Interestingly, I have the strong feeling I'll soon be a regular on customers_suck; i've been offered a part-time position as a pharmacy tech. Yup, a regular ol' register monkey. With drugs. (hee)
However, the job offer is contingent on two things: a background check (criminal, not credit, thank heavens) and a drug screen. Of course, I'm a little mary sunshine goody-two-shoes type (to mix a metaphor of sorts) and I have no problem supplying that, er, information.
Now, I got my fingers stitched up last february when I unwittingly smashed a glass at work and ran my fingers not-so-lovingly over it. Because of workers' comp rules I had to go to the ER and give a drug screen before the doc did his thing, and that episode was a
particularly sorry situation, because I sliced open a finger on each hand (bartending), had to roust my boy to drive me to the ER (at 11 p.m. on a friday night) and then had to give a blood and urine sample before I got any pain meds or stitches. Because, of course, pain meds would screw the test.
So here I am, in a tiny hospital bathroom with two bleeding hands, after working most of a 10-hour shift, trying to pee in a cup. I'm dripping blood on the floor and weeping at the same time. well, snivelling is probably more accurate. Y'know, one of my proudest moments. As this is going on, someone opens the bathroom door I neglected to lock. Oops. Apparently I hollered loud enough that my boy, down the hall, heard me and the nurses started to come out around from their station. Hee. Thank god for vicodin. However, this isn't the bad service. Just funny. In hindsight.
However, since I had to do the drug screen then (and since I don't do drugs, and all), I figured this would be no big deal, make a fist, pee in a cup, and you're done.
I drive down to this place in Wayne (at least it wasn't Inkster) and go into this seedy-looking building. I sign in, and some chick comes wander/waddling up to the counter, and she's obviously very busy. On the phone with a girlfriend. She finally deigns to call me up to the window, and immediately I'm told I can't bring anything in with me. when I ask her if there's a secure place to leave my purse, she huffs, rolls her eyes, and snottily tells me I'll have to put it in my car. Ooooooo-kay. I guess I'm the asshole here.
I return to the depths of the building that smelled something like a doctor's office, but one that had things rotting in cupboards in the back, and am ushered--no, no, wait, that's too nice of a word. I was ordered into the Back Room (TM). Once there, the lady (and oh, can you smell the irony dripping from that word?) directs (er, orders) me to stand in a certain spot behind her. I had to look down to ensure I was properly positioned on the 'X'. Then, she begins the script:
No matches lighters cigarettes any smoking materials allowed into the bathroom you have 4 minutes to do the sample if it takes longer than 4 minutes I will throw the sample out and (be pissed off and) nothing in your pockets no put your keys on the counter no not your license either no and you must fill it to this line and if you don't you'll have to try again and you only get two tries and print your name here sign here initial here date here and (I'm taking your firstborn child and) once you're in the bathroom I'll be standing right outside the door and (I haven't taken a breath yet and) you must not flush the toilet and nothing in your pockets and wash your hands
I wonder why I felt like she didn't trust me? I wash my hands, follow her to the bathroom, and notice that the sink and toilet tank cover are sealed with red caution tape. No messing around here. So, I do the deed, trying desperately not to giggle because if I do Wanda out there will bust in because she'll think I'm tampering with my sample, and of course I can't wash my hands until after she's inspected the toilet and just ick.
Throughout the whole experience I felt like I had done something wrong, like guilt (for something, anything) was automatically assumed. It made me think that she treats everyone this way, including people convicted of possession of one-millionth of an ounce or people freebasing the hard stuff or sweet little old ladies--at least, if sweet little old ladies ever require a drug screen. It wasn't the fact that I had to give a sample--it's that I was treated as though she thought I was going to fail. I understand that there are plenty of people out there who, given half a nano-second would cheerful fark the drug screen tests so that they could avoid fines/avoid losing a job/continue running the country/whatever. But she was the most unprofessional professional I'd ever encountered. Even if I was there for a periodic checkup after a conviction, I'd want to be treated like a human.
I talked to my mom later and she said she felt the same way when she had to be fingerprinted prior to being allowed to teach. It wasn't the fact that she was fingerprinted, it was the manner in which the procedure was done, and it made her pissy and uncomfortable and all. And it did me, too.
What do y'all think?