Truck versus me.

I was just now very nearly pulverized by a semi truck.

Once every two weeks I bike down to the nearest mall on my lunch break to deposit my paychecks and indulge in a Target shopping spree. It's a long but straightforward ride along a stretch of road famously thick with large trucks. There are no sidewalks for most of the way, but instead large shoulders along the side of the road, so it only looks perilous. Two years of riding a bike to work and back have taught me to be extremely vigilant when I'm out and about. Even moreso than in a car, making a mistake while on a bike can get you killed. Heck, someone else making a mistake can get you killed. So to say I'm a careful bicyclist is understating it.

Competing with motorists who make expedient left-hand turns often provides the greatest challenge. Now, we've all done this: you need to make a left-hand turn onto a sidestreet or into a parking lot. You don't have a traffic light. You see an opening and you gun it. That's what this guy in the giant white semi truck did. The difference between this truck driver and you, I should hope, is that you check for pedestrians before shooting out across three lanes of traffic.

I saw the guy there with his signal on. I saw he didn't have enough room to make a turn. I saw that I had plenty of time to cross the sidestreet in front of him. These are the split-second judgments one makes all the time while operating a vehicle. On this occasion though, I misjudged. With a roar the truck came barreling towards me.

Usually in this situation I can just maintain my speed and zoom through the road, but the semi was just too big and was traveling too fast. I would have never made it. So I cut hard right instead, forcing a breakneck U-turn and sending me tumbling through some bushes and skidding across a parking lot. Then for a few moments the only things I was aware of were the earpieces of my mp3 player, which had miraculously not fallen out during the crash.

I pushed my bike off of my face and picked myself up. My right arm and wrist were shredded by the gravelly asphalt of the parking lot. The truck was nowhere to be seen. Either the driver literally didn't see me at all, or he didn't care enough to stop and see if I was hurt. An old woman in a red Buick made a right-hand turn behind the truck. She stopped to make sure I wasn't dead, which was damned decent of her. I wasn't seriously hurt, and my bike seemed to still work.

The woman looked quite shaken. She asked if I got the license plate of the truck. When I said no, she offered to drive me down the road to find the bastard and get the number. Really, all I wanted was to get back to work and get washed up. Besides, lots of large white trucks turn down this road, and they all look the same to me.

As I brushed myself off the old lady walked back to the road where I was almost struck and retrieved my Target bag. It had been ripped off of my handlebars when I turned so harshly -- that's how close I came to being obliterated. The Nintendo DS game I just purchased was smashed, presumably by one of the truck's back tires. As she handed the bag to me, she looked white as a ghost. I thanked her for her help, assured her nothing was broken, and wished her a Happy Holidays. She did the same and then got back in her car.

And so I slinked back to the pee clinic, scraped and bruised and more than a bit shaken. Fortunately only the box of my DS game is crushed; the game itself looks fine. My injuries looked much worse on the side of the road than they do now that I've washed them out and they've stopped bleeding. This isn't the first incident I've had on my bike; it's not even the worst. But it is the first time actual human interaction was involved.

Tis the season, I suppose. And a Happy Holidays to you all from the Peemeister who, for now, is still alive.

The song on my mp3 player at the time of the incident was "Your Horoscope For Today" by Weird Al Yankovic. I don't know if that's meaningful in the great cosmic scheme of things.

End of the line.

One of the larger construction companies I deal with has an unusual method of notifying its employees of random drug testing. Rather than drawing names and giving out notices with a 24-hour timeframe attached, they hand out all the notices at once with a cut-off date on it. My speculation is that this gives people who know they can't pass a few weeks to come up clean, therefore reducing the amount of employees that have to be punished for drug use. Or they just don't want to pay employees to come take a drug test on company time... I guess I don't really know.

However, this has an obvious side-effect -- all the construction workers who get notices just wait until the last day before the cut-off before coming in. That day was yesterday.

It's 4:30pm, and there are seven gentlemen waiting in the lobby. Anyone who doesn't do their drug test today has to face the music in the morning when they go in to work. Some of these guys have to go really badly, but are waiting patiently in line for their turn. Four minutes per collection, seven collections... well, I'm already going to get out of here late. No problem, it happens.

In walks Mr. Beard, a scraggly guy wearing a sleeveless shirt bearing the name of Construction Company X, the same company all these other men are wearing. I'm busy completing the paperwork for the next person in line when Mr. Beard looks around forlornly, stomps up to the counter, and tries to get my attention.

"Excuse me, how long is the wait going to be?"

"I figure about thirty minutes."

"Don't you close at five?"

"Yeah, but I won't leave without taking care of you. Go ahead and have a seat."

"I have to be at my night job by six."

"Then I'm afraid you'll have to come back tomorrow," I reply, knowing perfectly well he's holding paperwork with a cut-off date on it.

"You don't understand," says Mr. Beard, "my boss gives me this paper to come down here, and says it has to be done by tomorrow, and you've got all these other guys in line. You have to move me ahead of them."

"You're free to discuss it with these gentlemen," I tell him. But a quick scan around the room reveals shaking, weary heads. Mr. Beard's just gonna have to wait.

I go back to do my collection and as I do I hear Mr. Beard pacing back and forth. He gets a few cups of water, of course using a new cup for each refill. He whips out a cell phone but closes it before placing a call.

Four minutes later I send the first man on his way and call out, "Who was next?"

Mr. Beard muscles in front of the elderly black gentleman who had begun to stand up.

"You need to take me ahead of these guys, man," he pleads in a voice low enough that I know he doesn't want anyone else to overhear, but loud enough that everyone does. "It's bad enough that my boss is making me do this. I mean I don't get off of work until five usually, I had to take off an hour just to come down here, and my boss isn't even paying me for it. I mean, this has to be done tomorrow. I can't lose this job and I can't be late to my other one."

I wave the black gentleman forward, double-check his ID to make sure I have the right paperwork, and reply to Mr. Beard, "Sorry, sir. Everyone has to wait their turn."

While doing one collection I like to come out and fill out the paperwork for the next person in line. It helps save everyone's time. In this case, however, it just exposes me to Mr. Beard's pleas and excuses even more. "Look, man, I'm not on probation or anything, I didn't just get out of jail, I'm not doing this for court... it's just for my job. Plus I really need to go, really bad."

"Of the gentlemen currently waiting patiently in the lobby, which of you are here from Construction Company X?"

They all nod, or grunt, or raise their hand, or otherwise affirm my question.

"And how many of you gentlemen received your notices on November 15th?"

They all nod, or grunt, or raise their hand, or otherwise affirm my question, again.

"If you get drawn again next month, sir," I tell Mr. Beard, "I suggest you come in on the 16th."

When I come back from completing my next collection, Mr. Beard is gone. I guess he really couldn't wait. I finish up the line and I'm out the door by about 5:05.

Some people just can't stand being at the end of a line.

I've waited in two-hour long lines for roller coasters. There's always this sense of relief once someone steps into the line behind me. I guess it doesn't really matter how long the line is, just as long as you aren't at the end of it.

Classic Peemeister - Free Your Mind!

Sometimes I sit down to write a Peemeister entry only to realize that nothing particularly humorous or interesting has happened recently. This problem is compounded by the fact that December is my slowest month. Of course, before I started this blog I would just post all the good pee clinic stories on my personal blog, the same one I use to whine about video games and politics and Survivor (but mostly video games). So, I dug up an old favorite from January 2005. Enjoy.

---

I think the key to doing a good job is to pretend like the well-being of the entire universe rides on your performance, and act accordingly. This is why, though most of the US populace (myself included) couldn't give two figs about drug testing, between the hours of 8am and 5pm I act like an absolutely brutal rules nazi.

I hear stories about the stuff collectors let people get away with at other offices, and I'm not having it. Nobody gets in without ID. Nobody signs without reading the form. Nobody slides by under 30 ml, and nobody gets their results before the employer gets them. My job is like an exclusive club; coming here is a privilege, not a right. It's my way or the highway, bub.

This is especially evident when people like Mr. FYM show up. FYM stands for "Free Your Mind"; that's this guy's ideology through and through. Free your mind from reason, logic, and common sense, and you'll be free of responsibility, obligation, and social mores. Because the only way to truly be free is to avoid conformity, whatever the cost.

Mr. FYM shows up and doesn't have ID. He didn't leave it at home, he says; he just doesn't have one. He says he ripped up his social security card too, and threw it away. He says carrying ID means they've got you in the machine, and he wants to remain free. I'm not making this up. He actually said "got you in the machine".

