From 2005 to 2008 I maintained a blog about my experiences working in the drug test industry. Every Sunday I revive one of those experiences here. The following was originally posted August 11, 2005.
In writing…?
A woman walks in to do a pre-employment drug test for a company I only see infrequently. The woman does not speak any English, so I get on the phone with the company to request a translator.
While I’m on hold she whips out a cell phone and makes an irate call to her husband. She comes up and thrusts the cell phone at me, even as I’m still holding the receiver. I hold up one finger, the international sign for “Hold on a minute,” not wanting to deal with two phone conversations at once. I can hear the man at the other end of the cell phone barking, “Hello!? Hello!?”
I get transferred around a bit at the lady’s company, and I figure there’s not much hope of getting a translator out of them. So I hang up on the Muzak and finally take the woman’s cell phone.
“Hello. This is Richard at [my company name]. Who am I speaking with please?”
“I’m Mr. Busybody. I’m her husband. She tells me you won’t let her take a drug test.”
Well, he at least speaks fluent English.
“That isn’t true, sir. The problem is that we cannot understand each other. Without a translator I cannot do a collection.”
“Tell me what she needs to know, and I’ll tell her.”
“Unfortunately that won’t work. A translator must be present in person, in order to clear up any problems that may arise during the collection.”
“Problems like what!?” he belches in a tone of voice meant to be accusatory. I rattle off a quick list of things that could come up during a urine collection.
“She won’t do anything like that,” he assures me.
“Be that as it may, I cannot take a collection without a translator present. I’m going to call the company right now and request one.”
“No. Don’t do that. I can translate. I’m coming down there.”
And he hangs up.
I explain what just transpired to the woman, which I’m aware is a futile endeavor, but it’s something I do anyway. I sit back down at the computer, and she starts to go slowly insane. She examines the sign-in sheet, which she’s filled out incorrectly, and begins asking questions about it. She wants this collection done and I don’t blame her. I tell her to be patient and wait for the translator.
She fills up her enormous 7-11 cup with water from my cooler.
Ten minutes go by before the husband shows up. Well-dressed, wearing dark sunglasses, and practically chewing on his cell phone. This is a man who wants everybody to know how very, very important he is. He throws his cigarette down on the sidewalk outside my door but doesn’t bother exhaling his last drag before entering. The entire lobby is going to stink of cigarettes for hours.
Without even acknowledging his wife, Mr. Busybody says, “I’m here to translate for her. And we need to make this fast. I had to leave work for this.”
I reach for my can of air freshener and consider pointing out that no, he didn’t, because the company would have sent one eventually, but I think better of it. “Please ask her to print her name, employer’s name, and the current time on the sign-in sheet.”
He disregards, and starts filling it all in himself.
“Sir, she is the one giving the sample. She has to write her own name.” This is just a technicality, and it’s really not a big deal. But I want to feel this guy out. I want to see what kind of problems to expect before we get to the important parts of the collection.
Mr. Busybody calls his wife up and says something to her. As she fills out the sign-in sheet, I ask him, “Now, are you able to translate for me?”
He is taken aback. “I am her husband.”
Fine and dandy but not what I asked. “Yes, but are you able to translate for me?”
“Yes.”
We finish the paperwork and go back to do the collection. I tell him the three instructions every woman must be told before the collection: fill the cup above the line, do not flush the toilet, bring the cap back to me when she’s done.
She flushes the toilet. Twice, actually.
I explain to Mr. Busybody that we now have to do a second collection. Either he didn’t translate properly or she just decided to ignore the instructions, but whatever the case now everyone has to wait.
“She knows what to do now, so I can go,” he declares.
“If you leave, I will be unable to make another collection attempt until the company sends a translator.”
“But she knows what to do now!”
I point out that no, she does not know what to do, judging from her apparent lack of understanding of the instructions.
“You don’t need a translator,” he spits out. “And you can’t force her to have one here.”
