Showing posts with label rules nazi. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rules nazi. Show all posts
8.31.2007
6.27.2007
The revenge of Mr. Tattoo.
Mr. Tattoo came back today for round two. He was in from a different car dealership; you'll recall the first one didn't hire him because they requested a hair test, and he's bald. (If you recall no such thing, you may click here to read about my first adventure with Mr. Tattoo.)
I couldn't see his tattoo today, on account of he was dressed up all nice. Collared shirt (tucked-in, even!), tie, nice slacks, the works. During our first meeting he wore ripped jeans and a wifebeater. My guess was he came in right off his job interview today, probably because he couldn't wait to yell at me.
And oh boy did he yell. He yelled about how we must have been lying about the hair regulations, since [insert our biggest competitor here] took his chest hair just, like, two or three months ago. He yelled about how it's demeaning to do a urine test. He yelled about how our company policies were stupid. He yelled about how it's discriminatory that he can't work at Car Dealership X because he chooses to cut his hair a certain way.
I tried to explain the difference between "company policy" and "state regulation". I tried to explain (without sounding like I was badmouthing them, and I admit it didn't come off very well) that some labs choose to skirt around regulations if they can profit from it. But as you probably know, there's no reasoning with someone who just wants to piss and moan and just generally be belligerent.
We didn't touch on the subject that, apparently, Car Company Y is a better place to work than Car Company X anyway. Meeting as many car dealership guys as I do, you get the feel for these things.
This story is actually a couple weeks old. I should check my saved drafts more often, I guess.
I couldn't see his tattoo today, on account of he was dressed up all nice. Collared shirt (tucked-in, even!), tie, nice slacks, the works. During our first meeting he wore ripped jeans and a wifebeater. My guess was he came in right off his job interview today, probably because he couldn't wait to yell at me.
And oh boy did he yell. He yelled about how we must have been lying about the hair regulations, since [insert our biggest competitor here] took his chest hair just, like, two or three months ago. He yelled about how it's demeaning to do a urine test. He yelled about how our company policies were stupid. He yelled about how it's discriminatory that he can't work at Car Dealership X because he chooses to cut his hair a certain way.
I tried to explain the difference between "company policy" and "state regulation". I tried to explain (without sounding like I was badmouthing them, and I admit it didn't come off very well) that some labs choose to skirt around regulations if they can profit from it. But as you probably know, there's no reasoning with someone who just wants to piss and moan and just generally be belligerent.
We didn't touch on the subject that, apparently, Car Company Y is a better place to work than Car Company X anyway. Meeting as many car dealership guys as I do, you get the feel for these things.
This story is actually a couple weeks old. I should check my saved drafts more often, I guess.
5.18.2007
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.
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.
5.17.2007
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!
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!
1.24.2007
Crossing The Line.
People are sometimes hardheaded and stubborn for no reason other than they want to be hardheaded and stubborn. Case in point: The Line.
The Line was a tall man who had come in to do a pre-employment drug test for a towing company, which means he has a commercial driver's license, and therefore his drug test needs to follow federal rather than state standards. The Line's major problem is that he's a clown, and as veteran peemeister readers will know I am fairly incompatible with clowns.
When I ask someone a question about a service they are providing me, I like to get a clear and honest answer. When someone asks me a question about the drug test collection I'm conducting, I like to make my answers as clear and honest as possible. This creates a surprising amount of friction with some people, and it baffles me as to why. The Line is a perfect example of this.
When I asked The Line to place his things in the lockbox he asked me, "How do I know you won't take anything?" This is a perfectly reasonable question. The answer, of course, is that he'll be in the bathroom with all his stuff locked up in a box, and I'll have the key outside. Neither of us can access the materials in the lockbox. Halfway through explaining this to The Line, however, he interrupts me by saying: "How do I know you ain't a magician?"
So, now I have to temporarily abandon the first question and answer the second: "Sir, I assure you I'm not a magician. Neither of us will be able to touch the things in the box." Yes, the magician question was a joke. But I still had to answer it seriously. Why? Because what if it wasn't a joke? Crazier things have happened. The running theme here is that people will try anything, absolutely anything to cheat on a drug test, if they have to.
Now that the foolishness about me being a sorcerer are put aside, I try to revisit the original question about the lockbox and the key. But again, he interrupts me: "Man, it was a joke. I'm just messin' with you."
"I try not to mess around at work, sir," I tell him. And this was the point I crossed the line with The Line.
Not appreciating his joke was essentially the most horrid thing I could have possibly done to this man. From this point on it was a war. Every instruction I gave him was a battle. Everything was met with an icy stare. He suddenly had a problem with washing his hands with cold water. (Why is there no hot water in the sink next to our bathroom? Beats me, but there isn't.) He is entitled to hot water. He wants to know why he can't flush the toilet. I can't get two words out of my mouth without another interruption about how rude I am or how ridiculous drug testing is.
Eventually we manage to get The Line's sample poured into the split bottles. All that's left is for him to initial the bottles, sign the forms, and then I can be rid of him. He snatches the two bottles from my hands, stares me right in the eyes, and without breaking his gaze he quickly and flippantly puts a line on each sticker.
"Sir, I need you to please initial each bottle."
"Those are my initials."
"That's just a line."
"That's how I write my initials."
"I need you to please write T. L."
Again he snatches the two bottles and scribbles the initials T. L. onto each one in the most terrible chicken-scratch handwriting I've ever seen in my life. He practically throws them at me. "There. We done?"
"No sir," I reply as I place the bottles in the sample bag. "Now I need you to read and sign step five, right h--"
The Line snatches the pen from my hand before I can finish and very firmly draws a line in the signature field. Well, at least it's the correct field.
"Sir, I need you to actually sign your name."
"That's my name."
"Sir, that's a line."
"That's how I sign my name."
"No, it isn't."
"Are you patronizing me, boy?"
"No, but I can see your signature on your driver's license, and it isn't a line."
"I don't care."
The Line crosses his arms. We are at an impasse. There's no way I'm going to get him to sign the form. There are a lot of things I could explain to The Line. For example, I could explain that his company may choose not to hire him if he refuses to take a drug test (which, by the way, is what he's doing if he doesn't sign the paperwork saying it's his sample). I could explain that the lab might get audited by the Department of Transportation, his sample might get pulled out of their freezer, and they might find his refusal to test and revoke his license. He might face fines or, worse, lose his CDL forever. Which means no more working in his field. For the rest of his life.
Of course, I can't get any of this out. He red-lights every word I say by reaffirming: "I don't care."
"Okay," I shrug. I hand him his copies of the paperwork and send him on his way. Once he's gone, I write "REFUSED TO SIGN FORM" in huge letters in the remarks field on the lab's copy of the form.
The company which sent The Line to our office is actually pretty lax about the federal standards they're supposed to follow, so chances are good that nothing will happen to The Line. However, I've dealt with companies that will blacklist people who refuse to test. I've had more than a couple desperate phone calls from men who were tough and invincible on drug test day, who now all of a sudden have lost their job or their license and need me to fix it.
The DoT standards are strict and maybe a little cruel, but they are what they are. I can't imagine anyone who works in a field that requires a CDL could possibly not know that. Why anyone would risk their livelihood because some kid didn't think his lame joke was funny is beyond my grasp.
This was anecdote the second. I'll post the third in a couple of days.
The Line was a tall man who had come in to do a pre-employment drug test for a towing company, which means he has a commercial driver's license, and therefore his drug test needs to follow federal rather than state standards. The Line's major problem is that he's a clown, and as veteran peemeister readers will know I am fairly incompatible with clowns.