I know this fruit loop was just trying to sneak in under the rules, but the way he went on about it you'd think he was there to be my personal hippie savior. Why, he asked, do I content myself working in the endless world of the 9-to-5 grind? Why do I allow myself to be a tool of society? Why do I refuse to challenge the stuffy rules and regulations that bind me?

All this from someone trying to get a job at some roofing company.

I wasn't interested at all in having a discussion with some random nut. It was eventually understood that if he wanted to get the job, he'd come back tomorrow either with a photo ID or with his would-be supervisor in person so I could talk to him.

If I were to have gotten into a debate with Mr. FYM though, my point would have been something like this: challenging authority just for the sake of challenging authority is stupid. The vast majority of the rules we live by as a society are there for perfectly good reasons. Conformity makes my life easier. I couldn't imagine trying to live "outside the system"; I'd probably wind up like Mr. FYM: scraggly, dirty, wearing a shredded denim jacket and paper-thin blue jeans in the middle of January because I can't afford decent clothes, and desperately trying to get a job at a company that traditionally only hires folks who speak no English, and for minimum wage at that. Because I'm "in the system", and because I have a state-issued ID, and because I pay taxes and have a bank account and a Social Security Number and a credit card, I get to live in a nice comfortable apartment watching cartoons all day while drinking gallon after gallon of pre-made pre-sweetened iced tea and eating microwavable junk food, talking to people who live hundreds of miles away via the Internet about "reality" shows where people eat bugs... and all this in what is essentially perfect safety and privacy thanks to a stable government and public services like police and paramedics.

There are bad things about our government and there are bad things about our laws. It is our duty as citizens to have the wisdom to see where the bad things are and try to stamp them out. Throwing up your hands, throwing away your ID and adopting a "damn The Man" attitude simply is not an option. The sad reality of it is, for all the enlightenment Mr. FYM probably thinks he has, if he wants to pay his rent (I assume he's homeless, but I suppose we could give him the benefit of the doubt and say he's just crashing on someone's couch) he's going to have to show up at my office tomorrow along with his supervisor just to get the go-ahead from some jerk 20-something kid who plays video games all day to pee in a cup. If that isn't a kick in the head I have no idea what is.

I originally intended to follow this post up, but never did. I can't remember now whether or not Mr. FYM ever came back. Such is the fickle nature of blogging.

I'd just like to leave some information with you...

This time of year, the pee clinic sees more solicitors than actual clients. Everyone is out selling coupon books or pointless electric trinkets or is panhandling for some charity or another. I make it a point to never buy anything from solicitors whether I want what they're selling or not -- if I'm going to buy something or give to a charity, I prefer it to be on my terms so I can make an informed decision about what I'm getting and at what price. Avoiding impulse purchases is a great way to save money.

This year's batch of door-to-door salesmen is more aggressive than last year's. Many still follow the same routine of "okay you're not interested but can I leave some information with you?" All well and good; just fodder for the garbage. But a few seem to be trying new guilt-based tactics that I'm not familiar with. Little do these guys know that I am completely immune to guilt. I thought I'd share some of the more entertaining sales pitches with you.

---

A young woman walks in with a bundle of pamphlets. Before I even can say "Good morning" she introduces herself as Julie from such-and-such document company, and could she please speak to the person who handles all outgoing mail for the office?

"I don't actually have any outgoing mail."

"So you're in charge of outgoing mail?"

"Well, no. This office doesn't really mail anything."

"Is your manager here? Or is the owner in?"

"Afraid not, I'm all alone."

"Well then maybe you can help me. My company assists small businesses with outgoing mail by--"

"You're wasting your time. I don't have any outgoing mail. I handle all my business by phone and fax."

"I'd still like to go ahead and leave some information with you." She sets a pamphlet on the front counter. "Do you have a business card or something?"

"No. But like I said, I don't have need of your services anyway. I don't send outgoing mail."

"Well..." She curls up her face as she pulls the next part of her sales pitch out of her memory. "Such-and-such company also handles document shredding, it's totally secure and confidential--"

"I don't shred any documents either. Everything gets filed." I'm flipping through he pamphlet half-heartedly. Maybe I can use it as a bookmark.

"Oh. Well I'll go ahead and leave some information with you anyway..." She goes to set a second pamphlet on the counter.

"Thanks," I say, holding up my current one, "I already have one."

"Well, have a nice day then..."

"Yep, better luck next time."

---

A gentleman comes in wearing a nice but sweat-stained shirt. He's holding an armful of spray bottles and has a roll of paper towels tucked under his arm. He's obviously been out in the sun all day. (Yes, Florida still gets sun in November. And no, you really shouldn't be jealous.)

"Good morning sir, if I could just have a moment of your time I would like to tell you about this new line of cleaning supplies. Our products are completely environmentally friendly and--" He squirts some pink liquid into his mouth. "--totally non-toxic. Tell me sir, how much do you spend on cleaning supplies in a month?"

"Nothing. I get all my supplies from corporate."

He squirts pink liquid all over my already clean countertop and starts wiping it away with his paper towels as he launches into his next form of attack: "Well sir, I represent a new program aimed at helping underprivileged young men and women, and all of our non-toxic products are safe for home as well as industrial use. So tell me, sir, how much do you spend on cleaning supplies in a month at home?"

It's actually an interesting question, especially considering I'm not the cleanest of people. Most of the cleaning I do is just for the sake of personal hygiene, and my roommate ends up buying most of the stuff like laundry and dish detergent. Then, I catch myself doing the exact mental gymnastics this guy wants me to do, and instead of giving him a figure I just tell him: "Look, I'm not going to buy any cleaning supplies."

"Well sir I can certainly appreciate that, but I would like to leave behind my business card in case you stop thinking here--" He points to his head. "--and start thinking here." He points to his heart. The implication, of course, is that if I don't buy his non-toxic and apparently delicious cleaning solution, it's because I want poor and underprivileged young men and women to die in a gutter somewhere. Attempts to guilt-trip me automatically fail and trigger a sarcastic counter-attack.

"My heart pumps blood through my body," I tell him. "I don't want any cleaning stuff, and now you can leave."

He leaves his business card on the counter. I make sure he sees me throw it away. Immediately afterwards I clean the countertop with my good old Pine Sol and water solution.

---

A kid about my age pulls into the parking lot. He steps out of his car with an enormous white binder and heads off to the business on the far end of the office plaza in which I'm located. Several minutes later he appears at my door. He looks the sign up and down for a minute before deciding to come in.

"Hi," he says. "I'm looking to speak to he manager of the business, or anyone who loves great deals."

"I'll get him on the phone for you if you like," I reply. "He works over in Tampa."

"Well no problem, I'm here just to let you know of the brand new Chick-Fil-A that just opened up down the road, and to offer you some exciting new offers."

Amused that he used the word "offer" twice in rapid succession, I point out that the Chick-Fil-A "down the road" is actually about four or five miles away. It's about a fifteen minute bike ride at least, and I mention all the fast food joints between here and there. Not that I have anything against Chick-Fil-A, just that my office plaza is outside of that particular branch's sales radius.

He ignores me. "Well like I said we just opened up, and I'd like you to take a look at some of these great coupon books we have for sale, good at any Chick-Fil-A restaurant and on all menu items--"

"Wait. You're selling coupons?"

He gets a look on his face like he's just now noticing the idiocy of the situation. He tries to salvage the sale. "Well, yeah, and on most of our combo meals these coupons can save you up to 50% off the menu price which--"

"If I'm buying the coupons from you, how am I saving money? Wouldn't you just leave the coupons here, and then I could use them or not use them?"

The kid knows he has a line here and he tries to remember what it is. Why am I selling coupons... why am I selling coupons... oh yeah! "Well sir they make great gifts, this being the holiday season, and for small businesses they're a great way for small businesses to show employee incentive."

Yes, "small businesses" twice. "So that's why you'd need to speak with my manager."

"Yeah, but you could also give them to friends and family for the upcoming holiday season, and give the gift of great savings."

I have to laugh at him. I just have to. He's trying so hard. "Dude, if I gave chicken coupons to any of my friends or family, I'd get slapped in the face." I didn't mention it to him, but if I ever opened my paycheck and found a buy-one-combo-meal-get-a-free-large-Coke coupon inside for a restaurant that isn't even in walking distance of my work, I'd have to call my boss and have a firm conversation with him about what is and what isn't appropriate "incentive".

"Well sir I'm very sorry to bother you..." The kid gathers his stuff and leaves.

