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?

...why?

It's about 5:03 p.m. I'm in the back room stacking boxes of collection kits, waiting for my girlfriend to show up and give me a ride home. I hear the doorknob jiggle. Then it jiggles a little louder. Then a loud knocking. Then the sound of a foot hitting the door.

I go out to investigate.

"Hey, let's try not to break the door, okay?"

"My bad, but it wasn't openin'."

"It was locked. It's after five."

"What, you all closed?"

"Yes."

"Why are you closed?"

"What do you mean why am I closed? It's after five. I'm closed."

"I'm here for a drug test."

"I can see that, but I'm closed. I'll be open tomorrow at eight."

"Why I can't get one now?"

"Because I'm closed. It's after five. You'll have to come back tomorrow."

"Man, ain't that some [explitive deleted]."

I'm trying to envision a door somewhere, perhaps leading into a restaurant or a bank or some other business, that only opens after you kick it. I can't imagine for the life of me what this man was thinking. Maybe the door is just really, really stuck!

This isnt the real story about what happened this week at the pee clinic... but I'm in a really foul mood and felt it was better to use this crappy story to vent, rather than ruin a good one with a bunch of ranty nonsense. See you tomorrow.

How do you use a semicolon?

Early in the morning is the preferred time of day to get drug tests for cantankerous old hags. I don't know why that is; probably because they need to hurry up and get home in time for their 10am supper.

...okay, that was hateful and unfair to (most) old hags. There are some very nice old hags out there. Mrs. Grammar wasn't one of them, though.

Her collection was more or less unpleasant right from the get-go because she refused to hand me her ID. It was tucked into a transparent sleeve in her pocketbook, which is a right convenient place for it I admit. However, it's difficult to get your license in and out of these things sometimes, as was the case here. For my part, I don't accept an ID I can't actually hold and examine. It's relatively easy to pass a fake if it's behind a quarter inch of plastic and nobody gets a chance to look at it. I've seen some really bad fakes, and a few really good ones, from my short stint working in a gas station a few years ago, so I learned a few tricks to examine and ID rather than just glance at it in passing.

Mrs. Grammar didn't like being asked, a second time, to please remove her ID. And she told me so. She mentioned that she "didn't appreciate being lumped in with drug dealers". I gave her a sympathetic nod and said that everyone has to follow the same rules, I'm only doing my job, etc... this line of bullhonkey usually serves to shut down all but the particularly irate complainers.

(Right here I had typed out a little mini-rant about the young black man with the saggy pants who left his sample before Mrs. Grammar did, and about how her "lumped in" comment probably referred directly to him... but that's a baseless accusation and anyway takes me too far off topic.)

Mrs. Grammar is on a roll now. She lists all the reasons that the whole drug testing process is demeaning and how she won't stand for it. I say nothing. I wait patiently for her to get tired of listening to herself, then give her the instructions and hand her the cup.

"This is ridiculous," she declares as she sets the cup of urine on the counter, "you're young enough to be my great-grandson." I do a few quick calculations as I'm finishing up my paperwork. "I very much doubt that," I reply, and the matter drops. Mrs. Grammar was born in 1937 and I'm 23 years old. Feel free to do the math yourself.)

After this Mrs. Grammar tries to leave... except she hasn't signed the form yet. I call after her, "Ma'am you aren't done." I'm ignored, so I call louder, "Ma'am, you aren't done. I need you to come back please."

"I'm not finished," Mrs. Grammar shoots back. "The word is finished. Done refers only to cakes."

She comes back to sign the form. As she's doing so, I correct her error: "Done can refer to anything that has terminated or completed, including an action. You say a cake is done because the baking process is over. I say you are done when your drug test collection is over."

I should probably point out that when someone corrects my grammar in a way that is not intended to actually point out a flaw in my wording, but rather to insult or degrade me, I take it as a personal attack. I am highly proficient with the English language. Furthermore I have a great deal of respect for it. I know that sounds nerdy, but hey, I'm a nerd. English fascinates me. Like anyone else I make spelling errors and typos from time to time, and mix up this or that word... but that is not indicative of my lack of knowledge on the subject of English, just that I'm human and make mistakes.

I also understand that there are many, many different dialects of English. Unlike some "grammar nazis" I know, I don't mind technically improper English. Ebonics and Spanglish do not faze me; in fact I find them interesting to listen to. I don't split hairs over the correct spelling of the word "colour" like some British fanatics. The fact that English as a language has evolved over so much time, in so many different directions, excites me. I love learning more and more about the language, while most of my fellow Americans are glad to be done with it after high school.

That's done with, not finished with. As you can see, I know what the goddamn word means.

Mrs. Grammar tries to argue with me, until I offer to look the word up in the dictionary. She says she knows English and doesn't need a dictionary. So I pull out the trick that always, always works in these situations.

"How do you use a semicolon?"

Anytime someone is trying to play grammar rodeo with you, this knocks them off their bucking bronco. Every time. Without fail.

I love the semicolon. It is my favorite punctuation mark. Yes, I realize that it's completely weird and probably a little pathetic that I have a favorite punctuation mark; but I do, and it's the semicolon. I use it as often as possible; partially because I know how to correctly use it and I like to lord that fact over people who don't (as it makes me feel smart), but also because once you're proficient with it, it's just too damn useful to ignore.

(Right here I had typed out the rules for proper semicolon usage, but then decided that if you want to be able to use my little anti-grammar-nazi trick, you should do your own homework. Wikipedia awaits!)

Mrs. Grammar doesn't know how to use a semicolon. I'd have bet twenty bucks she didn't have the first clue what a semicolon was. "Just like a colon," was all she said. I handed her her copies of the paperwork and said, "You're done now. Have a nice day."

I have some bad habits when it comes to English, especially writing. I tend to overuse (and even misuse) ellipses. I break up my thoughts far too often with parantheses (or have you noticed that?). I've even been known to unintentionally fall into the there/they're/their trap, from time to time.

In fact, I'm not even going to spell check this post -- not because I'm confident there aren't any typos, but because I never spellcheck any of my posts. It's just a bad habit I have. I'm not saying to myself, "Gee, the subject of this post is English and grammar... I should spell check it to make sure there aren't any dumb errors." I'm human like anyone else. There will be errors in this post and probably many more to come.

But I know how to use a semicolon. And that's what's important.

