat, and when you eat it, are all relatively minor things to deal with in the grand scheme of things. Unfortunately, it's not always easy to maintain such a detached perspective.

Deborah finally arrived, and we headed into the club. "Open your bags," the tall hipster commanded.

"I'm diabetic," I explained as I opened mine to reveal syringes, insulin vials, a blood monitoring test kit, and a bottle of Coke that I always carry in case of an insulin reaction. (A sudden, sometimes dangerous, drop in blood sugar that, if left untreated, can lead to coma or death.) If I ever get stuck in an elevator or the subway for some reason, that bottle of Coke might save my life. "I know you're not going to let me bring the Coke inside," I said, "But I'm diabetic, and I only keep it for emergencies. If I could—"

He plucked out the bottle and dropped it in the trash.

"He's diabetic," Deborah argued. "He might need that."

The guy shrugged dumbly, not understanding the condition or what a Coke could possibly have to do with it. "You can drink it now if you want," he said.

"I can't drink it now," I said. "Hopefully, I won't have to drink it at all. It's only in case of emergency."

"Sorry," the guy shrugged. "No bottles allowed. You can buy things inside."

Of course, everything I could buy inside came in bottles--like the eight-ounce bottles of official Irving Plaza brand water they were selling for two dollars. It might've been a benefit, but the club wasn't about to let that stand in the way of making a little money. They don't call it the music business for nothing, you know.

The chances of me having a sudden insulin reaction were slim, and even if I did, I'd likely be able to fight my way through the crowd and make a scene at the bar in time to get it taken care of. But the fact that the club chose to make a couple of dollars over my safety left me bitter. Trying to explain my condition to someone with no authority to make exceptions was going nowhere, however, and it wasn't worth the hassle of taking it any further. I let it go and went inside.

Farther inside, a woman stopped me. "You're going to have to check your bag," she said.

I tried to understand the logic of throwing away the bottle of Coke if they were going to make me check my bag anyway.

"I'm diabetic," I explained. "I have insulin and stuff in here. Can't I keep it with me?"

"Okay, but have her carry it," she said, pointing at Deborah, "or else you'll have to check it."

I handed the bag to Deborah. "I guess girls are allowed to carry bags, but guys aren't," I said.

I was resigned, but Deborah was agitated. "I'm furious," she said. "You should sue this fucking place. I'm allowed to carry lipstick, but you're not allowed to carry medical supplies? Give me a fucking break."

"Whatever," I said. "It's just the way it goes."

"And since when are doormen allowed to rifle through your personal belongings, pull things out, and throw them away? It's ridiculous. It makes me hate this place. It makes me hate New York. Those clueless hipsters at the door—ugh—it makes me so angry."

"Well, maybe I'll get lucky," I said. "Maybe I'll pass out and have to go to the hospital. Then I'll sue them."

We laughed at the absurdity of it all, and fantasized about how we'd spend the settlement money, until the lights went down and the show began.

Needless to say, I made it through the show without incident, replaced the emergency sugar supply after the show, and life goes on.

Other than to say it was long, and we called it quits after three and a half hours, I won't review the show. After all, it was a benefit. I'm not about to pick apart performances by people who are just trying to do something good. "Sometimes," one of the performers said, "You feel like an asshole because this is all you can do. But you know, you do what you can do, and at least it's something. Thanks for meeting us halfway."

Don't mention it.