I guess it's my loss though. I mean, I eat at Chick-Fil-A at least once a year, and sometimes those combo meals can cost like five bucks. I'm sure everyone will be crushed come Christmas.

---

Three young girls come to the door with a basket full of flowers.

"Hi," they say in well-practiced unison. "Would you like to purchase a hand-made flower pen for three dollars to help the such-and-such church girl's soccer team?"

"Sorry girls, soccer is against my religion."

They exchanged confused glances. I can see a woman waiting for them outside with a minivan, either their mother or their youth group leader. "Our soccer team is from such-and-such church..."

"I'm sure you guys are awesome. But my religion teaches that soccer is a sin, so I can't help you. Sorry."

"Okay... have a nice day..." They slink away.

I know it's wrong to mess with kids, but it's just so easy.

I half-expect the woman to come barging in to yell at me, but she doesn't. Nor do they visit any of the other businesses in the strip, which I consider odd. They're all busier than mine, and all employ old ladies who are more susceptible to the little-kids-charity sale.

One day, those girls will be taught to use guilt as a weapon in their sales pitch. Well, either guilt or boobs. I guess it just depends on which circles they land in.

For the record, I do give to charity. Just not soccer teams or non-specific "underprivileged youths". And not for the cheesy products I'd get in return, either.

I did not "miss" the Bucs game.

Thanksgiving day, and I'm sitting in the living room with my cousin and my brother, and we're watching Titanic. Polite banter is passed back and forth about the movie. Cool special effects are pointed out. The soundtrack is made fun of. We're not watching the movie so much as using it as an excuse for conversation.

An uncle walks in the room and laments, "Oh man, I can't believe you guys aren't watching the game!"

Why on earth would I want to watch "the game" when there's a perfectly good movie on?

Quite frequently someone will come into the pee clinic and attempt to start conversation about whatever sports season it is. "Did I see last night's game?" No, I didn't. "Oh man, you missed a good one!" Can't very well miss something I didn't try to catch.

I see this hurt look in their eyes when I tell them I don't follow sports. Some people stare at me as though I'm an alien creature, altogether new and strange in a world they thought they knew. Some look as though they take offense, as though foot/base/basketball is a device that is hooked directly into their heart, and my dismissal of the practice served to interrupt the flow of blood to their brain.

Some simply don't comprehend my point at all.

"Oh, not a Bucs fan, huh?" No, not really. "Then who do you like?" What do you mean? "Which team do you like?" I don't really like any of them. "Come on, you gotta root for someone." I don't like football. "Oh. Baseball, then?"

It's not as though I have some kind of overt anti-sports agenda. I mean, I do, but I don't push it down anyone's throat. I just try to take a polite exit out of the conversation and leave it at that. Just about everyone agrees that politics and religion are off-limits as far as discussions between strangers... but apparently rejecting chitchat about sports is sacrelige.

I suppose I understand what's going on here. People want smalltalk, but they don't know me so they don't know what to talk about. This is true for everyone. That's why the first thing out of everyone's mouth when they talk to you in the line at the bank is the weather. Everyone deals with the weather. Everyone can talk about that. Even the most socially deficient rock-troglodyte can admit that, yeah, it's been pretty windy lately.

Once weather is covered (which, in Florida, means the conversation is either about how "hot" or "very hot" it is), the next logical topic is sports. That's usually the one place you can find common ground with just about anyone without offending them or making assumptions about them. I imagine when people hear "I don't like sports" something in their brain shuts down and they refuse to believe it.

People see my PS2 and ask if I picked up Madden '06 yet. "No," I reply. "I prefer to spend my money on good games." And I have to wonder what the game shelf at the guy's house looks like. Does he really just have this huge string of football games, each one slightly nicer looking than the last, with a new year tacked onto the title? How many football games do you have to watch before they all start to look the same?

When people complain about the lack of variety in my magazines (they're all sports and car magazines) I point out that I used to have subscriptions to Wired and Skeptical Inquirer and Game Informer, but people kept stealing them. So either everyone already has the most recent Sports Illustrated, or nobody cares about it enough to steal it. (I could put a joke here about the stereotypical sports fan not being able to read, but that would make me look like a real prick, so I won't.)

After Thanksgiving dinner was over and everyone kind of shuffled off into their own little clique somewhere, I peeked in on that weird old uncle I mentioned earlier. He was sitting in the living room, alone, watching his game. And they say I'm the most anti-social person in the family.

It's not that I try to avoid conversation at any cost. Just ask the guy who struck up a conversation about World of Warcraft... we must have chattered for half an hour before either of us remembered there was a drug test he was supposed to take.

And I thought it was going to be slow today.

The dirtiest man I've ever seen in my life comes stomping into my office. The soiled shirt he's wearing bears the company logo of one of my clients, and he speaks with a thick European accent that I cannot identify. He looks excrutiatingly unhappy.

"Good morn--"

"I need to see Nina."

"...who?"

"Nina."

"I don't know anyone named Nina."

"Are you Nina?"

"No."

"Go get him."

"Sir, nobody works here named Nina."

"This place... is for drug testing?"

"Yes sir."

"Go get Nina."

"Sir, I'm the only person who works in this office."

"Go get your manager."

"I'll be happy to get him on the phone for you."

"No, go get him."

"He doesn't work at this office."

"Go in the back and get him."

"Sir, there's nobody in the back."

"See that car? That car right out there?"

"The red one?"

"That is Nina's car."

"It's very nice."

"So go get Nina!"

"Sir, I don't know who Nina is. He isn't here."

"That is Nina's car!"

"I'll take your word for it."

"You drug test here?"

"Yes, I do."

"And Nina's not here?"

"No, he's not."

"But that's his car?"

"I wouldn't know."

And with that, the man slams his fist on the counter, grunts loudly, and then storms out, slamming the door.

Whomever Nina is, and wherever he's hiding, I would suggest he stays there.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone.

Flimsy little strips.

It can be uncomfortable -- even absurd -- to know that sometimes a crucial element in your life rests on something so tiny and flimsy as a temperature sticker. A piece of paper which changes color when it warms up. Essentially, a series of tiny mood rings glued to the side of a plastic cup. It's ridiculous.

But, there it is.

The job of the temperature sticker is to give a handy visual display whenever a sample is too hot or too cold. The idea is that the inside of a human body is of a certain temperature, and anything that comes out of the human body will likewise be of a similar temperature. If it's too cold, it means the sample was likely sneaked in from outside. If it's too hot, it means the cheater was at least smart enough to spin it in a microwave first.

Or, it could mean the temperature sticker is acting up.

A call from my boss. "A guy is going to come in for a DOT test. He already walked out on one collection because he says the temperature sticker was broken." That's bad news. Walking out on a DOT collection means you could lose your commercial driver's license -- and therefore your job. My boss continues: "I told him to go over there and do another collection. I don't know if it will do him any good, but it's not like he has anything to lose at this point."

Make no mistake, this guy is already screwed. That other lab, whomever they are, have to report a cold sample for any DOT collection. The specifics aren't important; basically what it means is that the lab has to file some paperwork saying that So-and-so refused to take a drug test. The cold sample will be sent to the lab and scrutinized. Maybe it's unfair, but this guy is now in so much more trouble because he tried to cheat and then refused a retest than he would be in had he just gotten caught with pot in his system.

Let me put it this way. A positive result might have gotten him fired, but he could then go find work in his field elsewhere. A refusal to test means no more license -- which means no more getting hired anywhere.

The way I understand it, when you get a commercial driver's license your name goes on a list. Your employer by federal law has to drug test half his employees every year. Now, these test results are randomly audited. If a file gets pulled and looked and it says So-and-so refused to test, that employer gets a call. If So-and-so is still working there, the employer gets slapped with a hefty fine. It's not in an employer's best interests to go to the mat for you on this, and it's been my experience that they are not sympathetic.

When So-and-so shows up, I can tell right away he's not going to try and pull anything. He's had a long conversation with my boss. He realizes exactly where he messed up and now he's got the look of a chased deer in his eyes. He asks lots and lots of questions. He asks if I think it's fair if I lose my job because of a drug test. Which, of course, I do. And anyway it doesn't apply to me. For one, I don't have a commercial driver's license and for another, I don't do drugs.

He asks lots of other things. Oh, the other guys didn't make me wash my hands before I went in. Does that invalidate the test? "Well, no. It just means different companies have different procedures."

The other guys asked for a list of medications. Why haven't you? "Well, I don't have any medical training. Maybe their collector did."