2006 - 1937 = 69. That's her age. 69 - 23 (my age) = 46. That's her age when her make-believe great-grandson was born. 46 / 3 (the number of complete generations from her birth to her great-grandson's birth) = 15.3. That's the average age women in this bloodline are when they give birth. 23 - 15 = 8. That's the age of Mrs. Grammar's great-great grandson, and he'll be expecting his kid in seven years. I'd say this family has more to worry about than grammar.

Long stretches of time.

The truth of the matter is that the vast, vast majority of my time here at the office is empty. On a typical day that means less than an hour of actual work. As a result, there are sometimes long stretches of time in which nothing particularly interesting happens, leaving me nothing particularly interesting to write about.

But I mean, come one, how am I supposed to follow up that story from a month ago?

Still, a month without an update is pretty lame even for me. So rather than just leaving this space empty for another month (or until something neat happens, or the world ends, whichever comes first) I figured I'd regale you with a few minor tidbits that didn't really merit updates of their own.

---

About two weeks ago a man came in for a drug test. His name was Kareem Abdul Jabbar Jackson. I immediately decided that it was the most amazing name I had ever heard in my entire life.

---

On the subject of donor names... earlier this week I had an exceptionally slow day: only six collections. Four of those were for guys named Christopher. One was for a woman named Christine. The sixth was for a man named Cristobal. I think the six of them should get together and form a crime-fighting group called "The Super Chrises".

---

I actually did almost update a while ago, but now I'm glad I didn't. See, I was having one of those remarkably awful days, where everything set me off. A world-class bad mood, you might say. After a verbal boxing match over the phone with my bank I realized I had only five minutes left on my lunch break, so I hopped on my bike and flew down to McDonald's to buy some grub. I get back a few minutes after 2:00 and there are a couple people waiting for me. Cursing under my breath I set my food aside and took care of the collections.

What I almost updated about was this pompous holier-than-thou over-educated nitwit who took one look at my sack'o'burgers, scoffed, and then said "You really shouldn't eat that, you know."

For some reason I was so irritated at this guy's comment that I sat down and wrote a five-paragraph post about him, and about how I should be allowed to eat whatever I want, fast food or no, and who are you to comment? I had it all worked out, lambasting the whole uber-vegan subculture who look down their long, sickly noses at the unwashed masses who eat fast food.

Then, just to be sure I was a complete hypocrite, I went on to detail my actual eating habits, which include cooking a meal every night of the week and having fast food once in a while as an afterthought. I went on to contradict my previous paragraph, proceeding to bash people who did eat fast food on a regular basis and how unhealthy and unfulfilling a lifestyle choice that is.

As it turns out though, simply the act of typing all that out was enough to vent my frustrations. I went on to preview it and realized that nobody, anywhere, wants to read about my McDonald's misadventures, so I deleted the post. Dodged a bullet, there! Whew!

---

The lightswitch in my hallway is broken, and has somehow caused all the wiring in the two fluorescent lights it controls to melt and fuse to the bulbs. Thus the entire back half of my office was plunged into darkness. I told my boss to fix it; he bought me a lamp to stick in the hallway. Oh well.

---

I received my first formal complaint in over two years! One of our landscaping clients filed a complaint that I am "unnecessarily rude to our Hispanic employees". This is presumably because I refuse to drug test them without a translator... although they didn't mention that part.

It isn't going to happen, but I personally hope that we lose the client. We can't really provide the service they're asking for anyway; they hire an almost exclusively Mexican crew, and really need a drug test site that speaks Spanish. Why they don't simply shop around until they find one is beyond me. At the very least, why put up with someone who is "unnecessarily rude" to their employees?

---

So there it is, a couple half-interesting little tidbits all rolled into one. Hopefully something sufficiently post-worthy happens in the near future so I don't have to pull this trick twice in a row!

Last time someone was in to play with my lights, he poked it with a broom a few times and then gave up. Gee, I wonder why they don't work...

Disgusting jobs.

People always wonder how I can do my disgusting, filthy job. People wonder all the time how I manage to actually touch cups full of urine on a daily basis. Folks can't wrap their heads around it, but the truth of the matter is my job isn't all that disgusting. Mopping up a small puddle of urine (which is usually the most that happens, when accidents do happen) is no different than mopping up a small puddle of any other liquid.

Honestly, I prefer the smell of stale urine over some of the really rank cleaning products I end up using. Then there's my air freshener on top of that -- masking one smell with another, with another. If anything is disgusting, it's the smell of Glade Plug-ins and bug spray mingled with disinfectant and Lysol, combined with the aroma of slime-like bluing agent, with perhaps the slightest tinge of urine as an afterthought.

Keeping my office clean generally means vacuuming and mopping, keeping my paperwork in neat little stacks, and keeping the water in my toilet as blue as a smurf. Until today.

I can't sugar-coat this... the guy was fat. There's no dancing around a thing like this. This man did not have a weight problem, he had a weight catastrophe. That he could manage to walk without a cane or some other kind of support was mind-blowing, though calling his movements "walking" isn't exactly accurate. He would kind of swivel his hips and swing his arms as hard as he could to gain momentum, and any movement his feet actually made seemed to be incidental. One thing was for sure, when not in motion the man could not stand up on his own. He had to lean on something or fall over.

Please understand that I'm merely describing this man, not mocking him, although mockery was the least of his worries. He couldn't string a sentence together without gasping for breath halfway through. He was sweating through his sweatpants. His odor was pungent and foul. This was not your average, run-of-the-mill fat man, the kind we all know and love. This was someone with a serious, immediate problem that needs to be remedied. This man, you look at and feel an instant and overwhelming sense of pity, but at the same time you try to avert your eyes and breathe through your mouth.

A quick aside about my waterless urinal: it's basically just a drain on the wall with a little pocket inside for disinfectant (which, as noted above, smells worse than urine). It's actually the ideal tool for someone in my field, since it can't be flushed and puts the donor in a place where he cannot get any water whatsoever, running or otherwise. Furthermore, it reduces the chances of a donor flushing the toilet to exactly zero, which saves me from a lot of headaches. When a man asks to use the regular toilet, however, that's generally a red flag. Some men are incapable of doing so, and that's fine, but some simply want to cheat and need a readily avaialble source of water to do so.

I was willing to make an exception in this man's case, though, because I couldn't for the life of me figure out how he was going to be able to aim the stream into the waterless urinal. He had seen the two men in front of him use the waterless urinal so he knew it existed, and when I asked if he needed a regular toilet he became embarrassed and said no, he could do it just fine.