When I ask someone a question about a service they are providing me, I like to get a clear and honest answer. When someone asks me a question about the drug test collection I'm conducting, I like to make my answers as clear and honest as possible. This creates a surprising amount of friction with some people, and it baffles me as to why. The Line is a perfect example of this.
When I asked The Line to place his things in the lockbox he asked me, "How do I know you won't take anything?" This is a perfectly reasonable question. The answer, of course, is that he'll be in the bathroom with all his stuff locked up in a box, and I'll have the key outside. Neither of us can access the materials in the lockbox. Halfway through explaining this to The Line, however, he interrupts me by saying: "How do I know you ain't a magician?"
So, now I have to temporarily abandon the first question and answer the second: "Sir, I assure you I'm not a magician. Neither of us will be able to touch the things in the box." Yes, the magician question was a joke. But I still had to answer it seriously. Why? Because what if it wasn't a joke? Crazier things have happened. The running theme here is that people will try anything, absolutely anything to cheat on a drug test, if they have to.
Now that the foolishness about me being a sorcerer are put aside, I try to revisit the original question about the lockbox and the key. But again, he interrupts me: "Man, it was a joke. I'm just messin' with you."
"I try not to mess around at work, sir," I tell him. And this was the point I crossed the line with The Line.
Not appreciating his joke was essentially the most horrid thing I could have possibly done to this man. From this point on it was a war. Every instruction I gave him was a battle. Everything was met with an icy stare. He suddenly had a problem with washing his hands with cold water. (Why is there no hot water in the sink next to our bathroom? Beats me, but there isn't.) He is entitled to hot water. He wants to know why he can't flush the toilet. I can't get two words out of my mouth without another interruption about how rude I am or how ridiculous drug testing is.
Eventually we manage to get The Line's sample poured into the split bottles. All that's left is for him to initial the bottles, sign the forms, and then I can be rid of him. He snatches the two bottles from my hands, stares me right in the eyes, and without breaking his gaze he quickly and flippantly puts a line on each sticker.
"Sir, I need you to please initial each bottle."
"Those are my initials."
"That's just a line."
"That's how I write my initials."
"I need you to please write T. L."
Again he snatches the two bottles and scribbles the initials T. L. onto each one in the most terrible chicken-scratch handwriting I've ever seen in my life. He practically throws them at me. "There. We done?"
"No sir," I reply as I place the bottles in the sample bag. "Now I need you to read and sign step five, right h--"
The Line snatches the pen from my hand before I can finish and very firmly draws a line in the signature field. Well, at least it's the correct field.
"Sir, I need you to actually sign your name."
"That's my name."
"Sir, that's a line."
"That's how I sign my name."
"No, it isn't."
"Are you patronizing me, boy?"
"No, but I can see your signature on your driver's license, and it isn't a line."
"I don't care."
The Line crosses his arms. We are at an impasse. There's no way I'm going to get him to sign the form. There are a lot of things I could explain to The Line. For example, I could explain that his company may choose not to hire him if he refuses to take a drug test (which, by the way, is what he's doing if he doesn't sign the paperwork saying it's his sample). I could explain that the lab might get audited by the Department of Transportation, his sample might get pulled out of their freezer, and they might find his refusal to test and revoke his license. He might face fines or, worse, lose his CDL forever. Which means no more working in his field. For the rest of his life.
Of course, I can't get any of this out. He red-lights every word I say by reaffirming: "I don't care."
"Okay," I shrug. I hand him his copies of the paperwork and send him on his way. Once he's gone, I write "REFUSED TO SIGN FORM" in huge letters in the remarks field on the lab's copy of the form.
The company which sent The Line to our office is actually pretty lax about the federal standards they're supposed to follow, so chances are good that nothing will happen to The Line. However, I've dealt with companies that will blacklist people who refuse to test. I've had more than a couple desperate phone calls from men who were tough and invincible on drug test day, who now all of a sudden have lost their job or their license and need me to fix it.
The DoT standards are strict and maybe a little cruel, but they are what they are. I can't imagine anyone who works in a field that requires a CDL could possibly not know that. Why anyone would risk their livelihood because some kid didn't think his lame joke was funny is beyond my grasp.
This was anecdote the second. I'll post the third in a couple of days.
12.12.2006
The predicament.
Mr. Greasy hikes up his way-too-baggy pants and asks me, "Hey, is that my piss?"
Just about to drop Mr. Greasy's sample into the baggie with his paperwork, I freeze. "Excuse me?"
"How do I know that's my piss?"
Sigh.
Pulling the sample bottle back out of the bag, I point to Mr. Greasy's initials and explain: "You initialed here stating that this was your sample."
"But you coulda switched it with someone else's."
"Sir, you watched as I poured your urine into this bottle and sealed it with the sticker. That's when I asked you to initial the side of the bottle."
"I wasn't lookin'. I was over there."
Alright, let's play games. I love games. I always win.
I collect as much calm as possible, and mutter, "Okay. I will discard this sample and we will do another, more secure collection."
Mr. Greasy tries to object as I pitch his bottle of urine into the garbage can.
"Yo, what didja do that for!?"
"There is doubt as to whether it was actually your sample. I can't in good faith send it to the lab to be tested. We're going to have to do it again."
"Dude, no, it's cool, I trust you."
"Sorry, nothing I can do at this point. If there's any doubt at all about whose urine it is, I can't send it up and risk some kind of problem."
"God damn it, man. So I gotta drink more water and sit there another hour?"
"If that's what it takes, yes. Please have a seat in the lobby."
And thus was Mr. Greasy defeated.
Make no mistake, this was not a simple honest case of someone having doubts about their drug test collection. This was a punk kid who knew a guy who knew a guy who snuck a positive sample through by claiming his urine had been switched.
Let's rewind a bit look at how this could have went down, shall we?
"How do I know that's my piss?"
Sigh.
Pulling the sample bottle back out of the bag, I point to Mr. Greasy's initials and explain: "You initialed here stating that this was your sample."
"But you coulda switched it with someone else's."
"Sir, I couldn't have done that. This is definately your urine."
"Well, dude, if you say so."
A few days pass, and Mr. Greasy's sample comes back positive for THC. One of our data girls gives him a call, goes through the whole spiel, and then...
"Well, I told the guy when I was there that I thought he switched my piss. So that wasn't mine."
The seeds of doubt thus sewn, we'd have no choice but to offer the guy a retest. Which of course was his original intention, anyway. Because like I said, he knew a guy who knew a guy who got away with it.
This is one of the red flag things I have to be on the lookout for when doing collections. I actually find myself wishing sometimes that people would have a little more imagination when they cheat. Sneaked-in sample? Ho hum. Guy scribbles all over the wrong places on the forms? Been there, done that. Lady insists on using her own personal "hand sanitizer" instead of our soap and water to wash her hands? Give me a break. It's like everyone reads the same "1001 Ways to Cheat on a Drug Test" handbook.
Mr. Greasy drank about nine cups of water and sheepishly did a second collection in about an hour. When I said "secure" I meant "secure". I gave him stump-dumb instructions along the lines of "I will now pour the sample into this bottle. Please watch as I do so. Now please watch as I affix this sticker over the top of the bottle..." I then read the form to him and underlined the exact portion for him to sign. He was not happy that I left him without any wiggle room.