He asks if he can be present during the actual test. "You'll have to call the lab and ask them."

And finally, he asks about the flimsy temperature strips. He asks what percentage of them don't read correctly.

"Honestly," I reply, "I've never seen one not work."

And that's the truth.

Tiny, stupid little pieces of black paper. But they're perfectly reliable -- at least in my experience.

I know sometimes people come in here and break the rules. And they get away with it. And I don't mind that. But sometimes people come in and the rules break them instead. Even giving this So-and-so guy the benefit of the doubt... let's say that first strip was broken. He still walked out. He still slipped up. He's still out of luck.

He'll lose his job and probably his license, all because of a little strip of paper that changes colors when it warms up.

If you don't know the difference between a DOT drug test and a regular drug test, don't worry. That just means you probably will never have to take one.

Coffee.

First thing this morning is a phone call. It's an adventurous one. It's from Mr. Coffee.

Mr. Coffee came in for his drug test some time ago and asked lots of questions. Generally this is the sign of someone looking for a loophole to slip through. I believe in giving absolutely concise one-word answers to questions like these, and then directing them to call my bosses for more information. Questions of this nature include "Does x show up on a drug test?" where x is anything from poppyseed muffins to aspirin to coffee.

Yes, we've all seen that episode of Seinfeld. And yes, it's got some basis in fact. It is possible for perfectly normal, legal items to show up as illegal drugs on a drug test. However, if the smart scientist guy from our lab is right, it's also possible to discern the difference between an innocent bagel and black tar heroin. As a rule, no, the things you eat and drink cannot provide a false positive.

Coffee, however, will not show on a test. That's just absurd. Everyone in America would be failing every drug test they took if coffee provided a positive. Even the harshest 10-panel tests I do collections for don't look for caffeine. Heck, the amount of Pepsi I drink on a daily basis would cause me to fail my own tests if that were the case.

Nonetheless, Mr. Coffee insists that our test screwed him because he drank a lot of coffee that morning.

He begins, in his best politely annoyed voice: "Hi, this is Mr. Coffee. I was in for a test about a month ago for a job and it said I was positive."

"All the test results go back to our main office. I, in fact, never see them. You'll have to call them for more information." I begin to provide the phone number, but he cuts me off.

"Yeah, I already called them right before calling you, they said to call you since you're the one who did the test and you're the one who said coffee doesn't show up."

Coffee? Surely this gentleman is kidding.

"I find that odd, sir, as the main office doesn't open until 9:00 am, and under no circumstances would they have directed you to me." It's 8:06 am. I haven't even had my first Pepsi yet.

"But you're the guy who did my test."

"Actually, I don't do any testing here, and I never see the results. You'll have to call the main office after nine for more information."

"I read that coffee shows up on a test and I just want to know why you lied to me."

Coffee? Surely this gentleman is kidding.

"I don't know where you read that, sir, but it's false. Coffee doesn't provide a false positive. None of the tests I do here check for caffeine."

"Oh, so you do do the tests there yourself?"

Whoops. My bad.

"No, sir, I misspoke. I do only collections here, not tests. And I never see the results. And coffee does not appear on drug tests."

"I read it on the internet, and you need to stop screwing with me. I lost a job because of you!"

Internet? Obviously this clown is kidding.

"Can you tell me the address of the article?"

"What?"

"I want to read the same article you read, about coffee providing false positives on drug tests. Hold on a second, I'll open my laptop."

"I don't have time for this. I lost a job and I couldn't even get my kid a Halloween costume because your test is [expletive deleted] up and you would rather screw around on the computer than do your job."

"Once you tell me the address of the site where you found the article, I can work from the same information base as you. I expect it's from a peer-reviewed scientific journal?"

"...it was on an anti-drug test website alright? I don't have time for this, you just want to screw around. I don't believe that I lost a job and you don't even care. I should have you fired so you know how it feels."

Anti-drug test websites. Ah yes. I know them well. I wonder if he read the one that sells the dehydrated urine or the one that sells the fake penises?

"To be technical, sir, you didn't lose the job. You can't lose a job you didn't have in the first place. And I doubt I'll get fired from mine -- I don't drink coffee."

As Mr. Coffee jumps into his next string of excuses and obscenities, I watch a woman clamber up to my door from the parking lot. I have to end this phone call. And I was having such fun, too.

"Sir, I have to go. Feel free to call the main office to ask about your results and have me fired. Bye-bye."

I hang up on the guy mid-sentence.

My next free moment, I dig through my paperwork and find Mr. Coffee's collection. It was for one of my Gold Service clients, which means I have his pre-screen results sitting here. Of course, I don't have the official lab results -- just the ones from the little eyedropper kit.

Non-negative for marijuana and cocaine.

Must have been some coffee. Juan Valdez would have been proud.

I imagine if you were to inject pure caffeine directly into your blood stream, it could foul up a drug test. Of course, you'd also be too dead to care.

Backed up.

Friday before last, it's about 4:50 pm, and nature calls. My samples are already gone for the day, so I lock up and make one last use of the facilities before leaving. I go ahead and make my deposit in the porcelain throne and... it won't flush.

The toilet is completely backed up.

Fortunately the bowl isn't filling with water; I don't have a brown flood on my hands. All this situation really calls for is some handy plunger work.

It's amazing what you can learn about your workplace even after being the only living being there for two solid years. As it turns out, I don't have a plunger. Yes, my office exists as a place where the bathroom is (for the most part) the main event, and I am minus one plunger.

There are a lot of little nooks, crannies and hidey-holes in my office. Lots of unused drawers, cabinets, corners and shelves. A systematic search of the entire office is one of the first things I did upon being hired here, of course -- this was back when, even with my boss's blessing, playing Gamecube on the clock somehow felt wrong and instead I opted to clean places in the building that never even see light.

My explorations then turned up lots of neat little knick-knacks: staple-remover, blood draw supplies (including needles and latex gloves), mountains of Post-It notes, lengths of hose, paint, air filters... these things have provided me with endless entertainment on the afternoons before I managed to score internet access. Of course, at the time I was not looking for a plunger so I didn't make a note that one didn't exist.

About this time (now after 5:00) my only real course of action is to call my bosses and let them know we have a serious plunger emergency. However, their office doesn't allow incoming phone calls after 5pm.

The grim reality of it hits me: I have no choice but to let this festering pile of ick sit in my toilet over the weekend.

And, as weekends are wont to do, the memory of Friday's unpleasantness faded away. The grim reminder didn't come until about 10am Monday morning, when my first female collection of the day walked in.

I won't describe in gory detail the contents of the bowl at this point, but suffice it to say that critters were now involved in the process.

At this point, you're probably wondering why I bother to type a post lamenting the existence of poop. After all this blog is for stories about the particulars of my profession, not about the contents of my potty. So, I introduce you to Ms. New York.

Ms. New York is tiny. If she didn't have crow's feet, wrinkles and saggy breasts I would have guessed she was fourteen years old, or thereabouts. Did I mention she was from New York? Because she did -- at least two or three times per sentence.

I explained to Ms. New York what the situation was. I could not conduct a collection because of... technical difficulties. I called the powers that be immediately and requested plumbing assistance, but for the time being Ms. New York's only options were to sit and wait, or drive to our other office where they (presumably) had a working commode.

Neither of these options were suitable to Ms. New York. She can't sit and wait because she's from New York and has better things to do (her words), and she can't drive to the main office because she's from New York and she'd get lost (again, her words). She insists that, since she's from New York, she can just "tough it out" in the nasty bathroom.

She's from New York after all. She's seen worse.

I would like nothing less than to envision this woman locked inside a room with the foulest things imaginable, but alas it is against regulation. I can't conduct a collection unless the water in the toilet is blued, and while I'm sure there is a trace amount of bluing agent still in the bowl at this point it's impossible to tell. So I politely turn down her offer.

Ever the master of compromise, I counter with an offer of my own: she could use the men's toilet. Being a waterless urinal it can't possibly break; it's essentially just a porcelain drain stuck to the wall.

"I don't know what you've heard about women from New York but we don't do that!" she snaps. Except... not really in those words. The words she actually uses are the vocal equivalent of what's haunting the bathroom right now.

"Then you'll have to sit and wait, or go to our main office," I reply, officially out of apologies. I hand her a map and describe how to get there.

"Look, I'm from New York but I'm not a jerk or anything, I just want to get this done. So what can we do?"