This did not turn out to be the case.

While he was in the men's room working on filling his cup I was in the lobby filling out paperwork for the two donors behind him. Just as I was finishing up the second set of forms I hear a loud crash from the bathroom. I rushed back and asked if he was okay.

"I made a mess," he said.

It took him a few minutes but he eventually got up, and cracked the door open. He didn't want to open it all the way and reveal the fruits of his labor, but at the same time he couldn't fit through the half-opened door. He was beet red, but whether that was because he was completley out of breath or utterly mortified, I have no way of knowing. Probably a combination of the two.

In no uncertain terms, this man had fallen over somehow in the bathroom and lost control of his bowels. Green, murky diarrhea covered the back of his pants and most of one arm, not to mention my bathroom floor. His sample cup was discarded amidst his leavings. It was empty, not because he had spilled it, but because he hadn't filled it in the first place.

He forced his way past me so he didn't have to see the look on my face as the mess came into full view. He choked out some apologies on his way out the door. I was left with the task of cleaning up after him. The two people in my lobby had begun to wrinkle their noses, the looks of disgust impossible to hide. The young lady excused herself.

I set about my undesirable task, armed with everything in my cleaning arsenal. Fifteen grisly minutes later my men's room was back in pristine condition. It was the most horrible mess I'd ever cleaned up in my life.

I still felt extreme amounts of pity for this man, but now I was angry with him as well. It's rather common for men to not be able to do number one without first doing number two, I'm sure it happens to everyone. But I had offered this guy an out. Had he been sitting on the toilet he would have never slipped and, even if he had somehow, clean-up would have been as easy as flushing. Sure, his drug test would have been ruined. But isn't that better than the alternative?

I'm aware he was just embarrassed and sensitive about his weight, but I'm betting that after leaving here he went straight through a McDonald's drive-thru for some comfort food. I sometimes wonder if incidents like these form the catalyst in someone's life, where they clearly identify a change they need to make and then get motivated enough to change it. But somehow I think that only happens in movies. As it stands this man is in seriously bad health and is at best a horrible inconvenience to the people who have to put up with him. Nobody can help him but himself, and even in situations as silly as drug testing he's unwilling to do even that.

As for me, for the rest of the day there's an odor lingering about that drowns out even the disinfectants and Pine Sol. And it's hard to be excited about that.

When the young lady came back in she blurted out, "I didn't leave because of the fat -- because of the obese guy, I mean -- I just wanted a cigarette." At that point, I would have welcomed the smell of a cigarette.

The Two-Story Translator.

At about 9am a young lady walks into my office requiring a pre-employment drug test for a landscaping company. She does not speak English.

This particular landscaping company has a long, sordid history of being very much against the idea of providing translators for their new-hires. The fact that I speak no Spanish is not unknown to them. I don't know why they refuse to send translators; it's not like they don't have any on-hand. Many of the Mexican workers who come in for a drug test are bilingual already, how hard would it be to call one over and send him out with a new-hire to make sure the drug test goes down properly.

Any way you slice it, I can't do the collection. I have no choice but to turn the young lady away.

She returns after lunch with an employee of the same company. I ask him if he is going to serve as translator. He nods and says "okay".

"Okay" is a red-flag word. It's deceptively easy to get through a conversation by just nodding and saying "okay" whenever the person you're listening to pauses in their speech. I lob a couple lowball questions at the translator to test his English capabilities. As it turns out he knows precious little English at all. not even enough to help the young lady tell me her phone number. Again I have no choice but to turn them away.

Ten minutes before closing time they return, this time accompanied by a white woman who very obviously works in the air-conditioned part of the company's dealings. "Hi," she says impatiently, "is there some problem here?"

I explain to the woman, just like I have to various other members of her company, over and over again, that I do not speak Spanish and I can not conduct a collection unless the donor speaks English.

"Well all she has to do is pee in a cup right?"

Sigh. It's the "only a drug test" argument. I wonder how this woman would react if one of their landscaping crews uprooted someone's flower bed. Somehow I doubt she'd respond with "Well it's only your front lawn right?"

I briefly explain the process, the do-not-flush thing, the empty-your-pockets thing, and I show her the block on the form the donor needs to sign.

Now, I have no illusions that everyone who comes in for a drug test actually reads the form before signing it. Most people are so jaded that they just sign anything and everything you point to. My personal take on the issue is that if you have the ability to read it, and decide not to, that is your thing. But if you do not have the ability to read it, it's my job to ensure you know what it says before you sign. I meet a lot of people who are illiterate, or who don't have their glasses, or speak English perfectly well but can't read it, and to those people I cheerfully read the two lines of text aloud. But in the case of foreign language translations, nothing short of an actual bilingual translator can get the job done. This solution, while painfully obvious to me, continues to elude the landscaping company in question and specifically the increasingly-irritated woman standing before me.

"Well, why can't he translate?"

I shrug, and look at the translator again, and ask him in plain English, "Sir, are you able to translate for me?"

He blinks a few times and then looks at the supervisor woman, helplessly.

She repeats what I said, except louder and slower. When that doesn't work, she rewords it as "Can you talk English? To him? Like this?" She holds up one hand and pantomimes a mouth opening and closing, while pointing to her own mouth with the other hand.

He nods and says "okay."

"There," says the supervisor, "what's the problem?"

The problem is that I'm not fooled. The problem is that I'm not a complete retard. The problem is that your goddamned company wants to capitalize on the cheap labor offered by a Mexican work force (illegal or otherwise) and the tax benefits of getting them all drug tested without accepting the responsibility to get it done properly.

The part of the form the young lady is eventually going to have to sign, I ask the translator to read to me in English. He can't get passed the second word (the first word is "I"). It is so painfully obvious that this man, excellent landscaper though he may be, simply does not speak English and simply can not serve as a translator. A five-year-old could see it.

"Ma'am," I tell the supervisor, "unless you speak Spanish and can translate, I am going to have to discontinue this collection process." That's a polite way of saying "get the hell out of my office, it's after five and I want to go home."

"What if I help him with the things he doesn't understand?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can translate for him."

"You're going to translate for the translator?"

"He'll listen to me."

I envision in my mind the kind of work environment this woman deals with. She is probably highly skilled at getting a crew of Spanish-speaking workers where they need to be, doing what they need to get done, and doing it very efficiently. But outside of her little landscaping world, things don't work like that. It's easy to hand a rake to someone, point them at a pile of leaves, and let them figure it out. What I do at my office is something different entirely.