I wonder if Mr. Greasy had gotten away with it, and passed his test, and got hired on at the car dealership he was applying at, if he would be as attentive to his job as I am to mine. Maybe he's the type who gets high on his personal time and doesn't let it affect his job at all. Or maybe he's the type who would have snuck off to the break room every chance he got to toke up.
Maybe he's not a user at all, and just thought it would be fun to see what happens when he indirectly accuses the drug test collector of switching his sample. Or maybe, just maybe, he honestly couldn't tell whether or not I had made a switch. Maybe he had a legitimate gripe.
Somehow, I doubt it. I've been doing this so long now I can spot 'em a mile away.
We're two people down in the office today, and on top of that I'm hopped up on DayQuil. Whatever Mr. Greasy's deal was, I was in no kind of mood to put up with it.
Just about to drop Mr. Greasy's sample into the baggie with his paperwork, I freeze. "Excuse me?"
"How do I know that's my piss?"
Sigh.
Pulling the sample bottle back out of the bag, I point to Mr. Greasy's initials and explain: "You initialed here stating that this was your sample."
"But you coulda switched it with someone else's."
"Sir, you watched as I poured your urine into this bottle and sealed it with the sticker. That's when I asked you to initial the side of the bottle."
"I wasn't lookin'. I was over there."
Alright, let's play games. I love games. I always win.
I collect as much calm as possible, and mutter, "Okay. I will discard this sample and we will do another, more secure collection."
Mr. Greasy tries to object as I pitch his bottle of urine into the garbage can.
"Yo, what didja do that for!?"
"There is doubt as to whether it was actually your sample. I can't in good faith send it to the lab to be tested. We're going to have to do it again."
"Dude, no, it's cool, I trust you."
"Sorry, nothing I can do at this point. If there's any doubt at all about whose urine it is, I can't send it up and risk some kind of problem."
"God damn it, man. So I gotta drink more water and sit there another hour?"
"If that's what it takes, yes. Please have a seat in the lobby."
And thus was Mr. Greasy defeated.
Make no mistake, this was not a simple honest case of someone having doubts about their drug test collection. This was a punk kid who knew a guy who knew a guy who snuck a positive sample through by claiming his urine had been switched.
Let's rewind a bit look at how this could have went down, shall we?
"How do I know that's my piss?"
Sigh.
Pulling the sample bottle back out of the bag, I point to Mr. Greasy's initials and explain: "You initialed here stating that this was your sample."
"But you coulda switched it with someone else's."
"Sir, I couldn't have done that. This is definately your urine."
"Well, dude, if you say so."
A few days pass, and Mr. Greasy's sample comes back positive for THC. One of our data girls gives him a call, goes through the whole spiel, and then...
"Well, I told the guy when I was there that I thought he switched my piss. So that wasn't mine."
The seeds of doubt thus sewn, we'd have no choice but to offer the guy a retest. Which of course was his original intention, anyway. Because like I said, he knew a guy who knew a guy who got away with it.
This is one of the red flag things I have to be on the lookout for when doing collections. I actually find myself wishing sometimes that people would have a little more imagination when they cheat. Sneaked-in sample? Ho hum. Guy scribbles all over the wrong places on the forms? Been there, done that. Lady insists on using her own personal "hand sanitizer" instead of our soap and water to wash her hands? Give me a break. It's like everyone reads the same "1001 Ways to Cheat on a Drug Test" handbook.
Mr. Greasy drank about nine cups of water and sheepishly did a second collection in about an hour. When I said "secure" I meant "secure". I gave him stump-dumb instructions along the lines of "I will now pour the sample into this bottle. Please watch as I do so. Now please watch as I affix this sticker over the top of the bottle..." I then read the form to him and underlined the exact portion for him to sign. He was not happy that I left him without any wiggle room.
I wonder if Mr. Greasy had gotten away with it, and passed his test, and got hired on at the car dealership he was applying at, if he would be as attentive to his job as I am to mine. Maybe he's the type who gets high on his personal time and doesn't let it affect his job at all. Or maybe he's the type who would have snuck off to the break room every chance he got to toke up.
Maybe he's not a user at all, and just thought it would be fun to see what happens when he indirectly accuses the drug test collector of switching his sample. Or maybe, just maybe, he honestly couldn't tell whether or not I had made a switch. Maybe he had a legitimate gripe.
Somehow, I doubt it. I've been doing this so long now I can spot 'em a mile away.
We're two people down in the office today, and on top of that I'm hopped up on DayQuil. Whatever Mr. Greasy's deal was, I was in no kind of mood to put up with it.
11.15.2006
Not fake, just clueless.
I pull the next donor's paperwork out of the slot and check the ID it's attached to.
Robert Alvarez
Painter
1234 Address Rd
Tampa FL
Painter
1234 Address Rd
Tampa FL
It's a driver's license from 1995, torn practically to shreds. Instead of getting a new license issued, or even just renewing it through the mail or online, Mr. Alvarez has printed little stickers with his name, occupation and updated address to stick right on his license.
Around the edges of the sticker I can see the dirty, gluey residue of stickers which have been replaced. For some reason, this completely unacceptable ID has passed inspection at the front desk.
I call Mr. Alvarez up and explain why I can't accept his ID. I need to be able to see the original name printed on it. He does, at least, look like the picture on the driver's license.
(Long, boring aside: in Florida, and many other states too I assmue, you can renew your driver's license through the mail. The way this works now is they send you a new license with the picture they have of you have on file, which sometimes leads to situations where the person will hand you an ID with a picture that is ten years out of date. Even more ludicrous, they used to not send a new card at all, but just a sticker to put on the back. That leads to situations where not only is the picture out of date, but the expiration date on the card is ancient. They stopped issuing licenses like that back in the mid- to late-90s, but some people still have licenses from earlier than that. Mr. Alvarez was just such a case. His license wasn't expired, just very old and obviously tampered with.)
I explain to Mr. Alvarez that if he wants me to accept the license, he has to allow me to peel the sticker off and examine the name underneath.
"Oh, yeah man, no problem. I have a whole stack of them at home, so don't worry about it."
I peel the sticker off and verify that this is, in fact, Mr. Alvarez's license. Oh goodie.
Fortunately, he doesn't take offense to what amounts to an accusation on my part. In fact, he seems delighted that I pointed it out. He explains that he moves around a lot, so every time he gets a new address he has to print new stickers. He says this is easier than dealing with the DMV every few months. He explains that he goes through this every time his ID is needed for something, so he's used to it.
Everyone knows a guy who will say things like, "Hey, I've got a great idea for a bumper sticker!" and then proceed to describe an excruciatingly lame pun which, in his own head, is the most fabulous comedy mankind has ever envisioned. You feel bad for that guy. He's simply not as clever as he would like to believe, and has absolutely no idea. Mr. Alvarez is that guy. He is very, very proud of his little ID stickers, and the grin on his face while he was explaining their history and function was simply remarkable.
While I'm working through Mr. Alvarez's paperwork, I calmly explain that it is not a good idea to tamper with his driver's license in any way, even if his intentions were good. He brushes me off saying "It's not a big deal."
I would love to meet the cop on duty that pulls Mr. Alvarez over for a broken tail light one day. "This guy, he covered up parts of his ID with sticky labels and I had to peel them away. Then he tried to explain why he was so brilliant and what a great idea it was. I didn't even realize I was beating the stupid out of him with my nightstick until about twenty minutes later when my partner got back with the coffee and pulled me off."
Names in this post have been changed to protect the clueless.