Irritating doesn't begin to describe this person. The only thing I are about when you walk into my office is which company sent you and which test you need. I write your name on a piece of paper but I don't commit it to memory. The place that spawned you doesn't even register on the list of things I care about during our transaction. I honestly don't know what New York has to do with anything at this point; does the woman want special treatment?

Curiosity gets the better of my good sense, and I ask her.

No, of course she doesn't think she's entitled to special treatment, it's just that she's from New York and people who aren't from New York have this misconception that people from New York have bad attitudes and she wanted to make sure I knew that she was from New York so New York New York New York.

Eventually she left in a huff. I thought she was going to explode.

I wonder what state she was from...

Twenty minutes later I got to watch my boss attack the toilet with a brand new plunger. Clog removed, I was up and running again. Ms. New York came back the next day to complete her collection.

She came in a taxi on both days.

To be honest I was actually a little proud that my manly log was able to defeat my toilet so easily.

N'awlins.

Last week I received a phone call from one of the local factories who use my company for their pre-employment drug testing. She requests Gold Service, which is my two-hour turnaround test, because she wants to hire these two individuals right away. She explains that they just arrived here from New Orleans and desperately need work.

The individuals in question arrive a few hours later (just before my lunch break) and do not speak English. So I have to call the woman at the company up and tell her to send these two applicants back with a translator some time after 2:00 pm.

After lunch, I fill out the Gold Service forms in anticipation for their return. They don't make it back until a little after 3:00. Both collections are complete by 3:15 and their test strips are sitting on my counter. Almost immediately they come back non-negative for marijuana. One comes up for cocaine, as well.

I give these test strips the 90-minute grace period I give all my Gold Service collections, but to no avail. These people have quite clearly been using illegal substances, and very recently at that.

I leave the results on the factory lady's voice mail. It's too late today to send these samples to the lab for formal testing; that will have to be done the next day.

I call my courier first thing the next morning to pick up the samples, and no sooner am I off the phone with them (or, rather, their recording service) the factory lady calls me back.

She wants to know if I can just call them negative, and not send them out.

I give her a very large, firm, boldfaced "no" and that's the end of it. I couldn't even believe it. Of course I know a lot of these employers hire people who come back positive. A lot of these employers do the drug testing just for show. I'm convinced several of them don't even bother to check the results they're given. I envision a filing cabinet somewhere labeled "Employee Drug Test Results", full of unopened envelopes.

But to ask the drug test guy to falsify results? And for what? To hire a couple people to work a crummy factory job?

Then, I started feeling lousy about it. There's a good chance those two people had just lost everything they had, and need to make a new start of it. This job could have been the difference between them getting back on their feet and them being stuck in a ditch somewhere. Now I'm envisioning a couple of drifting refugees hitchhiking their way across the southeast, and sharing a joint somewhere to help ease their tensions. Who am I to decry these people of what may well be their last chance at livelihood?

Well, I'm the Peemeister. Just doin' my job, man.

I spent the weekend mulling over this particular story, because it's not a funny story and it's not a happy story, and in fact it's pretty chilling. After two weeks of shock over all the bureaucratic red tape there is stretched up between dispossessed hurricane victims and their supplies... I realized that I am a part of it. Wasn't exactly a charming epiphany.

But, life goes on. My opinion before Katrina was that dire circumstances don't give you the right to act lawlessly. Though shaken, that opinion remains firm now, during the aftermath. There is of course a blurry line somewhere in there; taking food and water from an abandoned store is one thing, doing a few lines because there's no one around to stop you is something else.

This couple will probably get hired at their factory job regardless of what the results say. This is one of the companies I've long suspected of disregarding results, anyway. Were it a regular test and not Gold Service, they'd probably have never known the difference. Maybe that will make her think twice about requesting Gold Service in the future? Hmm...

For the record, I'd have evacuated on foot if I had to. I'm just sayin'.

Number one question.

When someone meets me for the first time and I explain where I work, the first question they ask me varies depending on their own personal drug use.

Those who have partaken of recreational drugs very recently usually ask if I can give them any pointers on cheating their way through a drug test. And yes, sure, I will. It's really not difficult and anyone with a basic level of education and intelligence can puzzle it out for themselves without too much trouble. A popular variant of this question would be to ask if I, personally, will help them cheat -- and that's a big fat resounding no sir buddy... but that's neither here nor there.

Then there are those who make use of their favorite drug from time to time, but either have not done so in the past few days or, failing that, at least don't have a drug test looming over their heads in the future. Free of the most pressing concerns, they like to ask how long drug [x] stays in your system. This question has no easy answer and reflects a variety of biological and lifestyle elements that I'm absolutely unqualified to decipher. In cases like these I can usually make up any old number and the inquiring party will be satisfied.

The question I am asked by people in no danger of potentially failing a drug test is, "So does anyone ever really try to cheat?"

Short answer, yes.

This is the story of my favorite cheater of all time, Mr. Duh. Nobody believes it when I tell it. Nobody believes someone can be as stupid as Mr. Duh.

The most popular method of cheating, as you would imagine, is to sneak in someone else's pee. In the halfhearted spirit of counterbalancing this, I ask everyone who comes in to empty their pockets to ensure they don't have anything stashed in their purse or jeans.

Now, that alone stymies more people than you could imagine. But as a second line of defense, every collection cup comes with a handy temperature-sensitive strip that shows me whether or not the pee falls inside the acceptable threshold of 90 to 100 degrees Fahrenheit. Keeping it in that temperature range is crucial if you're trying to slip in your boyfriend's pee instead of your own.

I don't know what temperature Mr. Duh's sample is, but I do know it's well below the 90° mark.Standardt procedure at this point is to act all surprised, pretend the cup is broken, and pour the sample into a second cup with a second strip. When the second one comes back cold too, I make like I'm taken aback (it's very,very important to never accuse someone of something, even if they're guilty as sin) and request a second sample.

Mr. Duh says he can't go again, and would it be okay if he came back tomorrow? I don't really have a good reason to say no.

Mr. Duh doesn't come back the next day; he's back in ten minutes flat, doing the pee-pee dance, and no sooner has he stepped into my lobby does he blurt out, "I'm ready to go right now, man! And I heated it up this time!"

There's an awkward pause as Mr. Duh very quickly realizes his error. Then, with nothing more than an "Aw, man," he departs, never to be seen again.

If you read this post closely enough, congratulations! You now know how to successfully cheat on a drug test. Use this knowledge for good, kiddies.

Captain America.

My first collection this morning was from a balding fat man wearing a shirt that read "I took my platelets out for a spin!" indicating that he was either a blood donor or stole the shirt from one. He was wearing those red bicycling shorts that a man of his considerable girth has no business wearing. Rounding out the ensemble is a trucker hat and a pair of $2 flip-flops.

Little did I know this was Captain America.

Captain America is here to take a drug test for a company that installs storm shutters. A noble profession. He walks in and gives me the condescending look that guys like him always give me, then declares breathlessly that his job is making him take a drug test. He wants to know if we can get this over with quickly, because he has things to do.

"As soon as you're ready, sir."

After signing in twice (he screwed it up the first time, despite being informed of the proper method of signing in by me), we hit a snag with Captain America's photo ID. What he throws at me isn't a state ID or a driver's license, but a faded Veterans ID card.

The Veterans ID card is a terrible way to identify oneself. Not only is the card almost impossible to read (the "print" is just a raised face on the card, so you have to hold it at an angle to read it) but the photo is this tiny, monochrome, low resolution job that looks more like a bar code than someone's face. Whether or not I can actually accept this kind of ID is a total crapshoot. In Captain America's case, the ID has been through the wash a few times and left out in the sun for about a week. The colors on the American flag backdrop of the card are several shades too light, and where the man's face ought to be is just a jumble of black and white pixels.

"Sir, do you have another form of photo ID? I'm having a hard time reading this one."

"Then you should get your eyes checked. That's federal."

I thought about accepting his word and writing "Amorphous Blob Man" on the form where his name should have gone, but figured that would probably be a bad idea.

"This is a low resolution image and I honestly can't tell whether or not it's you. I'll need some other form of ID." I hand his card back. He refuses to take it from me.

"Son, that's a valid federal ID. You have to take it."

"Actually, I don't. I can reject any ID for pretty much any reason I want. In this case I can't tell that the image on the ID is, in fact, you. Can I see your driver's license please?"

He hands it to me. It's a brand new Florida driver's license with his ugly mug plastered on it in two different places in bright, vibrant color. I jot down his name and hand it back. "There," he says, "was that so hard?"

