Nice aim.

To answer your question: yes, people try to cheat. This doesn't bother me as much as you might think, other than the fact that it ends up wasting five or ten minutes of everyone's time. The sad truth about pre-employment drug testing (or any drug test which gives you time beforehand to prepare) is that they aren't so much testing for drugs as they are intelligence. Anyone with even passing knowledge of how the process works (for example, anyone who reads my blog) can, with the slightest bit of reasoning, work out how to cheat.

So, whenever I come across a cheater, I'm a little disappointed. The process can't catch the people who cheat successfully (how would we ever know?); we only see the people who didn't bother putting more than four minutes of thought into how they were going to sneak one by us. It's the equivalent of watching some numbskull uselessly pushing against a door that is labeled "pull".

Stupid Name not only didn't have a good plan for cheating -- if that were the extent of it, he wouldn't really be noteworthy. What made Stupid Name extra special was that he actually managed to botch his already-doomed-to-fail plan.

The collection started smoothly. Stupid Name seemed eager to get the thing over and done with, and I was eager to be rid of him and move on to the nine people waiting in line behind him. I'm finishing up his paperwork as he's in the bathroom when I hear the curious sound of liquid hitting the floor. Not the tssssss of a careless man peeing on the floor, but rather the kssssshhhhh of someone spilling the contents of a bottle.

Stupid Name opens the door and pokes his head out. "Hey dude, you got a mop or somethin'? I missed the bowl."

I tell Stupid Name that I'll take care of the mopping afterwards. He opens the door, steps out, and sets a half-full cup on the counter. His shirt has a huge wet spot on it starting at his collar and ending just above his gut. There's an enormous puddle of urine on the floor of the bathroom about two feet away from the toilet. Why, it almost looks as though someone were standing with his back to the commode, pouring liquid from one container into another, and spilling it all over himself.

Before I can point out to Stupid Name why this is unacceptable, he offers up this useful information: "Sorry, I kinda peed on myself."

Explaining to Stupid Name why I won't be taking his sample is actually none too difficult. He's pretty embarrassed by the fact that he screwed up. The odd sound is enough to merit a second collection. Stupid Name packs his things and leaves the office.

Oh, and his sample was colder than room temperature. Which means even if he weren't a moron and hadn't botched his flawless scheme, I still would have caught him. Dude was foiled from both ends. Once he's gone I set about mopping up his mess, then call the next person waiting. Going to be a long-ish day.

Just now I've been informed that Stupid Name is back, willing to try again. As soon as we get permission to do a witnessed collection from his employer, he'll get his chance. I haven't seen him yet but I hope he's at least changed his shirt.

Let's take it from the top.

One of the services my company haphazardly provides is hair testing. The deal with hair testing, essentially, is that the lab can trace your drug usage history back as far as you hair has been growing. I guess, in theory, they could take a 30-year-old woman who hasn't had her hair cut in 16 years and find out what kind of substances she used in high school. I'm fairly sure there's a cap on how far back various agencies are allowed to look into your drug history to consider you for employment. In any case, this is why Brittney Spears recently flipped out an shaved her head. No hair, no drug test history.

Hair collections are generally a snap. Snip snip, fold the hair into a foil strip, seal it up in an envelope, and now it's the lab's problem. It's so easy, in fact, that interviewers can do it literally right there at the interview -- no need to send the applicant out for a costly urine collection. Unless, of course, the applicant has no hair on his head... then they send him to us so we can take the hair from elsewhere.

In my day I've skimmed chests, snipped underarms and clipped napes. It has thankfully always been our company policy to not use pubic hair for testing, although there is a spot on the form for it, so it's definitely an option. So, easy as they are to conduct in theory, you can see why I've always dreaded doing hair collections: it means I have to go into some bald dude's pits. And, since it's tricky to get the requisite one-by-one-and-a-half inch patch of hair from even the shaggiest of chests, it likely meant that the lab wouldn't do the test at all and the guy would just be sent back for another try. I've had several cases where, after three failed hair tests, the company broke down and just settled for a urine test instead.

I mean, even bald guys have to pee.

I was overjoyed about two years ago when the hair testing regulations were changed to only allow hair from the head, and nowhere else. I never knew the reason for the change and didn't much care... my days of doing hair tests were over. Huzzah, etc. It meant, of course, that once every six months or so I would have an irate bald man in my office screaming at me, but I nonetheless considered it a bargain.

So imagine my disdain when I sit down at my computer today to see a message from my boss: "Can you do a hair test?"

Crap.

I put up a halfhearted fight and pointed out that, really, I'd rather be doing anything but hair testing... but in the end it wasn't going to work and I knew it. Nobody else in the office is trained to do them. I have no idea who was trained on them before I started here, put it's kind of a moot point now; some clown was on his way to get a hair test done for a car dealership.

(I'll point out here that of the thirty or forty hair tests I've done, they have all been for car dealerships, to the very last man. I don't even have a vague theory on why this is.)

In any case it doesn't take long. By the time we've scrounged up our hair test supplies, Mr. Tattoo is waiting in the lobby. I snap his form out of the box and look at his ID.

He's entirely bald.

Thank heavens.

Of course now I have to explain that he made the trip out here for nothing, but again, I consider it a bargain.

"Mr. Tattoo? You're here for a hair test, right? There's a small problem."

"No problem," he says, lifting up his shirt. He has hair on his chest, but not nearly enough to get the required amount for the lab.

