The Best Pickup Line, EVER

This morning at the patchouli-smelling hippy food co-op, I found myself STARING at the bulk chocolate items. My eyes honed in on chocolate-dipped crystalized ginger, but were also cognizant of a toothsome man hovering behind me to my left.
He said, “Do you like chocolate?”
I said, “I haven’t had any in days, and I’m fixated.”
Several moments later, he uttered, “Do you live in Ashland?”
“No, Medford.”
“I’m new to the area.”
“Where from?”
“The East Coast.”
“Where on the East Coast?”
“New Jersey.”
“Where in New Jersey?”
“Why, do you know the area?”
“Sure, I’ve been through a couple times.”
“Ok. Englewood.”
“Close to the city. So why did you move here?”
“Just to move. Isn’t it okay to just pick up and move?”
“Yes, I do it all the time.”
“What do you do?”
“You mean as a profession?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m a travel nurse.”
“That’s funny, because I need a nurse.”
“What for?”
“No, nothing. Um. Well, really, I really do need a nurse, actually. I need to have medicine transfused twice a month.”

This is the gist of the beginning of a very odd conversation. Because it was so odd – and I haven’t been so uncomfortable in quite a while – I actually threw the ball in his court a couple times to give myself time to make a running inventory of myself. Toes, check. Knees, check. Underwear, check. Breathing, check. Hands, check. Purse, check. Mouth, check. I informed him that I am not insured to provide private care. Even masseuses have insurance, and should I inflict the smallest damage upon him, my pockets would never see money again. “How much is insurance?”

Anyway, he seemed to be tossing around the idea that he might not really need the transfusions any longer, as he has felt good lately. “Good,” I said, “maybe the transfusions aren’t what you need.” I mentioned my disbelief in Western medicine, the brutality of it (“Savage,” he said), how I don’t go to doctors unless they’re dentists. All we go to doctors for is a script, because there’s not much more they can offer. I’d intuited that he’s on a search for something, having travelled all over the states and to Brazil, that he has deep pockets, and that he’s terrified of dying. “I just don’t want to be a decrepid 50 year-old,” he said.

“There are people in Brazil who cut into you with their fingers and remove illness and toxins and junk.”
Guffaw. “I’ve heard about that and I think they just fold up a towel soaked with sheep blood and squeeze it as they bend their finger into your belly and then pretend to pull the towel out of you,” I replied.
“No, it’s real.”
“Gotta have really sharp fingernails or something.”
“It’s an energy healing. Thousands of people go there to be healed. They are healed of all sorts of things.”
“I believe in reiki and hypnotism and love, but that’s crazy.”
“I’ll give you the website. Check it out. It will make you a believer.”
“So, I assume you went. Are you healed?”
“I feel much better.”
“Then why do you feel you need the transfusions?”
“I’m not sure I do.”