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 16, 2005.
Captain America
My first collection this morning was from a balding fat man wearing a shirt that read “I took my platelets out for a spin!” indicating that he was either a blood donor or stole the shirt from one. He was wearing those red bicycling shorts that a man of his considerable girth has no business wearing. Rounding out the ensemble is a trucker hat and a pair of $2 flip-flops.
Little did I know this was Captain America.
Captain America is here to take a drug test for a company that installs storm shutters. A noble profession. He walks in and gives me the condescending look that guys like him always give me, then declares breathlessly that his job is making him take a drug test. He wants to know if we can get this over with quickly, because he has things to do.
“As soon as you’re ready, sir.”
After signing in twice (he screwed it up the first time, despite being informed of the proper method of signing in by me), we hit a snag with Captain America’s photo ID. What he throws at me isn’t a state ID or a driver’s license, but a faded Veterans ID card.
The Veterans ID card is a terrible way to identify oneself. Not only is the card almost impossible to read (the “print” is just a raised face on the card, so you have to hold it at an angle to read it) but the photo is this tiny, monochrome, low resolution job that looks more like a bar code than someone’s face. Whether or not I can actually accept this kind of ID is a total crapshoot. In Captain America’s case, the ID has been through the wash a few times and left out in the sun for about a week. The colors on the American flag backdrop of the card are several shades too light, and where the man’s face ought to be is just a jumble of black and white pixels.
“Sir, do you have another form of photo ID? I’m having a hard time reading this one.”
“Then you should get your eyes checked. That’s federal.”
I thought about accepting his word and writing “Amorphous Blob Man” on the form where his name should have gone, but figured that would probably be a bad idea.
“This is a low resolution image and I honestly can’t tell whether or not it’s you. I’ll need some other form of ID.” I hand his card back. He refuses to take it from me.
“Son, that’s a valid federal ID. You have to take it.”
“Actually, I don’t. I can reject any ID for pretty much any reason I want. In this case I can’t tell that the image on the ID is, in fact, you. Can I see your driver’s license please?”
He hands it to me. It’s a brand new Florida driver’s license with his ugly mug plastered on it in two different places in bright, vibrant color. I jot down his name and hand it back. “There,” he says, “was that so hard?”
“No, actually, it was very easy. You should have given me that ID to start with.”
Captain America is one of these guys who wants everyone to know he’s a veteran. He drinks at the veterans’ lounge and hangs out with other veterans and harbors this belief that his prior military experience entitles him to special treatment. He’s probably used to mentioning his veteran status and having the red carpet rolled out for him.
I invite Captain America back to provide his sample. “I’m not giving you my social security number,” he says, very firmly.
“Okay. I don’t need it.”
“I don’t ever give that out. You can do too much to someone with their social.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need it. But you know it’s on your veterans ID card, right? If you don’t want people knowing your social security number, you should keep that to yourself.”
“You should have accepted that. You have to accept it. Everywhere else accepts it, and if I wanted to make a big issue out of it I could have.”
By now he’s emptying his pockets. Not because he’s about to go swimming or because he’s ready for bed, but because I told him to. Griping about his stupid ID card is probably helping him cope with the inner turmoil of being in a situation where the 20-something civilian white boy is completely in charge. I tell him to wash and dry his hands. He doesn’t use soap, so I make him do it again. I treat him like a child because he’s acting like one. If I had a rolled-up newspaper, I’d swat him with it.
Captain America’s born-on date is halfway through 1935, which means he’s probably a veteran of the Korean War. I’ll be honest and admit that I have absolutely zero idea what the Korean War was about. We were so pressed for time in American History class in high school that our complete lesson on the Korean War was “…and that was how WW2 ended. Then we had a Korean War. Okay, now open your textbooks to Vietnam…” I’m sure if I asked, Captain America could regale me with stories about how much better my life is because he had the courage to stand up and fight Korea, but the truth is I don’t care. I don’t care about things that happened decades before I was born and don’t affect my life at all. If that makes me a horrible person, so be it, but I don’t get paid to be your war buddy.
He had a job to do, and he did it. Now I have a job to do, and I’m doing it. Quoting your military record is not an acceptable substitute for a photo ID. Arguing is not an acceptable substitute. Condescending glares and use of words like “boy” and “son” are not an acceptable substitute.
Sometimes in life you have to defer to people younger than you. Mean old guys like Captain America should (but won’t) learn that while 23 years is nowhere near enough time to build up any real life experience, it’s long enough for the government to recognize you as a legal adult. I’m allowed to hold a job and make you do things in order to ensure my job is done properly.
Total collection time for Captain America is eleven minutes, after the whole ID fiasco, a conversation about his social security number, a quick run-down about how I should “learn to respect veterans”, more complaints about the ID, and a comment about how he’s going to “tell all this to his employer”. Just before he leaves he comments that this is the longest drug test he’s ever taken. I point out that he is now free to leave, and completely lose interest in him.
I hope he enjoys his new storm shutter job.