"So you want to translate for me, and then have this man translate for you."

"Can we hurry this up please?"

"But he doesn't speak English."

"He does, you say he doesn't, whatever."

"And you don't speak Spanish."

"He'll listen to me."

I walk out, take my OPEN sign off the window, and turn off the lobby lights. "Okay," I tell her, "we'll give it one shot. If it doesn't work you're going to have to send her back tomorrow with a proper translator." I realize that statement is meaningless to her, so I follow up by explaining that a translator is someone who is bilingual, and can hold conversations in two different languages (in this case English and Spanish) be they verbal or written.

I give all my instructions. The supervisor repeats them louder, leaving out verbs, the way one would talk to a dog. The translator stumbles around with some clumsy Spanish. The donor looks very confused. Eventually the supervisor snaps the cup from my hand, gives it to the donor and points to the bathroom.

As she's going in, I remind her not to flush the toilet. The helpful supervisor sums this up as "No this," with a hand gesture that tries to mimic water circling a toilet bowl. To me it looks like she's stirring soup.

Even through the language barrier, handing someone an empty cup and pointing them at a bathroom is a pretty easy message to get across. The donor emerges with a full cup, the sound of a freshly flushed toilet echoing through the hallway.

The supervisor is angry when I tell her it's a botched collection. The donor did not follow my instructions because, despite having two translators at hand, she did not understand what they were. The supervisor barks at the donor to "drink aqua" as fast as she could so she could go again.

"No, ma'am, she will have to come back tomorrow with a proper translator."

"She'll get it right next time, she just--"

"It's after five. I'm closed. She doesn't speak English. You aren't a translator. He isn't a translator. This collection is over."

I throw away the cup and break eye contact. The supervisor tries to protest but eventually just stomps out with her Mexican underlings in tow.

As for me, I still don't speak Spanish.

The very next day the same man came in, supposedly sent to translate for a completely different new-hire. Something is seriously wrong with that company.

Jailbait.

The people I deal with on a daily basis sometimes infuriate me, sometimes bore me, and sometimes even delight me... but only rarely do they honestly creep me out. That was until yesterday, when I met Old Man Shortshorts.

Old Man Shortshorts was a tiny, wrinkled scab of a man. He stood about five-foot-nothing. He wore a t-shirt advertising the 1999 Senior Fun Walk and a pair of tiny red shorts, showing off the mass of his liver spot encrusted legs. His voice was gravely and harsh, just one step above the guy who needs the handheld voice-box held up to his throat to speak. This alone was creepy enough, but then in walked his wife.

Lady Shortshorts had to have been my age or younger. She was a good six feet tall. I'm certain she was his wife and not, say, his granddaughter because they wore matching wedding bands and he kept on grabbing her butt. She had a thick European accent I had a hard time identifying. The whole situation just freaked me out something bad.

Old Man Shortshorts didn't do anything remarkably annoying. His collection was smooth and painless; he didn't ask stupid questions, he didn't complain about the pockets thing or the wallet thing or the ID thing. But the fact remains that he bought a European woman less than one-third his age. Ew. Just ew.

I wanted to shower vigorously after Old Man Shortshorts and his knockout foreign wife left my office.

I guess maybe I'm being unfair. For all I know it could be true love. But it's still creepy true love.

The pool place.

One of our biggest clients is a pool company, as might be expected for Florida. The company is so big, in fact, they do on-site testing. This is where someone from my company will drive out there with a big truck and do their random drug testing right there on the premesis. Of course, this is not convenient for all their employees, so a fraction of them will end up coming to my office. This amounts to about ten people per week.

I have very few complaints about the pool place. There are bound to be some hiccups simply due to the sheer volume of employees they send to me, but on the whole they are a problem-free client. They never try to send people on my lunch break. They always provide translators. They send people down one-at-a-time instead of twenty at once. They even keep the maps on their forms up-to-date.

Someone in their HR department takes the time to explain the drug testing thing to each new-hire before they send them out. Most companies are content just waving their hands and maybe giving the poor guy some vague directions, but the pool place people always show up with paperwork, confident they're in the right place, knowing what is expected of them. They're always told to bring their ID. They're even told not to go to the bathroom beforehand, and to drink plenty of water, so they're always ready to go right when they come in the door.

My only quibble with the pool place is that they are thorough to the point of being nagging. They follow up on positive results within 72 hours, and any employee that tests positive but is not terminated takes a drug test once a week for twelve weeks. They have a list of their random selections and they make sure those people show up, which means endless amounts of phone calls asking "Did so-and-so show up for his test on such-and-such date? No? Well I'd better find out why." But these little bothers are just an indication that they take their drug testing seriously. Which isn't to say that drug testing is inherently a serious matter, just that if your company is going to do it you might as well not treat it like a joke.

I love the pool guys but I hate to swim. How many people do you know who can say that truthfully?

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.

Directionless.

One thing I'm particularly terrible at is giving directions. The main reason for this is because I tend not to leave the fifteen-or-so mile radius around my apartment, so people often ask for directions coming from faraway lands where for all I know they ride magic carpets and slay dragons. Another is that I have a truly pitiful sense of direction myself; I keep a Post-It attached to the wall near my phone to keep me from confusing east with west. A quick look at Google Maps can sometimes clear the matter up, but not always, and on occassion I am forced to simply point out that I have no idea where the person is, and thus can't give them directions.

I've discovered there are lots of ways to give directions. First off you have people like myself, who are address hunters. The way I've always done things is to get the address of the place, and then locate it. If i can't find the exact address I'll determine whether the numbers are going up or down and then pinpoint the location of the business I want based on the addresses I can see.

Very few people navigate like that, however. Most people use a blend of cross-streets and landmarks to get where they're going. This is problematic because, for one, I don't really register landmarks as I drive, so it's hard for me to determine what, if anything, in my area would make a good landmark to begin with. Secondly, there really aren't any prominent landmarks in my area. It's essentially just a series of strip-malls on either side of the road, no one sign really standing above the rest. The few slightly-bigger-than-the-rest signs that are out there have all failed me in the past, and what works fine for one person isn't going to work for the next.

The best landmark to get you to my office is the apartment complex I sit in front of. That's right, in front of. Not next to, not near, not across the street from. The apartments sit back from the road far enough for a row of businesses to sit in front of it as a buffer. You actually have to turn in to the apartment complex to get to my parking lot, but even this information fails as often as not because the rows of stores on either side of me use the exact same system.