Around the edges of the sticker I can see the dirty, gluey residue of stickers which have been replaced. For some reason, this completely unacceptable ID has passed inspection at the front desk.
I call Mr. Alvarez up and explain why I can't accept his ID. I need to be able to see the original name printed on it. He does, at least, look like the picture on the driver's license.
(Long, boring aside: in Florida, and many other states too I assmue, you can renew your driver's license through the mail. The way this works now is they send you a new license with the picture they have of you have on file, which sometimes leads to situations where the person will hand you an ID with a picture that is ten years out of date. Even more ludicrous, they used to not send a new card at all, but just a sticker to put on the back. That leads to situations where not only is the picture out of date, but the expiration date on the card is ancient. They stopped issuing licenses like that back in the mid- to late-90s, but some people still have licenses from earlier than that. Mr. Alvarez was just such a case. His license wasn't expired, just very old and obviously tampered with.)
I explain to Mr. Alvarez that if he wants me to accept the license, he has to allow me to peel the sticker off and examine the name underneath.
"Oh, yeah man, no problem. I have a whole stack of them at home, so don't worry about it."
I peel the sticker off and verify that this is, in fact, Mr. Alvarez's license. Oh goodie.
Fortunately, he doesn't take offense to what amounts to an accusation on my part. In fact, he seems delighted that I pointed it out. He explains that he moves around a lot, so every time he gets a new address he has to print new stickers. He says this is easier than dealing with the DMV every few months. He explains that he goes through this every time his ID is needed for something, so he's used to it.
Everyone knows a guy who will say things like, "Hey, I've got a great idea for a bumper sticker!" and then proceed to describe an excruciatingly lame pun which, in his own head, is the most fabulous comedy mankind has ever envisioned. You feel bad for that guy. He's simply not as clever as he would like to believe, and has absolutely no idea. Mr. Alvarez is that guy. He is very, very proud of his little ID stickers, and the grin on his face while he was explaining their history and function was simply remarkable.
While I'm working through Mr. Alvarez's paperwork, I calmly explain that it is not a good idea to tamper with his driver's license in any way, even if his intentions were good. He brushes me off saying "It's not a big deal."
I would love to meet the cop on duty that pulls Mr. Alvarez over for a broken tail light one day. "This guy, he covered up parts of his ID with sticky labels and I had to peel them away. Then he tried to explain why he was so brilliant and what a great idea it was. I didn't even realize I was beating the stupid out of him with my nightstick until about twenty minutes later when my partner got back with the coffee and pulled me off."
Names in this post have been changed to protect the clueless.
9.20.2006
Ain't random.
"I'm here for a random drug test, man."
He says random sarcastically, and makes mock quotes with his index and middle fingers. I can tell immediately that this one is going to be a battle.
"I'll tell you how it works, man. My boss knows I'm the only guy in the shop that'll come up clean, so when it's time to do a random test, he sends me down. Random my left nut."
I tell him to sign in, and he does, although begrudgingly. Despite his assurance that he's the only clean worker at Shop X, nine other Shop X employees have been in today. Random selections, you see.
"I don't have any idea how something can be random if my name gets pulled every single week, you know? What do you think of that?"
"I think it's something you ought to take up with your employer," I tell him truthfully, "I have no control over selections."
"Yeah, but what do they do? Do they go alphabetically? Pull names out of a hat?"
"I imagine they use a computer."
"Yeah well the computer's broken. I've been in here every single month for the past two years."
"If you say so, sir. Empty your pockets please."
"What did you just say?"
Uh oh. That just kind of slipped out. Now I've gone and woken the beast. It becomes clear that there's no way he's going to empty his pockets until I clarify my challenge.
"I mean, you haven't been here every month for the past two years. You're mistaken. Please empty your--"
"What do you mean, I'm mistaken? I'm telling you, I might as well just set up a cot in the back room there, as often as my boss sends me down here to drug test. I don't know how they pick the names, but it ain't random."
"Okay. Now I just need you to empty your pockets--"
"Doesn't this bother you at all? Not one bit, huh?"
Sigh.
"Does what bother me, sir?"
"You don't care one bit that I'm being treated unfairly? That I have to come down here all the time while there are crackheads and burnouts at the shop who haven't been tested in five years? You think that's fair, huh?"
"Sir, if you have a problem with the selection process, you'll need to take it up with your employer. I have no control over that."
My lack of concern for this man's insufferable plight is driving him to new levels of anger. It's clear that he hates taking a drug test. Everyone does. But he doesn't have the balls to actually bring it to his employer, so he's taking it out on me. Oh joy.
"So what, you just get a list of names, and you don't care, huh? Don't care one bit that guys like me keep getting screwed while there are guys up there who smoke joints in the breakroom and never get tested?"
"I actually do get a list, once a month. If you want, I can pull all the lists dating back to 2003 and check them for you, to see if you really have been pulled more often than you should have."
Stunned silence. He starts emptying his pockets.
"No, no point in you doing that. You just gotta do what you gotta do, you know? Grin and bear it, gotta break your back for a paycheck, making the rich man richer."
"Fill this above the top of the temperature sticker, please. Bring the cup back to me when you're done."
Once his collection is finished and he's out of my hair, I go pull the lists. He hasn't been to my office since March 2004.
There are guys that get pulled more often than others. And there probably are guys at that shop who haven't been pulled in five years. That's what happens when your selection process is unpredictable. That is the very definition of the word "random". In all honesty, he's one of the luckier ones. There are guys who really have been pulled two months in a row, or more.
I feel like calling this guy's boss, but I won't. I know the bossman over there. If I called to tattle, his life would just take a turn for the miserable. He probably would end up on my list the next two or three times. And he certainly wouldn't be complaining about it any more.
Oh well. Back to work...
One unlucky fellow was picked the last week of August '05, and the first week of September. Which means he was in my office two days in a row, taking two separate drug tests. I don't recall if he complained about it or not.
He says random sarcastically, and makes mock quotes with his index and middle fingers. I can tell immediately that this one is going to be a battle.
"I'll tell you how it works, man. My boss knows I'm the only guy in the shop that'll come up clean, so when it's time to do a random test, he sends me down. Random my left nut."
I tell him to sign in, and he does, although begrudgingly. Despite his assurance that he's the only clean worker at Shop X, nine other Shop X employees have been in today. Random selections, you see.
"I don't have any idea how something can be random if my name gets pulled every single week, you know? What do you think of that?"
"I think it's something you ought to take up with your employer," I tell him truthfully, "I have no control over selections."
"Yeah, but what do they do? Do they go alphabetically? Pull names out of a hat?"
"I imagine they use a computer."
"Yeah well the computer's broken. I've been in here every single month for the past two years."
"If you say so, sir. Empty your pockets please."
"What did you just say?"
Uh oh. That just kind of slipped out. Now I've gone and woken the beast. It becomes clear that there's no way he's going to empty his pockets until I clarify my challenge.
"I mean, you haven't been here every month for the past two years. You're mistaken. Please empty your--"
"What do you mean, I'm mistaken? I'm telling you, I might as well just set up a cot in the back room there, as often as my boss sends me down here to drug test. I don't know how they pick the names, but it ain't random."
"Okay. Now I just need you to empty your pockets--"
"Doesn't this bother you at all? Not one bit, huh?"
Sigh.
"Does what bother me, sir?"
"You don't care one bit that I'm being treated unfairly? That I have to come down here all the time while there are crackheads and burnouts at the shop who haven't been tested in five years? You think that's fair, huh?"