"I can't take it from your chest. It has to be from the head."

"No it doesn't."

"Sorry, Mr. Tattoo. They changed the regulations on hair testing a few years ago. Nothing we can do." I hand him his ID. He snatches it and whips out his cell phone to call whomever it is that people always call on their cell phones when they've been denied service for something.

So I get out of having to do a hair test and Mr. Tattoo doesn't have to work at a car dealership. I think I'll call that a win/win.

We offered to do a urine test instead, but Mr. Tattoo had already failed one. Go figure.

Weird look.

One of the up-front girls notified me over our inter-office messaging system that Mr. Quiet's collection would need to be witnessed. Apparently his first sample came back far too hot and, upon delivering this information to Mr. Quiet's would-be employer, they requested that someone watch him pee to make sure he didn't try to get away with anything the second time around.

I felt bad for Mr. Quiet because he didn't seem to me to be the type who would attempt to cheat on a drug test. He was very polite and soft-spoken, was not the least bit combative or nervous, and didn't ask any strange questions about loopholes. He didn't set off any red flags. I quickly decided that he probably just had the bad luck of running a high temperature. Not common, but it happens.

I stood behind Mr. Quiet in the bathroom as he went through the motions. Ten seconds in, however, he discontinued the process claiming he just couldn't go. This was definitely strange... even if you didn't feel the urge, you'd give it more than ten seconds, right?

I put Mr. Quiet's paperwork in the "not ready" box and instruct him to drink as much water as he needs. It's pretty early in the afternoon, so there's no hurry; he can sit there for hours if he wants, or leave and come back, or pretty much anything really. Ball's in his court.

Fifteen minutes before closing, I get called back up. Mr. Quiet's ready. In the middle of putting together a last-minute overnight order for one of our clients, I told the up-front girls to go ahead and take someone ahead of him, and that I'd be up in five minutes. When I made it up to there, the collection-in-progress was only halfway done, so I stood nearby and waited patiently for my turn.

From where I stood I could look into the reception area and out through the window into the waiting room. I watched as someone dumped $1.50 into our soda machine, skimmed over a couple waiting on an immigration physical, and to Mr. Quiet sitting in the corner. I gave him a polite nod.

Another minute goes by, and Mr. Quiet approached the receptionist. I couldn't hear what he said, and in fact didn't even know he had stepped up until I heard the up-front girl say, "Huh? Speak up sweetie, I can't hear you." Mr. Quiet glanced nervously at me, shrugged sheepishly, and said "I'm sorry man... it's nothing personal... just... I don't know what to make of that look." Then he turned back to the up-front girl and reinforced his point: "Didn't you see? He just gave me a really weird look. Like, really uncomfortable. Can someone else do the test?"

The up-front girl looked at me, stupefied. She didn't know the answer to the question (of course) but I did: "Sir, I'm the only male collector on duty today. It's me or no one."

"Can I come back tomorrow? I'm sorry but I'm just real uncomfortable."

"I'm pretty much the only male collector who works here, sir. You'll have to get in touch with your employer if you want to arrange to go somewhere else." That's actually only a half-truth: the president of the company is also certified to do collections, but let's be honest, nobody actually expects him to. If Mr. Quiet wants this drug test done, he's really only got the one option.

By now, the collection-in-progress is done and I retrieve Mr. Quiet's sheet. He follows me back, apologizing the whole way, repeating "I just really don't know what to make of that look... you know?"

A brief aside: Mr. Quiet's complaint about a "look" might not be completely unwarranted. I wasn't convinced he was a cheater at first, but his shabby performance during the first witnessed test didn't exactly win him any points with me. If the look on my face said "this guy is a scumbag cheater" when we locked eyes for one magical moment as I as scanning the lobby, well, you'll have to forgive me. More likely, Mr. Quiet was looking for any semi-legit opportunity to duck out of a drug test he knew he'd fail, no matter how flimsy the pretense.

So we went through the whole song and dance, the "empty your pockets please", the "you understand this test is to be witnessed", the whole nine yards. And again, he gives a shoddy ten second showing where he doesn't even pretend to try to urinate, then gives up. "I can't do it," he says. "I just can't do it."

Mr. Quiet elected to leave the office and return the next day, pending permission to do so from whatever hapless company thinks it wants to employ him.

The next day Mr. Quiet returned. His employer had given permission for a second witnessed test. However, this time when he saw that once again I was the only person available for the collection, he raised a small fuss about how he was assured it wouldn't be the guy who gave him the "weird look." We certainly assured him of no such thing. Perhaps his employer did, not knowing the circumstances, but in any case these assurances did not match reality. He left without even filling out the paperwork.

The next day (today) I learned that Mr. Quiet couldn't be witnessed because he had kidney stones. Now, I'm of the opinion that the man was just trying to duck a drug test by any means necessary. I admit that I could be wrong, and that the poor guy just doesn't want some other dude watching him pee. Maybe he gets stage fright really easily. But again, making excuses doesn't help his case any. After today's visit it seems Mr. Quiet finally gave up the fight and his prospective employer passed him over for one of the fifty guys standing behind him for the same job.

Sorry, Mr. Quiet. Don't leave it in the microwave so long next time, eh?

I enjoy watching people pump money into the soda machine because I'm the guy who stocks it and profits from it. *clack* *clack* *rumbarumba* *THUNK* -- Thanks for the twenty-six cents, mister!