Giving the name of my business isn't even helpful in some cases, because not everyone is looking for that name. For one, we have two company names: one for the side of the company that does physicals and what-have-you, and another for the drug testing. All our paperwork has both names on it, but the sign in my window only advertises the drug testing. So even with the correct forms in-hand, people are looking for the wrong sign right out of the gate. To make matters worse we work with two different labs, so a lot of people are sent out looking for the name of the lab instead of the collection site.

Compounding the problem even further is the fact that employers like to give little maps to their new-hires before sending them out, which would be helpful except the maps haven't been updated since 2000. Hundreds of clients out there each with their own little version of what the area my office sits in used to look like... not very helpful. This usually ends with me getting chewed out by the donor after they've driven around for an hour while needing to pee, or with someone barking at me on a cell phone insisting that a sign or business exists where it doesn't, because after all, that's what the map says.

To be perfectly honest, I don't know how anyone could drive by my building and not see my sign. It's easy to get confused with all these different factors tripping you up at the start, but five phone calls to me later there isn't much I can help you with. It isn't uncommon at all to finally get a person into my general area, making U-turns back and forth in front of my office, still completely incapable of locating it. There comes a point where I simply have to tell someone to slow their car down to 20 mph and closely examine every window they see, and turn at the one that matches my company name. Calls from my parking lot are fairly common too: "Okay, I'm in the parking lot... now which door are you?"

I keep hoping one day I'll stumble across a perfect solution that will solve my direction-giving dilemma once and for all. Until then... well, at least I have my Post-It.

Maybe I could just buy some road flares, and hire a clown to set them off in front of my office. If people miss that, there's really nothing I can do for them.

Mr. Nice Guy doesn't work here.

I'm not a nice person. This is the number one complaint about me from one (and only one, to my knowledge) specific company for whom I do drug testing. The little old ladies this company hires exclusively all find me particularly unpleasant. It's a fact.

I suppose they have a point. I take my job seriously and don't loosen the rules for anyone, whether they look like g-dawg gangsta or ol' Granny Smith. I can spot the stereotypes a mile away, and can predict with better-than-chance accuracy who is going to try to cheat and who is not, but that isn't any reason to not treat every single person the same way. In a way, going for a drug test means being treated like a criminal -- I can understand that mentality, which is why I try to make the process as smooth as possible. However, I am not apologetic and you don't have my sympathy. Things are done the correct way or they are not done at all.

In addition to my pretty hardcore adherence to my job's rules and guidelines, I lack a few of the character traits people generally find charming. For one, I'm immune to smalltalk. People like to chitchat to pass the time, but I've got enough stuff to accomplish that just fine, thanks. Legitimate questions about my work will get honest answers, but just about any other topic will get a polite nod and nothing more.

For another, I don't seem to have the ability to fake laughter. The number of absolutely boneheaded comments people try to pass off as jokes (or, at least, "amusing comments") makes my head spin. After all my paperwork was done I used to ask people, "Are you ready to go?" I've had to abandon that particular wording, because people would respond "Yeah, literally!" and them laugh at themselves for having said it. If the only way you can convince yourself that you are clever is to laugh at your own comments, that might be an indication that you're not clever at all. Wit doesn't work for everyone.

Sometimes people will press it even further than that, though; they'll say something genuinely unwitty, chuckle to themselves for having done so, and then confront me about my response. "Don't you ever laugh?" they'll say, as though my non-reaction to their one comment is any indication of my sense of humor. What's the correct way to respond to that? Just point out that yes, I do in fact laugh, and very often at that, but first I have to hear something funny, and your bad pun doesn't qualify? I've often thought about taking it in the other direction:"No," I'd respond, "my life is an endless spiral of misery and torment. I wallow in the bog of my own depression. I will probably kill myself once you've left the office. Please fill this cup above the temperature sticker..."

The little old ladies from the aformentioned company make it their business to get me to laugh at them, as though I'm some kind of British guard. I bet there's a betting pool at their office: first person to get the drug test guy to laugh wins a jar of money. They try everything short of dangling their keys in front of me while making googly noises. What I wish they would understand is that their antics have exactly the opposite effect. Their various distractions increase the risk of there being a mistake somewhere during the collection, and thus harden my resolve to become stricter and stricter with the rules until they give up. I think about the number of women I've seen who were so preoccupied with trying to start a frivolous conversation that they missed the part where I told them not to flush the toilet, and I really do wallow in the bog of my own depression.

At the same time though, I'm not a mean person. I'm not impolite. I don't avoid eye contact. I reserve the sarcastic comments for only the most vile of people. I know my courtesies, I say "please" and "thank you". I don't go out of my way to be rude, and if I come off that way then perhaps you need to take a step back yourself and get some thicker skin. The little old ladies who complain about me have worked so many years in an office environment that they've become accustomed to their fake, plastic personalities, and it's what they've come to expect from everyone else. I wonder how many of them remember what real laughter sounds like.

I do have the pleasure of meeting genuinely witty people from time to time. These people seem to have nothing bad at all to say about their drug testing experience.

He's really short.

It occurs to me that someone could read my blog and come away with the impression that I either never make mistakes, or that I make them all the time and blame them on other people. However, I made what is possibly the stupidest, most embarrassing mistake of my entire life just the other day.

I'm filling out this gentleman's form. His first name is Gary, and his last name starts with "Co" and ends with "n". Without thinking, on reflex alone I write "Gary Coleman" on my form.

Really, that's the whole story. What else do I need to say about it?

The guy was like six feet tall, and wasn't black. Nevertheless, he wasn't pleased.

An open letter.

My last post was about a mean old hag who yelled at me for doing one of her office's collections. This was a strange and highly unlikely scenario in which either office could have done the collection, so I had not made a mistake. Nonetheless I have been instructed by my employer not to do collections for that office's MRO, and I have not done so since the incident.

This would be much easier if that other office would keep a closer eye on their people, though. Just now a woman walked in with the very form I have been ordered not to touch, saying she was sent over because she had a Mapquest printout with my address on it. Obviously the clerk looked at the address, rather than the actual paperwork, and kicked the woman out so they could get their line moving faster. So now this poor woman has been ping-ponged between two different drug test offices and has had to wait through their insane line twice.

This is an open letter to the mean old hag who yelled at me last week.