"Sir, if you have a problem with the selection process, you'll need to take it up with your employer. I have no control over that."
My lack of concern for this man's insufferable plight is driving him to new levels of anger. It's clear that he hates taking a drug test. Everyone does. But he doesn't have the balls to actually bring it to his employer, so he's taking it out on me. Oh joy.
"So what, you just get a list of names, and you don't care, huh? Don't care one bit that guys like me keep getting screwed while there are guys up there who smoke joints in the breakroom and never get tested?"
"I actually do get a list, once a month. If you want, I can pull all the lists dating back to 2003 and check them for you, to see if you really have been pulled more often than you should have."
Stunned silence. He starts emptying his pockets.
"No, no point in you doing that. You just gotta do what you gotta do, you know? Grin and bear it, gotta break your back for a paycheck, making the rich man richer."
"Fill this above the top of the temperature sticker, please. Bring the cup back to me when you're done."
Once his collection is finished and he's out of my hair, I go pull the lists. He hasn't been to my office since March 2004.
There are guys that get pulled more often than others. And there probably are guys at that shop who haven't been pulled in five years. That's what happens when your selection process is unpredictable. That is the very definition of the word "random". In all honesty, he's one of the luckier ones. There are guys who really have been pulled two months in a row, or more.
I feel like calling this guy's boss, but I won't. I know the bossman over there. If I called to tattle, his life would just take a turn for the miserable. He probably would end up on my list the next two or three times. And he certainly wouldn't be complaining about it any more.
Oh well. Back to work...
One unlucky fellow was picked the last week of August '05, and the first week of September. Which means he was in my office two days in a row, taking two separate drug tests. I don't recall if he complained about it or not.
6.30.2006
Special rules for special people.
I said I was going to update yesterday, and I didn't, and I'm glad I didn't. I like writing these entries but I find the writing improves the longer I'm detached from a situation. If I were to have hopped right in yesterday, when I said I would, this would have just been a page-long incoherent rant. I know I still slip up from time to time and post those but I do try to avoid it. I would much rather wait a few days, cool down, and then reflect on what happened in order to tell an interesting story than just list the things at my office that piss me off and then glibly pop out a "people are stupid, hyuck hyuck hyuck."
So just for the record, I don't believe people are stupid nor do I hate my job. I believe people are selectively inattentive, and usually stubborn, and the combonation of those things often gives the appearance of stupid... but to someone who is being selectively inattentive and stubborn himself.
Which is not to say, of course, that some people aren't stupid, or that I don't deal with some stupid people here at the pee clinic... but those stories aren't as interesting as you might expect, which is why I don't write about them (often).
Anyway, enough about that. Let's talk about the special privelages one of my largest clients enjoy.
First, they get a huge break on their bill at the end of the month. The exact specifics of the deal I don't know (nor would I mention here if I did), but suffice it to say they pay less per drug test than most of my other clients.
Second, they send me a list monthly with all the people they're sending down to be tested, a courtesy I'm sure we would not extend to most clients. It simplifies things for them because they can easily identify who came down to my office and when.
Third, they get one day a week all to themselves. I come into the office and open a half-hour early, during which time I do collections only for this one client. All they have to do is get their guys here.
Fourth, I keep a sign-in sheet specifically for this company which I would fax to them at 9am each morning I opened early. That is, on the specific days the company does its random drug testing.
In theory, it looks like a very good deal for these guys. We're essentially bending over backwards for them. Problem is, they don't take advantage of what they've been given.
The lists of names? Always late. The early mornings Nobody shows up. And since nobody shows up, all I can fax them is an empty sign-in sheet, which is meaningless. What actually occurs is this: one person from the company will show up before 8am, when I am opened specially for his company. A few more people will trickle in throughout the day, often on my lunch break. Most of them show up the following day.
Really what this boils down to is: I am sick of getting up early for nothing. I'm sure everyone in America can sympathize.
The past few weeks I haven't bothered keeping a separate sign-in sheet because by the 9am deadline, the thing would only have one name on it. I received a phone call yesterday asking why this was, and I explained to the guy on the other end that the whole "separate sign-in sheet" only works if they actually manage to get their employees down here at the time they promised. I also told him that only one person was showing up during my early half-hour, and could we please try to fix that situation?
I didn't bring up the fact that it's now the end of June and I still don't have July's list.
Of course I'm not in any position to make demands of this guy or his company. The agreement reached was that I will continue coming in at 7:30 on the days he picks, and continue faxing him a sign-in sheet even if it is empty. A company as big as his (and please note that it is not "his company" so much at is "a company he works for, and is in charge of the department which handles drug testing") obviously the impression that things are running efficiently is more important than things actually runnin efficiently.
Oh well.
Hmm... that came out a little ranty anyway. I'll try to work on that.
The story I had planned to tell today was about Mexicans not having translators. But I've already told enough of those, haven't I?
So just for the record, I don't believe people are stupid nor do I hate my job. I believe people are selectively inattentive, and usually stubborn, and the combonation of those things often gives the appearance of stupid... but to someone who is being selectively inattentive and stubborn himself.
Which is not to say, of course, that some people aren't stupid, or that I don't deal with some stupid people here at the pee clinic... but those stories aren't as interesting as you might expect, which is why I don't write about them (often).
Anyway, enough about that. Let's talk about the special privelages one of my largest clients enjoy.
First, they get a huge break on their bill at the end of the month. The exact specifics of the deal I don't know (nor would I mention here if I did), but suffice it to say they pay less per drug test than most of my other clients.
Second, they send me a list monthly with all the people they're sending down to be tested, a courtesy I'm sure we would not extend to most clients. It simplifies things for them because they can easily identify who came down to my office and when.
Third, they get one day a week all to themselves. I come into the office and open a half-hour early, during which time I do collections only for this one client. All they have to do is get their guys here.
Fourth, I keep a sign-in sheet specifically for this company which I would fax to them at 9am each morning I opened early. That is, on the specific days the company does its random drug testing.
In theory, it looks like a very good deal for these guys. We're essentially bending over backwards for them. Problem is, they don't take advantage of what they've been given.
The lists of names? Always late. The early mornings Nobody shows up. And since nobody shows up, all I can fax them is an empty sign-in sheet, which is meaningless. What actually occurs is this: one person from the company will show up before 8am, when I am opened specially for his company. A few more people will trickle in throughout the day, often on my lunch break. Most of them show up the following day.
Really what this boils down to is: I am sick of getting up early for nothing. I'm sure everyone in America can sympathize.
The past few weeks I haven't bothered keeping a separate sign-in sheet because by the 9am deadline, the thing would only have one name on it. I received a phone call yesterday asking why this was, and I explained to the guy on the other end that the whole "separate sign-in sheet" only works if they actually manage to get their employees down here at the time they promised. I also told him that only one person was showing up during my early half-hour, and could we please try to fix that situation?
I didn't bring up the fact that it's now the end of June and I still don't have July's list.
Of course I'm not in any position to make demands of this guy or his company. The agreement reached was that I will continue coming in at 7:30 on the days he picks, and continue faxing him a sign-in sheet even if it is empty. A company as big as his (and please note that it is not "his company" so much at is "a company he works for, and is in charge of the department which handles drug testing") obviously the impression that things are running efficiently is more important than things actually runnin efficiently.
Oh well.
Hmm... that came out a little ranty anyway. I'll try to work on that.
The story I had planned to tell today was about Mexicans not having translators. But I've already told enough of those, haven't I?
