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.