Dear Old Hag,

You should focus more on governing your own employees and less on hassling me. Something you may not know: people don't like taking drug tests. It's embarrassing. It can be frustrating. It can be time-consuming, especially if the office has a long wait. It can also be confusing, since there are so many offices and so many rules and so many different forms. But honestly, it only takes a few seconds to actually look at the paperwork in front of your face before dismissing it out of hand.

I have my own little procedure when I see a form I don't recognize. First, I check for any overt, obvious signs of your office's name. If I see one, I send the donor on over. Also, I know several of your clients by name as well, so there are some occassions where I can just look at the company name on the form and know it's yours. If I don't know, I call my boss, who can run the name of the donor's company against our own database to see if maybe it's just one of our clients I don't recognize. If they have a map or an address and have just shown up in the wrong place entirely, I offer to call the office they need to be at and get them directions. These are courtesies I extend to these people because I am a decent human being.

As for the endless barrage of people you send over to me who are neither my client nor yours, I really don't mind that. You aren't willing to help them get where they need to be; I am. I look like a saint, you look like a jerk, and the donor ends up in the right place. Everybody wins. Except you, jerk.

The reason people go to your office with your form but my map is because I am listed as a third-party collector for that particular lab. That means it is your responsibility to make sure your employees actually bother to look at the form the person is carrying so people aren't inconvenienced any more than is necessary. It's a sad, sad day when some punk kid can run an office better than an entire team of supposedly qualified employees, isnt it?

Love, the Peemeister

Next time this happens I'm going to just do the collection. Hey, they obviously don't want it!

The drug test place next door.

This may come as a surprise, but two doors down from my office (in the same tiny office plaza in fact) is a competing drug test site. It's actually a much larger office (the company's corporate office in fact), and provides lots of services I don't. In addition to urine testing, I believe they do blood draws, perform physicals, and other such nonsense.

This actually causes much less of a clash than one would think; their company has their clients, my company has ours, and it's easy to tell which is which. In most cases, it isn't a matter of a patient looking at two drug test places and then deciding where to go; they're usually given a form with an address on it and told to show up.

The operative term here, of course, is "in most cases". This morning it has been brought to my attention that there is at least one case in which our interests overlap.

As I've been ranting about lately, my office has recently taken on the responsibility of third party collections. What this means is, rather than being sent to a specific office donors are given a list of offices they can go to, and told to pick the most convenient one. This sometimes works in reverse as well; a donor could take one of our forms to a collection site that is registered as a third party collector with our lab, in theory. Of course the lab we use is a smallish one, and I don't think many of our clients even offer the option.

Point is, there's a difference between going to the drug test place, and going to a drug test place. This morning I found out that the office next door uses as its primary lab the very one I am registered with to do third party collections. In other words, there exists a very small number of people who really do have a choice of which of our two offices to visit.

Here's the rub: we get paid for providing the service of accepting third party collections. At the same time, we pay a company who accepts one of our collections for us. If someone comes to me with my neighbor's form, and it's actually a collection I'm authorized to do, they pay us for the privelage. (I'm a little fuzzy on the details on exactly how this works, but that's the gist of it.)

This morning during my 8:30 am pre-caffeinated stupor I was chewed out quite thoroughly for doing just such a collection. Several, in fact, over the course of the past few weeks. I was told by a woman who is not my employer (and is, in fact, employed by a competing office) that I need to send all such collections to her office.

"We will not pay when you steal one of our collections," she demanded. I gave her a curt nod and she was out the door.

So, here's my dilemma.

I could, very easily, identify which of these third party collections they want, and send them over. Indeed, I send people over their way all the time, when they come in with paperwork I can't process, or have been sent to me mistakenly by one of their clients. I am generally all for anything that lightens my already tiny workload.

But at the same time, it's not like I'm consciously stealing their business, or making a serious mistake. If their office were located, say, a mile away there would be no discussion at all. It would just be a matter of the donor bringing me a valid form, and me completing a valid collection.

If you walk into McDonald's by accident and order a Whopper, are they obligated to send you to the Burger King across the street? Can they sell you a Big Mac and hope you can't tell the difference?

This is to say nothing of the fact that the donor actually has a choice. It's true that anyone who walks into my office with their form is making an honest mistake. But what if the person really, truly knows they can pick which office to walk into? Their office is almost always jam packed; mine is almost always empty. What if someone knows they have a choice, and have honestly come to me because it'll make their day go by quicker?

It's a delicate situation. I wonder if I can navigate it successfully without getting yelled at...

The situation between our two offices is actually much, much more complicated than I've outlined here, but that's a topic for another day... maybe.

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.

No loud noises, sudden movements, or flash photography.

Today's tale is the kind that is too crazy to make up.

I'll just go ahead and get the fun part out of the way. The inconceivable has, after 2.5 years, finally happened: I've spilled a sample.

Yeah. Ewwwww.

For the record: urine isn't harmful in any way. Go ahead, splash around in it. Gargle the stuff. Put it on your cereal. Whatever. It can't really hurt you. There's no potential health hazard to spilling a cup of urine near or on yourself. So I'm not going to break out in pee-pox or anything, it just doesn't work like that.

Also for the record: it wasn't my fault. Just stop laughing and wait until you hear the story.

It's a normal collection all the way through, save for the weird questions Mr. Dawg is asking me. "Is you all alone in here, all day?" Yep. "So someone could just roll in here and rob the joint?" I suppose so, though all they'd get is my pocket change and a few boxes of sample cups. "Yo I got a license for this 9 millimeter in my pocket, aight?" (He doesn't actually have a gun. This is apparently a funny joke that people like to make.)

As I'm trying to give him instructions, Mr. Dawg blurts out, "Hey, yo, son, so like you drive the peemobile?"

Yes. Of course I do.

I don't know why Mr. Dawg had it in for me. Perhaps it had something to do with my complete lack of interest in his "jokes" and diversions. If you poke around the "how to cheat on drug test" sites enough, one of the suggestions they have is to try and distract the collector. Try to get them to skip a step. Try to fill out the form wrong. I wonder if that's what creates the Mr. Dawgs of the world: feeble attempts to keep my mind off the procedure. Create a loophole he can slip through later when his test inevitably comes back positive.

Well, Mr. Dawg actually managed to do it. Well done.

There is one crucial point in the collection which requires my undivided attention: pouring the sample from the cup into the bottle. Imagine trying to pour a quantity of liquid from a measuring cup into a two-liter soda bottle. That's about the ballpark here. It's not difficult, but if you slip you have a mess on your hands. Right at this crucial moment, the pouring, the sacred three-second ritual where I am not paying any attention at all to the donor... Mr. Dawg starts barking like a dog.