50 years from now history teachers will gloss over the two wars in Iraq. Students will sleep through the lectures and fail the tests. And Iraqi war vets will try to weasel benefits for themselves that they are not entitled to, such as special treatment in drug testing procedures. This is the circle of life, people. This is deep stuff.
Little did I know this was Captain America.
Captain America is here to take a drug test for a company that installs storm shutters. A noble profession. He walks in and gives me the condescending look that guys like him always give me, then declares breathlessly that his job is making him take a drug test. He wants to know if we can get this over with quickly, because he has things to do.
“As soon as you’re ready, sir.”
After signing in twice (he screwed it up the first time, despite being informed of the proper method of signing in by me), we hit a snag with Captain America’s photo ID. What he throws at me isn’t a state ID or a driver’s license, but a faded Veterans ID card.
The Veterans ID card is a terrible way to identify oneself. Not only is the card almost impossible to read (the “print” is just a raised face on the card, so you have to hold it at an angle to read it) but the photo is this tiny, monochrome, low resolution job that looks more like a bar code than someone’s face. Whether or not I can actually accept this kind of ID is a total crapshoot. In Captain America’s case, the ID has been through the wash a few times and left out in the sun for about a week. The colors on the American flag backdrop of the card are several shades too light, and where the man’s face ought to be is just a jumble of black and white pixels.
“Sir, do you have another form of photo ID? I’m having a hard time reading this one.”
“Then you should get your eyes checked. That’s federal.”
I thought about accepting his word and writing “Amorphous Blob Man” on the form where his name should have gone, but figured that would probably be a bad idea.
“This is a low resolution image and I honestly can’t tell whether or not it’s you. I’ll need some other form of ID.” I hand his card back. He refuses to take it from me.
“Son, that’s a valid federal ID. You have to take it.”
“Actually, I don’t. I can reject any ID for pretty much any reason I want. In this case I can’t tell that the image on the ID is, in fact, you. Can I see your driver’s license please?”
He hands it to me. It’s a brand new Florida driver’s license with his ugly mug plastered on it in two different places in bright, vibrant color. I jot down his name and hand it back. “There,” he says, “was that so hard?”
“No, actually, it was very easy. You should have given me that ID to start with.”
Captain America is one of these guys who wants everyone to know he’s a veteran. He drinks at the veterans’ lounge and hangs out with other veterans and harbors this belief that his prior military experience entitles him to special treatment. He’s probably used to mentioning his veteran status and having the red carpet rolled out for him.
I invite Captain America back to provide his sample. “I’m not giving you my social security number,” he says, very firmly.
“Okay. I don’t need it.”
“I don’t ever give that out. You can do too much to someone with their social.”
“That’s okay. I don’t need it. But you know it’s on your veterans ID card, right? If you don’t want people knowing your social security number, you should keep that to yourself.”
“You should have accepted that. You have to accept it. Everywhere else accepts it, and if I wanted to make a big issue out of it I could have.”
By now he’s emptying his pockets. Not because he’s about to go swimming or because he’s ready for bed, but because I told him to. Griping about his stupid ID card is probably helping him cope with the inner turmoil of being in a situation where the 20-something civilian white boy is completely in charge. I tell him to wash and dry his hands. He doesn’t use soap, so I make him do it again. I treat him like a child because he’s acting like one. If I had a rolled-up newspaper, I’d swat him with it.
Captain America’s born-on date is halfway through 1935, which means he’s probably a veteran of the Korean War. I’ll be honest and admit that I have absolutely zero idea what the Korean War was about. We were so pressed for time in American History class in high school that our complete lesson on the Korean War was “…and that was how WW2 ended. Then we had a Korean War. Okay, now open your textbooks to Vietnam…” I’m sure if I asked, Captain America could regale me with stories about how much better my life is because he had the courage to stand up and fight Korea, but the truth is I don’t care. I don’t care about things that happened decades before I was born and don’t affect my life at all. If that makes me a horrible person, so be it, but I don’t get paid to be your war buddy.
He had a job to do, and he did it. Now I have a job to do, and I’m doing it. Quoting your military record is not an acceptable substitute for a photo ID. Arguing is not an acceptable substitute. Condescending glares and use of words like “boy” and “son” are not an acceptable substitute.
Sometimes in life you have to defer to people younger than you. Mean old guys like Captain America should (but won’t) learn that while 23 years is nowhere near enough time to build up any real life experience, it’s long enough for the government to recognize you as a legal adult. I’m allowed to hold a job and make you do things in order to ensure my job is done properly.
Total collection time for Captain America is eleven minutes, after the whole ID fiasco, a conversation about his social security number, a quick run-down about how I should “learn to respect veterans”, more complaints about the ID, and a comment about how he’s going to “tell all this to his employer”. Just before he leaves he comments that this is the longest drug test he’s ever taken. I point out that he is now free to leave, and completely lose interest in him.
I hope he enjoys his new storm shutter job.
50 years from now history teachers will gloss over the two wars in Iraq. Students will sleep through the lectures and fail the tests. And Iraqi war vets will try to weasel benefits for themselves that they are not entitled to, such as special treatment in drug testing procedures. This is the circle of life, people. This is deep stuff.
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