"No, actually, it was very easy. You should have given me that ID to start with."

Captain America is one of these guys who wants everyone to know he's a veteran. He drinks at the veterans' lounge and hangs out with other veterans and harbors this belief that his prior military experience entitles him to special treatment. He's probably used to mentioning his veteran status and having the red carpet rolled out for him.

I invite Captain America back to provide his sample. "I'm not giving you my social security number," he says, very firmly.

"Okay. I don't need it."

"I don't ever give that out. You can do too much to someone with their social."

"That's okay. I don't need it. But you know it's on your veterans ID card, right? If you don't want people knowing your social security number, you should keep that to yourself."

"You should have accepted that. You have to accept it. Everywhere else accepts it, and if I wanted to make a big issue out of it I could have."

By now he's emptying his pockets. Not because he's about to go swimming or because he's ready for bed, but because I told him to. Griping about his stupid ID card is probably helping him cope with the inner turmoil of being in a situation where the 20-something civilian white boy is completely in charge. I tell him to wash and dry his hands. He doesn't use soap, so I make him do it again. I treat him like a child because he's acting like one. If I had a rolled-up newspaper, I'd swat him with it.

Captain America's born-on date is halfway through 1935, which means he's probably a veteran of the Korean War. I'll be honest and admit that I have absolutely zero idea what the Korean War was about. We were so pressed for time in American History class in high school that our complete lesson on the Korean War was "...and that was how WW2 ended. Then we had a Korean War. Okay, now open your textbooks to Vietnam..." I'm sure if I asked, Captain America could regale me with stories about how much better my life is because he had the courage to stand up and fight Korea, but the truth is I don't care. I don't care about things that happened decades before I was born and don't affect my life at all. If that makes me a horrible person, so be it, but I don't get paid to be your war buddy.

He had a job to do, and he did it. Now I have a job to do, and I'm doing it. Quoting your military record is not an acceptable substitute for a photo ID. Arguing is not an acceptable substitute. Condescending glares and use of words like "boy" and "son" are not an acceptable substitute.

Sometimes in life you have to defer to people younger than you. Mean old guys like Captain America should (but won't) learn that while 23 years is nowhere near enough time to build up any real life experience, it's long enough for the government to recognize you as a legal adult. I'm allowed to hold a job and make you do things in order to ensure my job is done properly.

Total collection time for Captain America is eleven minutes, after the whole ID fiasco, a conversation about his social security number, a quick run-down about how I should "learn to respect veterans", more complaints about the ID, and a comment about how he's going to "tell all this to his employer". Just before he leaves he comments that this is the longest drug test he's ever taken. I point out that he is now free to leave, and completely lose interest in him.

I hope he enjoys his new storm shutter job.

50 years from now history teachers will gloss over the two wars in Iraq. Students will sleep through the lectures and fail the tests. And Iraqi war vets will try to weasel benefits for themselves that they are not entitled to, such as special treatment in drug testing procedures. This is the circle of life, people. This is deep stuff.

In writing...?

A woman walks in to do a pre-employment drug test for a company I only see infrequently. The woman does not speak any English, so I get on the phone with the company to request a translator.

While I'm on hold she whips out a cell phone and makes an irate call to her husband. She comes up and thrusts the cell phone at me, even as I'm still holding the receiver. I hold up one finger, the international sign for "Hold on a minute," not wanting to deal with two phone conversations at once. I can hear the man at the other end of the cell phone barking, "Hello!? Hello!?"

I get transferred around a bit at the lady's company, and I figure there's not much hope of getting a translator out of them. So I hang up on the Muzak and finally take the woman's cell phone.

"Hello. This is Richard at [my company name]. Who am I speaking with please?"

"I'm Mr. Busybody. I'm her husband. She tells me you won't let her take a drug test."

Well, he at least speaks fluent English.

"That isn't true, sir. The problem is that we cannot understand each other. Without a translator I cannot do a collection."

"Tell me what she needs to know, and I'll tell her."

"Unfortunately that won't work. A translator must be present in person, in order to clear up any problems that may arise during the collection."

"Problems like what!?" he belches in a tone of voice meant to be accusatory. I rattle off a quick list of things that could come up during a urine collection.

"She won't do anything like that," he assures me.

"Be that as it may, I cannot take a collection without a translator present. I'm going to call the company right now and request one."

"No. Don't do that. I can translate. I'm coming down there."

And he hangs up.

I explain what just transpired to the woman, which I'm aware is a futile endeavor, but it's something I do anyway. I sit back down at the computer, and she starts to go slowly insane. She examines the sign-in sheet, which she's filled out incorrectly, and begins asking questions about it. She wants this collection done and I don't blame her. I tell her to be patient and wait for the translator.

She fills up her enormous 7-11 cup with water from my cooler.

Ten minutes go by before the husband shows up. Well-dressed, wearing dark sunglasses, and practically chewing on his cell phone. This is a man who wants everybody to know how very, very important he is. He throws his cigarette down on the sidewalk outside my door but doesn't bother exhaling his last drag before entering. The entire lobby is going to stink of cigarettes for hours.

Without even acknowledging his wife, Mr. Busybody says, "I'm here to translate for her. And we need to make this fast. I had to leave work for this."

I reach for my can of air freshener and consider pointing out that no, he didn't, because the company would have sent one eventually, but I think better of it. "Please ask her to print her name, employer's name, and the current time on the sign-in sheet."

He disregards, and starts filling it all in himself.

"Sir, she is the one giving the sample. She has to write her own name." This is just a technicality, and it's really not a big deal. But I want to feel this guy out. I want to see what kind of problems to expect before we get to the important parts of the collection.

Mr. Busybody calls his wife up and says something to her. As she fills out the sign-in sheet, I ask him, "Now, are you able to translate for me?"

He is taken aback. "I am her husband."

Fine and dandy but not what I asked. "Yes, but are you able to translate for me?"

"Yes."

We finish the paperwork and go back to do the collection. I tell him the three instructions every woman must be told before the collection: fill the cup above the line, do not flush the toilet, bring the cap back to me when she's done.

She flushes the toilet. Twice, actually.

I explain to Mr. Busybody that we now have to do a second collection. Either he didn't translate properly or she just decided to ignore the instructions, but whatever the case now everyone has to wait.

"She knows what to do now, so I can go," he declares.

"If you leave, I will be unable to make another collection attempt until the company sends a translator."

"But she knows what to do now!"

I point out that no, she does not know what to do, judging from her apparent lack of understanding of the instructions.

"You don't need a translator," he spits out. "And you can't force her to have one here."

Before I can even point out the high hogwash content of his statement, he's on the phone with someone else. I have no idea who he has called, but he explains the entire situation to this third party -- or at least his version of it. "He's making her have a translator!" he exclaims. "Is that good? Is that legal?"

Whomever Mr. Busybody is talking to must have told him that no, it is not legal to request a translator when attempting to take a urine sample from somebody who doesn't speak your language. The next words out of his mouth are, "Well I don't know what his problem is, I don't know if he's a racist or what."

Yeah, that must be it.

He covers up the mouthpiece of his cell phone and looks back at me. "He told me that you have to have something in writing," says Mr. Busybody without bothering to explain who he's talking to. "He says if you don't have something in writing saying a translator has to be here, you don't need one."

My patience is officially shot with this jerk, and fortunately in my business I don't have to be polite with people if I don't want to. "I don't have anything in writing pertaining to translators, but I don't need anything. Your wife and I do not speak the same language. We can not understand each other. I can not complete this collection unless I'm convinced she has understood the instructions, which she didn't, and understands every word on the form she will have to sign."

"Go get the form, I'll make her sign it."

"Wait, you want me to have her sign the paperwork before she gives me a sample? And you're the one worried about what's 'good and legal'?"

"If you don't have anything in writing, we're leaving."

"That's fine. I'll simply get a hold of Company X and explain the situation--"

"Just show me something in writing!"

The "in writing" thing finally gnaws into my skull. I grab a pen and a post-it under the counter where he can't see, and jot down "She needs a translator in person." I slide it across the counter to him.

He reads it and is not happy. Mr. Busybody grabs his wife by the arm and hauls her out, spewing naughty words as he does so.

Sighing, I pick up the phone and try to get a hold of so-and-so over at Company X. While listening to the Muzak drone on, I notice the lady has left her gigantic 7-11 cup still sitting on my magazine table.

She never comes back.

I don't have anything in writing stating that Mr. Busybody could use my parking lot either, but he didn't have any problems parking. Imagine that.