Loudly. And suddenly. Like a Baha Men concert in my brain. Like a crazed Arsenio Hall fanboy on speed.

My whole body jolts. The cup falls to the floor. The bottle tips over on the counter. 40-some mililiters of ick go spilling everywhere.

Mr. Dawg just bursts out laughing.

"What is your problem!?" I shout, wishing he really did have a gun in his pocket so I'd have something to murder him with. No court would convict me. "Your honor, the defendant's act was fully justified. The victim made him spill pee."

As Mr. Dawg is exploding with laughter, I quickly realize three things. First, there obviously isn't enough urine in the bottle to complete this collection. Second, this is not going to be a pretty clean up job. Third, the form is drenched and I can't replace it (as I don't keep spare forms for that particular lab).

I tell Mr. Dawg that because of his unacceptable juvenile behavior, he now has to go get another form if he wants to complete this collection. I also inform him that he won't be doing it here.

"Naw man, I done everything you said, I ain't gotta do nothin' else."

"Okay, fine. You can leave, then."

Mr. Dawg exits, still chuckling. I get my mop, my sponge, and various spray bottles and set to work making my workspace livable again.

No sooner am I done drying the area do I get a phone call from Mr. Dawg's would-be employer. "He says you spilled his, er, sample, and then got mad and kicked him out."

I delight in detailing exactly how I managed to spill his, er, sample. The employer doesn't believe me. I wouldn't believe me either. He was barking like a dog? Yeah, right.

"We're just going to give him another form, and send him back. You close at 1:00, right?"

"Yes, but don't bother. I'm not going to do this collection."

"Excuse me?"

"Mr. Dawg's conduct was immature and I'm not having it. Check your list of third party collection sites and send him to another one."

"Wait. You can't do that."

"If he comes back here, new form or no, I'll refuse to do the collection. It's that simple."

"Who is your supervisor at [insert lab name here]?"

"I don't have one. I'm a third party collector, just like the other two dozen collection sites in the area, one of which will soon be as amused as I was by Mr. Dawg's childish antics."

"This isn't the way to do business."

"That's really a shame. I have to go now. Good day."

I really did have to go. Another client had walked in, and this one had the decency to not ruin my morning by acting like a five-year-old.

I don't really have any reason to believe that Mr. Dawg was trying to screw up the test on purpose. It's possible he just never learned the few basic rules of civility the rest of us take for granted. It's possible he actually thought he was being funny, that I'd just laugh it off and, I dunno, siphon the spilled bladder-juice into the bottle with a straw. It's possible he thought I'd hang his sopping form on some clothespins to dry, go out and have a beer with him, and someday tell my grandchildren about the greatest comedian I'd ever met.

The how-to-cheat sites tell you to try and disrupt the process. Now more than ever I know that's just an extra reason to pay attention. My general policy is that if someone acts stupid, treat them like they're stupid. If you don't want to be embarrassed, don't act like you're mentally incapable of accomplishing simple tasks without being a jerk. Either way, acting like a clown won't get you under my radar. But it might get you kicked out of my office.

In the rare case something on the form actually does end up wrong, the lab just faxes me an affidavit to sign and that's the end of it. So screwing with the form isn't even a good way to cheat. Go figure.

Shouldn't have said that.

Working in the service industry, one learns to hold one's tongue.

Of course there are other times where one simply cannot help being a snarky bastard.

Every so often I'll get lippy with a client, and realize what I'm saying is wrong even as I'm saying it. I thought I'd share some of those experiences today.

---

A lady walks in and she's hopping mad. Beet red, steam firing from the gaskets behind her ears, and a scowl on her face that threatens to wrench her jaw clear off of her skull. "There is NO sign out there," she declares. "They said there would be a huge sign that says [my company's name] on it, but there is NO sign."

I stare past her at the huge sign in my window, perfectly visible from any and all angles at quite a distance. The only way she could have missed it is if she wasn't bothering to look for it. I apologize for the inconvenience and we get on with the collection.

She's so burning mad about this sign thing that she isn't listening to my intructions. I go through the entire spiel (wash your hands, don't flush the toilet, etc) twice before she snatches the cup out of my hands and stomps into the bathroom. About three minutes later, the toilet flushes. She comes out and I inform her that a second collection will have to be done, as she flushed the toilet.

"What!? You didn't tell me that!"

Of course I did. Twice, in fact.

"Well, you should put a giant sign in the bathroom saying it!"

"There was one, ma'am; you just didn't see it."

I winced. Shouldn't have said that.

---

A woman comes in with her two screaming children. These are children of an age where they should be able to go out into public without screaming. I had them pegged at about nine and twelve; definately capable of sitting quietly for a few minutes while Mommy tends to her business.

I quickly see where they get it from; Mommy is a 40-year-old brat. She insists on making the entire process as difficult as possible. She doesn't want to leave her purse behind. She doesn't want to wash her hands. She whines about just having her nails done. "You are welcome to come back tomorrow, ma'am," I offer, genuinely wanting her out of my hair.

Instead, she decides to redifine "washing your hands" as "holding your hands under running water for less than two seconds". I ask her to wash them again, properly this time.

"I just washed them."

"Please wash them again, using the soap provided." When detailing common sense instructions at point-blank range, I find it's best to use a firm but polite voice. But really, there's no way you can teach a grown adult how to wash her hands without sounding condescending. I hear her kids giggle from the lobby. The woman turns red.

She washes her hands again, while I watch. This time she makes a show of scrubbing them, but hasn't actually touched the soap. As she goes to reach for a paper towel, I ask her: "Did you use soap?"

"Of course I did."

"I didn't see you use any soap."

"Then you must be blind."

"I'll need you to wash your hands again, using the soap provided," I repeat.

She does so, using nearly half the bottle of soap. As she furiously scrubs the skin off the back of her hands she remarks, "I'm a grown woman, you can stop treating me like a child."

"I will, as soon as you stop acting like one."

The kids in the lobby are howling. The woman glares at me for a moment, then grabs her purse (without stopping to dry her hands), wrenches both of her kids from their chairs and drags them out to her minivan. She never comes back to complete the collection.

Whoops. Shouldn't have said that.