Before I can even point out the high hogwash content of his statement, he’s on the phone with someone else. I have no idea who he has called, but he explains the entire situation to this third party — or at least his version of it. “He’s making her have a translator!” he exclaims. “Is that good? Is that legal?”
Whomever Mr. Busybody is talking to must have told him that no, it is not legal to request a translator when attempting to take a urine sample from somebody who doesn’t speak your language. The next words out of his mouth are, “Well I don’t know what his problem is, I don’t know if he’s a racist or what.”
Yeah, that must be it.
He covers up the mouthpiece of his cell phone and looks back at me. “He told me that you have to have something in writing,” says Mr. Busybody without bothering to explain who he’s talking to. “He says if you don’t have something in writing saying a translator has to be here, you don’t need one.”
My patience is officially shot with this jerk, and fortunately in my business I don’t have to be polite with people if I don’t want to. “I don’t have anything in writing pertaining to translators, but I don’t need anything. Your wife and I do not speak the same language. We can not understand each other. I can not complete this collection unless I’m convinced she has understood the instructions, which she didn’t, and understands every word on the form she will have to sign.”
“Go get the form, I’ll make her sign it.”
“Wait, you want me to have her sign the paperwork before she gives me a sample? And you’re the one worried about what’s ‘good and legal’?”
“If you don’t have anything in writing, we’re leaving.”
“That’s fine. I’ll simply get a hold of Company X and explain the situation–“
“Just show me something in writing!”
The “in writing” thing finally gnaws into my skull. I grab a pen and a post-it under the counter where he can’t see, and jot down “She needs a translator in person.” I slide it across the counter to him.
He reads it and is not happy. Mr. Busybody grabs his wife by the arm and hauls her out, spewing naughty words as he does so.
Sighing, I pick up the phone and try to get a hold of so-and-so over at Company X. While listening to the Muzak drone on, I notice the lady has left her gigantic 7-11 cup still sitting on my magazine table.
She never comes back.
I don’t have anything in writing stating that Mr. Busybody could use my parking lot either, but he didn’t have any problems parking. Imagine that.
While I’m on hold she whips out a cell phone and makes an irate call to her husband. She comes up and thrusts the cell phone at me, even as I’m still holding the receiver. I hold up one finger, the international sign for “Hold on a minute,” not wanting to deal with two phone conversations at once. I can hear the man at the other end of the cell phone barking, “Hello!? Hello!?”
I get transferred around a bit at the lady’s company, and I figure there’s not much hope of getting a translator out of them. So I hang up on the Muzak and finally take the woman’s cell phone.
“Hello. This is Richard at [my company name]. Who am I speaking with please?”
“I’m Mr. Busybody. I’m her husband. She tells me you won’t let her take a drug test.”
Well, he at least speaks fluent English.
“That isn’t true, sir. The problem is that we cannot understand each other. Without a translator I cannot do a collection.”
“Tell me what she needs to know, and I’ll tell her.”
“Unfortunately that won’t work. A translator must be present in person, in order to clear up any problems that may arise during the collection.”
“Problems like what!?” he belches in a tone of voice meant to be accusatory. I rattle off a quick list of things that could come up during a urine collection.
“She won’t do anything like that,” he assures me.
“Be that as it may, I cannot take a collection without a translator present. I’m going to call the company right now and request one.”
“No. Don’t do that. I can translate. I’m coming down there.”
And he hangs up.
I explain what just transpired to the woman, which I’m aware is a futile endeavor, but it’s something I do anyway. I sit back down at the computer, and she starts to go slowly insane. She examines the sign-in sheet, which she’s filled out incorrectly, and begins asking questions about it. She wants this collection done and I don’t blame her. I tell her to be patient and wait for the translator.
She fills up her enormous 7-11 cup with water from my cooler.