My kingdom for paper towels.

Working in an office by myself is essentially a dream come true for me. Virtually limitless peace and quiet, no supervisors breathing down my neck, no annoying co-workers I have to pretend to like. I decide what needs done and when. I'm free to handle the rigors of my day-to-day operation in essentially any way I see fit. Aside from the schedule and the rules directly relating to collection, I'm my own boss.

Except when it comes to supplies.

Pens and soap, forms and kits, toilet paper and bluing agent -- these are things that, despite my best intentions, will eventually run out. When I'm low on something I have to send a fax up to my bosses and pray they don't ignore it. On one occasion where I was without on-site collection kits for three days my supervisor apologetically explained, "You do such a good job up there that nobody complains about you. So sometimes we forget you're even there."

Isn't that touching?

Currently I am involved in trench warfare concerning, of all things, paper towels.

Let me explain something to you people. It doesn't take a fistful of paper towels to dry your hands. There's enough real estate on two towels to cover the average pair of human hands, including in between the fingers. Maybe three sheets if you have exceptionally large or exceptionally hairy hands. Maybe four if you're the missing link.

The reason I run out of paper towels far faster than any other commodity is because people tear them out of the dispenser like they're going out of style. Five, six, seven towels -- gone in a flash. Double that if the person washes up after the collection as well. Donors descend on paper towels as though a hunger consumes them, raw and primal.

While I find this practice irritating, another block of paper towels is usually only twenty steps away in my back room. I can get the key to the dispenser, acquire a fresh block of towels, and have everything stocked and ready to go in the time it takes the donor to squeeze out a sample. They emerge from the bathroom, none the wiser.

This assumes, of course, I have the towels to begin with. Right now, I have half a roll of generic kitchen towels to cover both bathrooms. This is because, for some reason, my supervisors can't or won't send me a box of my usual stuff. Imagine my chagrin when I send another desperate fax up top, pleading for paper towels, only to have the boss's wife come skipping up a half-hour later with a single roll of kitchen towels.

It won't last me the day.

This story is about two weeks old now, and has not concluded yet. Until I get a box of those lovely, beautiful brown bricks of paper I will be on edge.

People absolutely hate having to dry their hands on their pants. Absolutely nothing in the drug testing procedure solicits the kind of verbal abuse that asking someone to wash, but not dry, their hands does. I still vividly remember an occasion where a man was so irate about the lack of paper products in my office that he actually reached out to dry his mitts on my shirt.

I wonder if this is something the powers that be over at the main office do to remind me that, yes, they are the ones still in charge. "We'll let him stew a bit," they say, "and we'll send him his paper towels when we are good and ready. He will receive the pittance we give him and he will be damn grateful for it."

Time to send another not-so-polite fax upstairs, explaining the situation. It's war, man. The lines have been drawn and the stakes have been raised. It's Towelgate 2005. There is nothing short of a worldwide communist conspiracy in place keeping me from my paper towels.

The current record of paper towel consumption for a single collection is nineteen. That guy had the driest hands on Earth once he was through.

Go for the gold!

I do what's called a "Gold Service" collection for some of my clients. Gold Service is basically a dipstick test I can do in my back room in order to get a negative result within hours, rather than within days.

For me, Gold Service is just a big headache.

Consider my involvement in a normal collection: the donor comes in, drops off his sample, and leaves. I stick the baggie containing said sample into a big white box, and at the end of the night the nice man from the courier service empties the box into his truck. I never, ever see that particular sample again.

Gold Service means I have to use a little eyedropper to place several drops of the sample onto a test strip, then wait a while, then check the results, then record them, then phone or fax the client to deliver the results. If the result was non-negative, I then have to phone up DHL and have them pick the sample up and ship it to Minnesota, where it will be tested by a real scientist in a real lab coat.

Now on the eyedrop test you have six purple lines you're looking for; the first is a control strip that always turns purple no matter what, and the next five are for illegal drugs (marijuana, cocaine, heroin, etc). Whenever a purple strip doesn't show up, that means the test is non-negative for that particular drug. The wording is important here; this test can be over-sensitive and report false positives, which is why all non-negatives must be verified by the lab up in Minnesota.

Those little purple lines are the cause of much frustration.

Now, sometimes, those little lines pop up almost immediately. Sometimes ten or fifteen minutes is all it takes. Just as often, though, they take an hour or longer. I've seen test strips that displayed non-negative after 60 minutes, but negative after 90.

In other words, if I call in the tests too early I run the risk of having too many false positives. And if I call them in too late, I run the risk of clients getting angry with me.

I've settled into a nice routine consisting of a 90 minute wait, then a callback at my first opportunity. Since Gold Service proudly declares two-hour turnaround times, most clients get their results on schedule. Sometimes it will take a little longer if the results come back while I'm at lunch, or if the guy doesn't show up for his collection until 4:55, or if I get swamped with latino guys all trying to share the same translator. For the most part my clients are cool. A few of them who send large batches of Gold Service applicants all at once have told me they'd rather I just call them back before I leave for the day, instead of getting nine messages from me on their voice mail.

Mrs. Satan, however, is different. Mrs. Satan wants her results and she wants them right now.

The problem came to a head one day when she sent an applicant to me at 11:45 am. The collection took about ten minutes (the gentleman didn't have the urge, so to speak), so he was out the door by noon. The two-hour turnaround means I should check the test at about 1:30, but I'm not in the office at that time. Like ever other 8-5 worker in America, I get a lunch hour. Anything that needs doing on my 1:00 hour waits until 2:00.

Compouding the problem: the 2:00 hour is usually my busiest hour of the day. Not only do I have the usual flow of donors coming in, but I have to accomodate all the people who tried to show up during the 1:00 hour as well. It's not uncommon for me to unlock the door at 1:55 and do solid collections until 2:30 or later.

On this particular day I was slammed after lunch. A whole truckload of landscapers plus the random draw from a local pool company, plus the regular stream of people I mentioned before... I did about twelve collections that afternoon, several of them with translators, and in between juggling all these and a reasonable suspicion alcohol test (a 19-minute ordeal) I didn't have time to check in any of my Gold Service results.

Finally, at almost 3:00 I have time to sit down and catch my breath. It isn't often my office gets flooded, but when it does it can take me forever to catch up. I call in Mrs. Satan's results and leave them on her voice mail.

Twenty minutes later the complaining starts. The results were late. Two hours late. She sent her applicant in at 11:00 am and didn't get the results until 3:00. She's angry. She's out for blood.

I did what I always do in that situation: I gave Mrs. Satan the number for my boss in Tampa and told her to lodge a formal complaint.

I heard back from Mrs. Satan about 30 minutes later. Whomever-she-talked-to in Tampa told her that Gold Service tests come back in as little as fifteen minutes, so now she wants all her results back within that time.

I tried to explain about the false positives, and if she insists on this madness she's going to see a huge increase in the number of tests being shipped across the continent, and turnaround time on those tests is a week. But no, she doesn't listen to me. After all, someone-in-Tampa told her that fifteen was the magic number.

In the coming weeks, Mrs. Satan would receive her tests on her own timescale. About half of these had to be sent out. Of the ones I sent out, most would eventually come back negative, but after the results have been delivered I have to send them out regardless. So, the phone calls start coming again. Now Mrs. Satan is infuriated that she isn't getting her results at all. I explain that, after I send them out, the results are given to the MRO in Tampa. I never see them again.

Even though sent-out results take nearly a week, I get calls every single day. On Wednesday there's a message demanding Tuesday's results. On Thursday there's a message demanding Tuesday's and Wednesday's. And so on. The number of increasingly-less-polite reminders that she'll have to call the MRO starts to pile up. And all the while I slowly wean Mrs. Satan away from her unbelievable 15-minute demand.

Eventually an equilibrium is reached. Now she's on the same 90-minute timer as everyone else, and she doesn't seem to mind. The angry phone calls and complaints have dwindled. In the end, the collector was right about the drug testing process (imagine that!) and the client was defeated.

Still, I make sure to call in all the results Mrs. Satan has requested before I leave the office for lunch or to go home, regardless of how long they've been sitting.

I imagine people go into a normal HR office (the ones that don't rely on Gold Service or, for those that do, the ones that don't flip out when results are a few minutes late) and receive their drug test request. The lady behind the desk smiles and says, "Please report at this location for drug testing, and just bring our copy of the form back whenever you have time."

