Think of It as a Tip

In this age of certifications and corporatism, it seems as though almost everyone has to endure the occasional season of non-stop interviews and applications. In the wake of a few unsuccesful campaigns to enroll in grad school, I decided I'd better see about securing some full-time employment to fund my hapki-do lessons. For the past five months or so, I have been engaged in 'round the clock job hunting and the experience has left me with a generally prickly attitude toward job aggregation websites (e.g. Monster.com, CareerBuilder) and staffing firms (e.g. Robert Half, Manpower). Those organizations should seriously consider adding a "Throw your resume directly in trash" function because that would feel a little less futile.

All the false starts and nightmarish interviews aside, I eventually was offered a full-time position as a sofware developer at a company not too far from my house. When it comes to starting a new job, there's certainly a lot to enjoy, but one of my favorite features is the drug screen. Completing a drug screen is a lot like treating yourself to a spa day in that it's very relaxing and there are little ladies in medical smocks who give you one-on-one attention. This particular drug screen was in a tiny lab office near my house and I think that the lab tech and I were the only two people on the premises. I did my best to act professional and do exactly what the tech asked me to do, since I figured any joke that popped into my head about the nature of "specimen collection" had no doubt been pitched to her a few dozen times before. Still, it wasn't easy to suppress my inclination toward levity.


After the obligatory paperwork had been completed, I was directed to a small lavatory and the tech handed me a correspondingly small plastic beaker. "OK, you just need to fill this up to the red line. Is your bladder full?" she demanded in a very frank tone.

"Well, maybe not full, but definitely up to the challenge!" I responded, brimming with confidence.

The tech regarded me flatly. "OK. Bring the specimen back to my office when you're done. Don't flush the commode or wash your hands."

I just winked at her and said slyly, "Well, I certainly don't see that being a problem."

Her eyes narrowed as though she were contemplating violence, and then she quickly repaired to her office. No longer having a conversation partner, I set to completing the mission at hand. I filled the beaker to the indicated level, and then went ahead contributed a little extra because I figured the tech was having a hard day and that she deserved it. I strolled into her office, donation in hand, with all the pointless sense of accomplishment as a hot dog eating champion. "Please put it there!" shouted the tech, gesuring forcefully at an area of her desk that had been neatly designated with a squared tape outline. I slammed the beaker down like an overconfident gambler posting the ante. Without a moments hesitation, the tech slapped what appeared to be a lead-lined bio-hazard bag around the beaker and barked, "OK, please go flush the commode and wash your hands!"

Surprised, scared, and a little disappointed, I quickly went to go do as I was bid. Upon returning to the office, the tech invited me to take a seat. "Would you like some waterless hand sanitizer?" she asked. As far as I was concerned, this fruit cake of a process had just been garnished with an extra dollop of weird. First, I had been asked not to wash my hands after using the commode, then immediately told TO go wash my hands, only to then be greeted with an offer of hand sanitizer. These medical types are so bizarre. A few perfunctory questions later, the process was completed and I was on my way, my hands a sweet-smelling, lifeless wasteland (from a bacterial perspective).

-Ryan