3.22.2006
Pissing contests.
I've never had the pleasure of having an actual pissing contest with one of my clients, only metaphorical ones. In such contests the donor will try to assert himself as some kind of alpha male, transcendent, lifted above the rules that govern mere mortals. I delight in tormenting such people, especially when it can be done in such a way as to scarcely pay them any attention at all. Observe.
Once a week I have to be at the office earlier than normal in order to accomodate our largest client. At the beginning of each month I get a list of forty or fifty names of employees that have been randomly selected to show up on these pre-determined mornings for testing. So I show up early, do collections for a solid hour or two, and then revert to my typical day of killing time.
The pissing contest is initiated by Mr. Pissy, who is in a bad mood that he has been selected for random testing at all. We get to the part in the sign-in procedure where I need to see Mr. Pissy's photo ID. Instead of giving it to me, he wants to argue about the process by which names are randomly chosen in his company.
"Sorry sir, that's something you'd have to ask your supervisors."
"How do you know who is supposed to be here?"
"I have a list."
"Can I see the list?"
"No."
"I'm not giving you my ID until I see the list."
Okay, suit yourself. I tell Mr. Pissy that if he should have a seat until I have a chance to help the three men waiting behind him. He sits there fuming while I conduct these three collections. During the elapsed 20 minutes three more men have come in behind him. After the third collection is done he approaches once again, this time with his ID in his hand. I go to take it.
"Not so fast, I want to see this list."
"I'm not authorized to show the list to anyone."
He throws his ID on the counter, muttering something about how this is all ridiculous. I fill in his name, birthdate and phone number. I'm halfway through writing his social security number (which is on my list) when he tries to stop me.
"You're not allowed to put my social on there."
"Of course I am. All federal drug tests require it."
"Not if I say you can't."
"Well then," I shrug, "you'll just have to have a seat and wait for the gentlemen who don't say I can't."
I proceed to take the next three men ahead of him. Two of them hand me their social security cards, which is a nice but unnecessary gesture. I get the impression that these guys are going out of their way to make a statement to Mr. Pissy about how not ridiculous the process is if you don't act like a child.
The office empty once again, I ask Mr. Pissy if he's ready to continue. He doesn't protest the use of his social security number again.
I take him back and ask him to empty his pockets. He puts his ID and sunglasses on the counter and holds his hand out, expecting me to hand him the sample cup.
"Everything out of all your pockets, please," I tell him.
He places a wad of tissue and his keys on the counter and then holds his hand out again.
"That includes your wallet, radio, cell phone, and your knife case, please."
"You're not getting my wallet."
"I'll lock it up for you if you want but--"
"You're not getting my wallet."
Okay, suit yourself. I throw the sample cup away and head out to the lobby where a few more people have started emerging. It's now past the time I'd normally be open. Mr. Pissy has been here over 40 minutes.
I help a couple young ladies get a job at a call center somewhere before Mr. Pissy speaks up again. "Look, are we gonna do this or not?"
"Depends on whether or not you want to cooperate."
"This is ridiculous. I'm out of here."
I inform Mr. Pissy that if he leaves I have to record his paperwork as having refused to test.
"That's idiotic! Are you saying I can't leave?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't."
"I'm calling my boss to report you. You can't be doing this stuff to people."
I have his supervisor on my speed dial. By the time he's whipped out his cell phone I'm already talking to his boss. "Good morning, it's Richard. Oh, pretty good. Listen, I have one of your guys here, says he wants to talk to you. Okay, hold on."
I hand Mr. Pissy the phone. He doesn't believe what he's seing. Of course he had no intention of calling anyone at all; he was bluffing in order to scare me. I know from experience that employers (and this employer especially) don't like to hear about people having problems with their drug tests.
Mr. Pissy stammers something out to his boss. Suddenly he's a little lamb. "No, sir, he did-- he didn't tell me about the social thing. I didn't know about that. No, he didn't say nothing about having a box to put my stuff in. Yeah I've been here for like 45... well almost an hour. Yes sir. Yeah, okay."
He hands my phone back to me. "He wants to talk to you again."
I have a pre-existing arrangement with this employer. Usually I stack up their copies of the paperwork, and once a week they send a guy around to pick them up. For this man, though, The Bossman wants Mr. Pissy to deliver the company's copy to him personally. I can only imagine there's going to be an interesting conversation there.
Mr. Pissy's collection goes off without a hitch after that. Suddenly all the little roadblocks don't seem to bother him.
I cross him off the list. Despite being the first from his company to show up today, he's the last one finished. He turned what should have been a five-minute collection into a fifty-five minute pissing contest, in which he scored zero points. I call The Bossman back and tell him that Mr. Pissy is on the way with his form.
Then, my busiest, earliest morning behind me, I sit down to get back into my book.
This story is actually a month old. Mr. Pissy showed up on his company list again this month. Today he didn't seem to mind drug testing at all. Go figure.
Once a week I have to be at the office earlier than normal in order to accomodate our largest client. At the beginning of each month I get a list of forty or fifty names of employees that have been randomly selected to show up on these pre-determined mornings for testing. So I show up early, do collections for a solid hour or two, and then revert to my typical day of killing time.
The pissing contest is initiated by Mr. Pissy, who is in a bad mood that he has been selected for random testing at all. We get to the part in the sign-in procedure where I need to see Mr. Pissy's photo ID. Instead of giving it to me, he wants to argue about the process by which names are randomly chosen in his company.
"Sorry sir, that's something you'd have to ask your supervisors."
"How do you know who is supposed to be here?"
"I have a list."
"Can I see the list?"
"No."
"I'm not giving you my ID until I see the list."
Okay, suit yourself. I tell Mr. Pissy that if he should have a seat until I have a chance to help the three men waiting behind him. He sits there fuming while I conduct these three collections. During the elapsed 20 minutes three more men have come in behind him. After the third collection is done he approaches once again, this time with his ID in his hand. I go to take it.
"Not so fast, I want to see this list."
"I'm not authorized to show the list to anyone."
He throws his ID on the counter, muttering something about how this is all ridiculous. I fill in his name, birthdate and phone number. I'm halfway through writing his social security number (which is on my list) when he tries to stop me.
"You're not allowed to put my social on there."
"Of course I am. All federal drug tests require it."
"Not if I say you can't."
"Well then," I shrug, "you'll just have to have a seat and wait for the gentlemen who don't say I can't."
I proceed to take the next three men ahead of him. Two of them hand me their social security cards, which is a nice but unnecessary gesture. I get the impression that these guys are going out of their way to make a statement to Mr. Pissy about how not ridiculous the process is if you don't act like a child.
The office empty once again, I ask Mr. Pissy if he's ready to continue. He doesn't protest the use of his social security number again.
I take him back and ask him to empty his pockets. He puts his ID and sunglasses on the counter and holds his hand out, expecting me to hand him the sample cup.
"Everything out of all your pockets, please," I tell him.
He places a wad of tissue and his keys on the counter and then holds his hand out again.
"That includes your wallet, radio, cell phone, and your knife case, please."
"You're not getting my wallet."
"I'll lock it up for you if you want but--"
"You're not getting my wallet."
Okay, suit yourself. I throw the sample cup away and head out to the lobby where a few more people have started emerging. It's now past the time I'd normally be open. Mr. Pissy has been here over 40 minutes.
I help a couple young ladies get a job at a call center somewhere before Mr. Pissy speaks up again. "Look, are we gonna do this or not?"
