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.