Ten minutes go by before the husband shows up. Well-dressed, wearing dark sunglasses, and practically chewing on his cell phone. This is a man who wants everybody to know how very, very important he is. He throws his cigarette down on the sidewalk outside my door but doesn’t bother exhaling his last drag before entering. The entire lobby is going to stink of cigarettes for hours.
Without even acknowledging his wife, Mr. Busybody says, “I’m here to translate for her. And we need to make this fast. I had to leave work for this.”
I reach for my can of air freshener and consider pointing out that no, he didn’t, because the company would have sent one eventually, but I think better of it. “Please ask her to print her name, employer’s name, and the current time on the sign-in sheet.”
He disregards, and starts filling it all in himself.
“Sir, she is the one giving the sample. She has to write her own name.” This is just a technicality, and it’s really not a big deal. But I want to feel this guy out. I want to see what kind of problems to expect before we get to the important parts of the collection.
Mr. Busybody calls his wife up and says something to her. As she fills out the sign-in sheet, I ask him, “Now, are you able to translate for me?”
He is taken aback. “I am her husband.”
Fine and dandy but not what I asked. “Yes, but are you able to translate for me?”
“Yes.”
We finish the paperwork and go back to do the collection. I tell him the three instructions every woman must be told before the collection: fill the cup above the line, do not flush the toilet, bring the cap back to me when she’s done.
She flushes the toilet. Twice, actually.
I explain to Mr. Busybody that we now have to do a second collection. Either he didn’t translate properly or she just decided to ignore the instructions, but whatever the case now everyone has to wait.
“She knows what to do now, so I can go,” he declares.
“If you leave, I will be unable to make another collection attempt until the company sends a translator.”
“But she knows what to do now!”
I point out that no, she does not know what to do, judging from her apparent lack of understanding of the instructions.
“You don’t need a translator,” he spits out. “And you can’t force her to have one here.”
Before I can even point out the high hogwash content of his statement, he’s on the phone with someone else. I have no idea who he has called, but he explains the entire situation to this third party — or at least his version of it. “He’s making her have a translator!” he exclaims. “Is that good? Is that legal?”
Whomever Mr. Busybody is talking to must have told him that no, it is not legal to request a translator when attempting to take a urine sample from somebody who doesn’t speak your language. The next words out of his mouth are, “Well I don’t know what his problem is, I don’t know if he’s a racist or what.”
Yeah, that must be it.
He covers up the mouthpiece of his cell phone and looks back at me. “He told me that you have to have something in writing,” says Mr. Busybody without bothering to explain who he’s talking to. “He says if you don’t have something in writing saying a translator has to be here, you don’t need one.”
My patience is officially shot with this jerk, and fortunately in my business I don’t have to be polite with people if I don’t want to. “I don’t have anything in writing pertaining to translators, but I don’t need anything. Your wife and I do not speak the same language. We can not understand each other. I can not complete this collection unless I’m convinced she has understood the instructions, which she didn’t, and understands every word on the form she will have to sign.”
“Go get the form, I’ll make her sign it.”
“Wait, you want me to have her sign the paperwork before she gives me a sample? And you’re the one worried about what’s ‘good and legal’?”
“If you don’t have anything in writing, we’re leaving.”
“That’s fine. I’ll simply get a hold of Company X and explain the situation–“
“Just show me something in writing!”
The “in writing” thing finally gnaws into my skull. I grab a pen and a post-it under the counter where he can’t see, and jot down “She needs a translator in person.” I slide it across the counter to him.
He reads it and is not happy. Mr. Busybody grabs his wife by the arm and hauls her out, spewing naughty words as he does so.
Sighing, I pick up the phone and try to get a hold of so-and-so over at Company X. While listening to the Muzak drone on, I notice the lady has left her gigantic 7-11 cup still sitting on my magazine table.
She never comes back.
I don’t have anything in writing stating that Mr. Busybody could use my parking lot either, but he didn’t have any problems parking. Imagine that.
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