---

Four men come in, needing a drug test to get their coast guard licenses in order so they can take their commercial fishing boat out. One of them had called me about an hour prior to get my address. He drove here from the other end of the county for some reason. He insisted that he needed to come to this office, even though he could have gone to literally any drug test collection site he wanted. I don't keep any of my competitor's names and addresses handy, though, and because I couldn't point him to another office he decided it was in his best interests to travel for forty-five minutes and interrupt me just as I was about to take my lunch break.

I call in their company credit card, which is charged for four tests. The first three collections go down without a hitch. The fourth man, however, doesn't have a photo ID. He left it in his wallet, which is back at work.

"No problem. Which of you gentlemen is his supervisor?" I'm assuming here that one of the guys is the supervisor or overseer or whatever nautical term applies. But they just exchange glances. "None of us," on of them says. "We just work on the boat."

"Without a photo ID or a supervisor here in person, I can't do his collection," I point out.

Now everyone gets angry.

"Why do you need his ID? You have the man right here!"

"All three of us can vouch for him."

"None of us can go back to work until this is done!"

Much whining and groaning ensues, but there's nothing I can do for them. It's not my fault the guy left his ID laying somewhere. As hostilities start to rise I point out this simple fact. "No, but it's your fault for not telling him to bring it!"

"Excuse me?"

"You never said we'd need our IDs!"

"I assumed you knew. It's pretty much a given. You three didn't forget yours, even without being told."

From this point on it's all my fault. Even though the man without his ID was not the man I spoke to on the phone, I somehow should have still contacted him telepathically and reminded him to do something that every other adult in the United States does every day of their lives just out of habit.

Fed up with the accusations, I look at the ID-less man right in the eyes. He must be at least 20 years older than me. "Sir, you need to carry your ID at all times. I apologize if nobody has informed you of this, but in our society it is expected that all legal adults have a form of photo identification on them" I launch into a lecture about the exact purpose of photo identification, where he can acquire one, etc. I talk to him like he's an absolute idiot; obviously his co-workers think he is.

The four men storm out. The first three are angry, the fourth merely incredibly humiliated. I never did find out if they bothered to ask for a refund.

Definately shouldn't have said that.

Do you think there's some kind of connection between moments like these, and being forced by stubborn clients to point out the glaringly obvious? Nah, couldn't be...

Fun with the new lab.

Up until this week I only took collections for one lab and one lab only. Every single sample I collected was sent to the same place for testing, and every single result was sent to the same place for verification before being reported. Monday my company added itself to the list of approved collection sites for a fairly large nationwide laboratory, which has very nearly doubled my workload and added a whole new set of rules to play by.

Hey, no sweat. I dig rules.

If you've ever worked in an office which made sudden, sweeping changes, though, you know that things can be hectic and disorienting for a while. Old routines have to be abandoned and incorporated into new ones. Everything has to be double-checked just to be sure it's going in the right place, or to the right person. And the situation is compounded by the fact that I work alone.

When I first started here I went through an uncomfortable period where I just attempted to wing it, at best. It takes a long time to get into a decent routine, and it took even longer to adjust to not having anyone working alongside me. No bosses to point things out that I've overlooked, no co-workers to blame things on when something goes awry. My job isn't difficult by any stretch of the imagination, but I hadn't experienced anything like it before.

For our old lab, I just type up the information (donor's name, company's name and specimen ID number) and e-mail a list to my boss each night. For the new one I have to fax some stuff to the medical review officer listed on the form. This information wasn't given to me until yesterday, which meant Monday was interesting in that I had a whole box of specimens to send out, but had no idea what to do with the forms that belonged to those specimens.

When word finally came down that the system was in place to process the paperwork and all I had to do was fax it off, I went down through the stack of backlogged forms and got them all where they needed to go. My uncooperative fax machine took thirty minutes to manage this herculean feat, but the point is it was done.

As the forms were whisking away across the country I amused myself by wondering how long it would take before one of these new MROs would call with a complaint.

Didn't take long. I got my wish this morning. Very early this morning in fact; the message was on my machine when I got in at 7:50.

"This is Dr. Cranky from such-and-such office in some faraway state you've never heard of. I need a chain of custody form faxed immediately. Please call my office back at [phone number] immediately upon receiving this message."

I tend to my first-thing-in-the-morning collections, then gather up my stack of recently-faxed forms so the one Dr. Cranky wants is at hand immediately.

"Good morning. This is Richard, I just received a message about a COC that needs to be faxed."

"Please hold," says a voice that I've never heard before.

A few minutes go by. The hold music is "I'll Be Watching You" by Sting.

"Yes, Richard," says the voice from my message, "I received some results from a collection done at your office, but I never received the COC." She rattles off the ID number from the form. "This was collected on the 9th... just wondering why it's the 11th and I haven't gotten anything yet."

"My apologies. I only started taking collections for this lab on the 9th and I'm still adjusting to the new procedures. Can I have your fax number please?"

"It's on the form, in the top-right corner, where it says 'fax number'," says Dr. Cranky in the same annoying singsong voice you'd use to tell your kids it's time to pick up their toys.

"Right, I just want to confirm the number on the form is correct." After all, I faxed this out yesterday afternoon. I'm giving her the benefit of the doubt here; maybe the number on her form is misprinted. More likely she just didn't bother to check her fax tray this morning before calling me.

She tells me the fax number, one digit at a time. I tell her, "Alright, I'll dig that out and send it off to you right away."

"I'm sorry, 'dig that out'?" asks Dr. Cranky.

"Well yeah. I have a rather large stack of forms here, and it's going to take me a moment to find the one you want."

"Mmm-hmm. Richard, may I speak with your supervisor?"

"I suppose so. Do you have a pen handy?"

"Could you please transfer me to your supervisor, Richard?"

"No, I can't. I can give you her phone number though."

"I would like to speak to your supervisor immediately, Richard."

"I work alone in this office. To speak with anyone over my head you'll have to call corporate."

"What's the number, please?"

I tell it to her.

"Thank you Richard. Do you foresee future delays between the time a collection is taken and the time you send out the COC?"

"It's possible, but not likely. As I explained, I'm still adjusting to the new set of rules for the new lab."

"Thank you, have a nice day," she says, and hangs up.

It does amuse me that when Dr. Cranky goes to check her fax machine she'll be greeted with two copies of the same form. I bet she finds it and then calls my boss to complain anyway.

I'm wondering whether or not I should conveniently lose all of Dr. Cranky's forms from here on out. Hey, she thinks I'm incompetent anyway; I may as well act the part.

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?

---

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.

Truck versus me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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