Then I imagine Mrs. Satan's office. She draws her fangs out from the applicant's eye sockets, thrusts a map to my office into his jugular, then screeches in her hellish harpy wail, "Go there for drug testing, mortal. Then return here and impale yourself on the Stick of Waiting until the puny childling from the pee clinic calls me back!"

In the end Mrs. Satan gets her results regardless of how long it takes, and I get a headache. Could be worse, though... I could be the poor guy who has to work in the same company as her. Shudder... wince.

It's much easier to cheat on a Gold Service test than a regular one. Don't tell anyone I said that.

Today is Loser Day.

Loser Day is the day all the Losers come for their drug tests.

Not that I'm complaining; I love the Losers. In the daily routine at the pee clinic, the Losers are the best. The Losers never try to screw around during the collection. They never argue about what kind of ID they need or try to beat their chests when it comes to the collection process. They always empty their pockets. They always provide a good sample on the first try. They never yell, they never fight. They re-use the same cone-shaped cup for every sip of water they consume. They don't require seventeen paper towels to dry their hands. The Losers, as a group, are in-and-out in four minutes or less. It's a painless experience.

My working definition of "Loser" is someone older than me who is at a lower station in life. Someone older than 23 who still lives with his parents is, by my yardstick, a Loser. This sounds incredibly harsh until one realizes how many people could actively consider me a Loser; and that's fine. Everyone considers themselves enlightened in their own little way, I suppose.

The Losers are sent to me from construction companies. From landscaping services. From call centers. From any company that mass-hires anyone they can to accomplish tasks involving manual labor or reading from a script. These companies schedule hiring drives at regular intervals to counterbalance their high turn-over rate. Sometimes several of these companies will land at or around the same day, increasing my Loser influx significantly.

How to spot a Loser? Losers are predominantly white, unshaven males. Their hair is unkempt and their clothes are dirty (more likely due to coming in after a hard day's work than actual poor hygiene habits). They walk, bike, or bus here. They hand me a Florida ID card instead of a Florida driver's license. Sometimes I have to fill out itineraries for their parole officers. They never ask questions, they never try to prolong the collection process, and there is an air of desperation hanging around them. The impression I always get from the Losers is that they need this job badly and they need it right now. The understanding is that any idealogical opposition to drug testing, or any recreational use of expensive, illegal drugs can wait until after they've secured a paycheck.

The Losers always come in alone. Every other classification of people I see will occasionally come in with friends, family members or co-workers, but the Losers are always flying solo. I wonder sometimes if they don't have anyone to bring. Nobody to bum a ride off of. Or if they've simply turned down the offer.

I have a grudging respect for the Losers. They strike me as guys who have taken a hard hit or two all at once, and are scrambling back to safety. I like to think that the desperate job, the unkempt visage and the stone demeanor are all temporary stops on their road through life. I like to think that they're getting things figured out just a little later than the rest of us.

Loser Day isn't exactly a fun day for me. The constant stream of collections means I can't really focus my attention on other projects, and all the frowny faces and softspoken words can actually be fairly depressing. But a high-traffic Loser-filled day is easy and stress-free. Much easier than a gaggle of idiot high school girls who refuse to follow directions, or any of those old militant trucker guys who insist on making the entire process a hassle by scrutinizing and objecting to every step of the collection. It's an easy distinction between who needs a job and who doesn't, at the bottom line. The Losers harbor no illusions about being better than anyone.

That's a lesson I wish someone would teach to the rich car company brats. It's something I think all of us, in one way or another, could learn.

I play video games all day at work, and D&D on weekends. Does that make me a Loser?

¡Yo quiero una prueba de la droga!

It's not in my nature to be racist, but this job makes it very hard sometimes.

Many of the companies that do pre-employment drug testing are huge, faceless companies that hire scores of unskilled workers. In Florida, that means Mexicans immigrants.

Landscaping, roofing, aluminum siding, factories... all these companies hire armies of Mexicans to work for them. People who, just like the rest of us, are talented and hard-working people, most of them fairly educated, who just happen to lack proficiency in the English language. As you can imagine, this in turn hampers their ability to do simple things like provide a urine sample.

The collection procedure isn't inherently complicated, although it does assume that the donor can understand the simple instructions I give them. I take my job seriously and do everything in my power to ensure there is nothing wrong with the collection. After all, this is someone's job; if I screw up, this person doesn't work.

The problem arises when a company won't send translators with their Spanish-speaking employees. This is a collection I cannot do. And what's worse, I can't explain to the would-be donor why I can't do it, since they don't understand me. This leads to a lot of irritated and downright angry Mexicans throughout my work-week.

So when a pickup truck pulls up and five Hispanic guys jump out, each holding his own drug test form, please forgive me if I groan or curse under my breath.

There are, of course, various degrees of fluency in the English language. The bottom rung of course is the person who speaks no English at all. In this case, the person won't even be able to sign in. When I ask for ID, he doesn't know what I'm talking about. And when I shake my head, hand him his form and point to the door he assumes that the collection was a success. Attached to his form is a note telling the employer to send him back with a translator, but the employer will either ignore it or never see it. I once received an angry phone call from a landscaping company because they found out seventeen of their Hispanic employees had been turned away from the collection site in as many months. This company apparently never checks the results they receive, because it took them almost six months to realize they had a whole gaggle of immigrants working for them who had never, ever been drug tested. When I informed them to pack them all up and send them back with a proper translator they told me that fourteen of them didn't work for them anymore.

Now, that's the best case scenario. The real horror stories happen with the guys who speak either a small amount of English, or at least know how to fake it really well.

I've developed a nervous tick that causes a shooting pain down my spine whenever I hear the word "okay". "Okay" is the very first English word a Mexican immigrant learns. It's absolutely stunning how far you can get in a typical American transaction just by nodding and saying "okay" when the person behind the counter pauses and looks at you. I've gotten all the way to the end of a collection, after the urination has already taken place, before realizing that the person I'm speaking to has no idea what I'm saying. I've learned over time how to avoid this trap; throwing a few softball questions during the sign-in process, or asking about his employer, or asking him his birthdate (instead of just copying it off his ID) will do the trick. Again, a note to the employer, and someone who has to be turned away with no clear understanding why.

After the "okay" crowd are the people who speak a little English, but not well. These are the most irritating of all, since not only can they not complete their own collections, but they can't act as translators for others. Nonetheless, I see it all the time. People who speak enough English to understand me when I ask for a transltor are people who become angry since, essentially, I'm telling them their English sucks. I mean, I'd probably be a little frustrated and defensive too. As an added bonus, people who speak no English often come in with a friend or family member who speaks very, very little English, expecting them to translate. So I have to tell the translator that her English sucks, and then the translator tells the donor (in Spanish) that I told her her English sucks, and now they're both angry with me.

I distinctly remember one case when I turned a donor away only to have him returned the next day with a proper translator. His collection was completed without a hitch. The very next day the company sent a second donor, but instead of a translator sent the gentleman from the previous day, assuming he could process all the information. They both got turned away, and then came back with the original translator several hours later, all very angry.

I am embroiled in an ongoing war with one company in particular who adamantly refuses to send translators. Their excuses would be amusing if they didn't cause me so much grief. Their "it's just a drug test" excuse doesn't float because it would only take one positive result to blow up in their face. Take someone I can't understand, fake their way through a drug test, then have them sign a form they can't read? What does that say about me and my company? What does it say about the employer who allows it to happen?

I finally had one of my supervisors contact this company to explain to them the importance of translators and, very politely of course, assert that if they wanted to do collections at my office they would, in fact, have to send a bilingual employee to facilitate communication between the collector and the donor. The supervisor was told that the reason I'd been sending people away is because I just didn't want to do any collections. That's right, the company's response was to call me lazy. "He's even got a PlayStation up there!" said the man from the company... which, while true enough, doesn't really further his case since (a) my supervisor knows full well that I bring a PlayStation (and a DVD player, and a laptop) to work, and in fact encourages the practice, and (b) it actually takes longer to explain to someone why I can't do a collection than it takes to just do the stupid collection.

So, I tell myself not to hate these Mexican people, these hard-working immigrants who are trying to scrape out a living for themselves just like everyone else. I tell myself none of this is their fault; it's their stupid bosses who don't care enough to make sure they can communicate with the people they're dealing with. But despite myself, I die a little every time the van from the roofing company pulls up with this week's batch, fresh off of a ten-hour workday. I try to imagine what it must be like to work in the sun all day long only to have a scrawny white boy tell you your English sucks.

I took six semesters of Spanish in high school, and don't speak a word of it.