"Depends on whether or not you want to cooperate."
"This is ridiculous. I'm out of here."
I inform Mr. Pissy that if he leaves I have to record his paperwork as having refused to test.
"That's idiotic! Are you saying I can't leave?"
"I'm saying you shouldn't."
"I'm calling my boss to report you. You can't be doing this stuff to people."
I have his supervisor on my speed dial. By the time he's whipped out his cell phone I'm already talking to his boss. "Good morning, it's Richard. Oh, pretty good. Listen, I have one of your guys here, says he wants to talk to you. Okay, hold on."
I hand Mr. Pissy the phone. He doesn't believe what he's seing. Of course he had no intention of calling anyone at all; he was bluffing in order to scare me. I know from experience that employers (and this employer especially) don't like to hear about people having problems with their drug tests.
Mr. Pissy stammers something out to his boss. Suddenly he's a little lamb. "No, sir, he did-- he didn't tell me about the social thing. I didn't know about that. No, he didn't say nothing about having a box to put my stuff in. Yeah I've been here for like 45... well almost an hour. Yes sir. Yeah, okay."
He hands my phone back to me. "He wants to talk to you again."
I have a pre-existing arrangement with this employer. Usually I stack up their copies of the paperwork, and once a week they send a guy around to pick them up. For this man, though, The Bossman wants Mr. Pissy to deliver the company's copy to him personally. I can only imagine there's going to be an interesting conversation there.
Mr. Pissy's collection goes off without a hitch after that. Suddenly all the little roadblocks don't seem to bother him.
I cross him off the list. Despite being the first from his company to show up today, he's the last one finished. He turned what should have been a five-minute collection into a fifty-five minute pissing contest, in which he scored zero points. I call The Bossman back and tell him that Mr. Pissy is on the way with his form.
Then, my busiest, earliest morning behind me, I sit down to get back into my book.
This story is actually a month old. Mr. Pissy showed up on his company list again this month. Today he didn't seem to mind drug testing at all. Go figure.
2.14.2006
The lockbox.
Some people decry drug testing as being invasive, and perhaps to some extent it is. I don't personally agree (after all, we're dealing with bodily waste here... what were you going to do with it, anyway?), although I do concede that the collection process itself can be irritating and even humiliating. The part I believe is most invasive, however, is where I ask you to empty your pockets.
The reason for this is obvious, of course: we don't want anyone to sneak something into the bathroom with which to adulterate the sample. Nor do we want anyone to sneak in a sample that isn't theirs. As it turns out, though, nobody likes to be separated from their belongings for any length of time. Most people simply drop their stuff in a little pile on my counter and do their business. A few guys go through the whole "this too?" routine, as though their wallet or their cell phone or their car keys are somehow exempt from the policy.
Some guys don't want to empty their pockets at all, or adamantly refuse to leave one or more of their belongings behind. For these guys, I have the lockbox. This is a small white box that will hold pretty much anything the average man can carry, and then some. The box hangs over the top of the door, so it's inside the bathroom with the donor. The key stays outside the room, with me. Thus the donor is sure I'm not stealing his credit cards, and I'm confident he's not hiding anything in his sample.
The pocket-emptying ritual is mainly a detterent, in my experience. I'm not allowed to do pat downs or strip searches, so it's still relatively simple to hide just about anything you like anywhere on your person, just so long as I can't see it. Still, you'd be surprised the kinds of things people pull out of their pockets: everything from hidden samples to little sealed packets of liquid or powder. Sometimes they sheepishly slide from their pockets to my garbage can so I don't see what they're throwing away. Sometimes they tell me they want to run out to their car, and I watch as they open the door, drop something on the seat, and then come back inside. Sometimes they just don't come back.
I know it's nothing personal, but I admit I feel offended when guys treat me like a thief. A relatively common occurence is for the guy to slip all the cash out of his billfold and count it in front of me. This is especially humorous when the gentleman in question isn't particularly wealthy; don't worry fella, your seven dollars is safe with me. The curious thing about the money-count is that there is usually very little follow-up. After the collection is done, the money is usually stuffed back into its pocket without even so much as a glance to verify that it is, in fact, the same amount.
Only once have I been actually accused of stealing someone's belongings: cash in the amount of five dollars. This from a donor whose on-site test came back flagged for both marijuana and cocaine. He swore to have me fired.
You'll notice that I've been referring only to men, up until this point. This is because women always have purses, and purses don't fit into the lockbox. I imagine with some heavy-duty shoving I could squeeze a small-ish purse inside, but most ladies carry these enormous planet-sized bags that would take at least two lockboxes to accomodate. Thus, when a woman doesn't want to leave her things behind her only course of action is to lock them in her car and then return. I recall one case in which a woman did exactly this, and then was dismayed when I asked that she leave her car keys on the counter, as though I could drive off with her SUV in the 30 seconds her back was turned.
Sometimes even the lockbox isn't enough, however. If there is a point of the collection the donor will object to, endlessly, it's the lockbox. I have formed the opinion that these are men who seek some loophole in the collection process they can exploit later on, though I don't have any real way to test this hypothesis (only a small fraction of the collections I do require on-site tests... not enough of a sample to really correlate anything with the results I see). Some men get to the pockets portion of the collection, and even after the lockbox has been offered can still find no compromise. Some end up getting angry and leaving altogether, drug test be damned.
So yeah, I understand the mentality. People simply do not like to be separated from their stuff, most of all the woman who came tearing out of the bathroom with her pants only pulled halfway up because she heard her cell phone ringing on my counter. In the universal list of priorities, "keeping your junk hidden from view of total strangers" apparently ranks below "telling Trisha I'll call her back in like ten minutes".
The largest amount of cash someone has ever left on my counter is $1200, in $100 and $20 bills. The gentleman counted it out before he went in, but not after he came out. That could have been a pretty big payday, I suppose.
The reason for this is obvious, of course: we don't want anyone to sneak something into the bathroom with which to adulterate the sample. Nor do we want anyone to sneak in a sample that isn't theirs. As it turns out, though, nobody likes to be separated from their belongings for any length of time. Most people simply drop their stuff in a little pile on my counter and do their business. A few guys go through the whole "this too?" routine, as though their wallet or their cell phone or their car keys are somehow exempt from the policy.
Some guys don't want to empty their pockets at all, or adamantly refuse to leave one or more of their belongings behind. For these guys, I have the lockbox. This is a small white box that will hold pretty much anything the average man can carry, and then some. The box hangs over the top of the door, so it's inside the bathroom with the donor. The key stays outside the room, with me. Thus the donor is sure I'm not stealing his credit cards, and I'm confident he's not hiding anything in his sample.
The pocket-emptying ritual is mainly a detterent, in my experience. I'm not allowed to do pat downs or strip searches, so it's still relatively simple to hide just about anything you like anywhere on your person, just so long as I can't see it. Still, you'd be surprised the kinds of things people pull out of their pockets: everything from hidden samples to little sealed packets of liquid or powder. Sometimes they sheepishly slide from their pockets to my garbage can so I don't see what they're throwing away. Sometimes they tell me they want to run out to their car, and I watch as they open the door, drop something on the seat, and then come back inside. Sometimes they just don't come back.
I know it's nothing personal, but I admit I feel offended when guys treat me like a thief. A relatively common occurence is for the guy to slip all the cash out of his billfold and count it in front of me. This is especially humorous when the gentleman in question isn't particularly wealthy; don't worry fella, your seven dollars is safe with me. The curious thing about the money-count is that there is usually very little follow-up. After the collection is done, the money is usually stuffed back into its pocket without even so much as a glance to verify that it is, in fact, the same amount.
