Everybody Bleeds

In my job as a legal secretary, I sit in a cubicle in a busy hallway with three low walls separating me from the general population. Everything I do can be seen by others; everything I say can be heard by others. I am regularly interrupted by people who are lost, looking for someone; people who don't know how to use something or get something or find something. Not until tonight, however, have I had anyone come to me and ask for two rubber bands to stop their bleeding.

This evening the attorney I work for returned to the office with his client and three other men from an all-day off-site meeting. They retired to a conference room near my desk, when the client pulled off his jacket and discovered that his arm had been bleeding and his sleeve was bright red and soaked. He explained to the other men that he had hurt himself the day before. My boss, not wanting to interrupt the meeting, directed him to me for help.

The plan seemed to be to put the bands around the two already blood-soaked bandages, thereby arresting the flow. I suggested we instead look for the first-aid kit in the kitchen. Once there, the client peeled off the two old bandages and tossed them onto the counter. I fumbled in the cabinet and came up with some teeny little band-aids that were definitely not up to the task. The client's partner suggested we use paper towels to wrap around the arm, attaching the paper with the rubber bands. It was clear that they expected me to perform this operation. I excused myself and went off to find a more comprehensive first-aid kit.

Meanwhile, the client and his partner returned to the conference room with the paper towel/rubber band contraption they had put together themselves. The meeting, of course, was continuing without interruption. I soon located a proper first-aid kit and returned to the conference room, Della Street transformed into Florence Nightingale. While the men went on talking about charts, discount mortgage rates, and gazillions of dollars, I applied three large gauze pads and medical adhesive tape around the arm. At one point, the client looked up into my eyes much like a wounded, grateful child. I gave him some extra pads and tape to take with him for later in the evening, patted him on the arm, and left them to their meeting.

There are so many things wrong with this scenario tonight that I'm exhausted trying to sort it all out. I'm embarrassed for these men as much as appalled by them -- five highly educated multi-millionaires -- children really, who turn to the nearest female for the common sense and compassion they so hideously lack. Men already bled dry of consideration for one another or others they expect so much of. I shake my head and wish I could move on, and forget it ever happened.