Only once have I been actually accused of stealing someone's belongings: cash in the amount of five dollars. This from a donor whose on-site test came back flagged for both marijuana and cocaine. He swore to have me fired.
You'll notice that I've been referring only to men, up until this point. This is because women always have purses, and purses don't fit into the lockbox. I imagine with some heavy-duty shoving I could squeeze a small-ish purse inside, but most ladies carry these enormous planet-sized bags that would take at least two lockboxes to accomodate. Thus, when a woman doesn't want to leave her things behind her only course of action is to lock them in her car and then return. I recall one case in which a woman did exactly this, and then was dismayed when I asked that she leave her car keys on the counter, as though I could drive off with her SUV in the 30 seconds her back was turned.
Sometimes even the lockbox isn't enough, however. If there is a point of the collection the donor will object to, endlessly, it's the lockbox. I have formed the opinion that these are men who seek some loophole in the collection process they can exploit later on, though I don't have any real way to test this hypothesis (only a small fraction of the collections I do require on-site tests... not enough of a sample to really correlate anything with the results I see). Some men get to the pockets portion of the collection, and even after the lockbox has been offered can still find no compromise. Some end up getting angry and leaving altogether, drug test be damned.
So yeah, I understand the mentality. People simply do not like to be separated from their stuff, most of all the woman who came tearing out of the bathroom with her pants only pulled halfway up because she heard her cell phone ringing on my counter. In the universal list of priorities, "keeping your junk hidden from view of total strangers" apparently ranks below "telling Trisha I'll call her back in like ten minutes".
The largest amount of cash someone has ever left on my counter is $1200, in $100 and $20 bills. The gentleman counted it out before he went in, but not after he came out. That could have been a pretty big payday, I suppose.
1.09.2006
Two short stories.
A man comes into the office with four roofers in tow, all needing drug tests. "For what company?" I ask him. He replies, "SlogNat International."
SlogNat is not a name I'm familiar with. I ask if he has any paperwork.
"I've done a hundred guys here, I ain't never needed paperwork before."
But without some sort of paperwork I can't know whether or not you're my client.
"Don't worry, I am."
Oh, well, that settles it! The word of a man I've never met before and who may or may not have some incentive to purposely cause a mix-up in his company's drug testing (and yes, believe it or not, it does happen) is good enough for me. Come on in!
Except, no, not really. I don't recognize the man's company and he didn't bring me anything but his word, so I'll have to verify it. I get my supervisor on the phone and ask her to look up SlogNat in the computer.
"Nope, it's not in here."
You're sure?
"Yep, he's not ours."
I relay the information to Mr. SlogNat and he is not pleased. "Every guy who works for me done his drug test right here!" he exclaims, flailing his arms around like a rag doll. Except I've been working here two years and change, and I've never seen the name SlogNat before. He demands to speak to my supervisor.
I get her on the phone again.
"Oh, wait, did you say SlogNat? I looked up SlogNet."
I begin to apologize to Mr. SlogNat for the misunderstanding, but my boss isn't done with her assessment.
"...but his account is like $700 overdue. We can't do any more tests for him until he pays that up. Wow, last test we did for that company was 2002. No wonder nobody recognized it."
Mr. SlogNat receives this news and turns beet red. The four employees he's brought along with him begin to chitter amongst themselves.
One wonders what goes through one's mind the moment one learns one's employer is a total deadbeat. If your boss doesn't even bother to pay his bills, what assurance do you have that he's going to sign your paychecks?
SlogNat is not a name I'm familiar with. I ask if he has any paperwork.
"I've done a hundred guys here, I ain't never needed paperwork before."
But without some sort of paperwork I can't know whether or not you're my client.
"Don't worry, I am."
Oh, well, that settles it! The word of a man I've never met before and who may or may not have some incentive to purposely cause a mix-up in his company's drug testing (and yes, believe it or not, it does happen) is good enough for me. Come on in!
Except, no, not really. I don't recognize the man's company and he didn't bring me anything but his word, so I'll have to verify it. I get my supervisor on the phone and ask her to look up SlogNat in the computer.
"Nope, it's not in here."
You're sure?
"Yep, he's not ours."
I relay the information to Mr. SlogNat and he is not pleased. "Every guy who works for me done his drug test right here!" he exclaims, flailing his arms around like a rag doll. Except I've been working here two years and change, and I've never seen the name SlogNat before. He demands to speak to my supervisor.
I get her on the phone again.
"Oh, wait, did you say SlogNat? I looked up SlogNet."
I begin to apologize to Mr. SlogNat for the misunderstanding, but my boss isn't done with her assessment.
"...but his account is like $700 overdue. We can't do any more tests for him until he pays that up. Wow, last test we did for that company was 2002. No wonder nobody recognized it."
Mr. SlogNat receives this news and turns beet red. The four employees he's brought along with him begin to chitter amongst themselves.
One wonders what goes through one's mind the moment one learns one's employer is a total deadbeat. If your boss doesn't even bother to pay his bills, what assurance do you have that he's going to sign your paychecks?
We've completed Mr. Nicepen's collection and he's just signed his name to the form. "That's a nice pen," he comments. And he's right; it is a nice pen. I only use nice pens. Specifically, nice .7mm gel ink pens. My job involves a lot of writing, and I cannot bear to use cheap, scratchy pens anymore.
This does of course mean that I have an ongoing problem keeping myself stocked in pens, since nice ones tend to disappear while I'm not looking. Mr. Nicepen isn't a thief though. He at least has enough decency to ask me for one, in his own special way: "Hey, lemme get that pen."
"No," I tell him. I'm one pen short as it is. It takes six pens to keep my office fully equipped, and I'm down to five, which means one of my counters is naked as far as pens are concerned. "You can buy them at CVS, right up the street there. I think I pay four dollars for six pens."
"Come on man, lemme get that pen."
"No. I don't give away pens." Magazines, fine. Post-it notes, okay. I've even given away a phone book once. Heck, I'll sell you a Pepsi for fifty cents, if I've got one to spare. But my nice, comfortable, smooth gel ink pens? I don't think so.
"It ain't yours anyway, it's your boss's, so just gimme it," Mr. Nicepen insists.
"If I left it up to my boss I'd be using those disgusting Bic pens, or worse. I buy these myself." Thinking on it a bit, I decide to drive the point home. "I buy a lot of my own supplies. That's why I have the nice-smelling hand soap and two-ply toilet paper. I have to use this stuff too, you know, and I like having the good stuff."
"Man, bein' so stingy. I coulda just stole the damn thing."
"I appreciate the fact that you didn't."
"I just need a pen, man."
I go to my pen tray and retrieve a pen someone has left here. It's a grey pen that feels like fingernails on a chalkboard when you try to write with it. "Here you go, sir," I say, offering him the free pen.
Instead of accepting it, he repeats, "Man, bein' so stingy..."
He leaves, muttering to himself about how stingy I am. I place Frankenpen back in the tray.
Well, so beggars can be choosers. Learn something new every day, I do.
The name of the company wasn't really SlogNat. Since I was going to change the name anyway, I figured I'd at least change it to something hilarious and insulting.
12.07.2005
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 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.
11.08.2005
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.
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.
9.13.2005
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'.
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'.
8.16.2005
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.
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.
8.11.2005
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.
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.
8.03.2005
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.
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.
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