Plus: The Indignities of Modern Life
(1) (This was originally going second, but it's funnier - or at least it might be funny at all - so I put it first.) So, working for/in a Government Agency, I have to pass a drug test. Now, this is not a concern, since I've led a boring and surprisingly law-abiding life and haven't actually ever partaken of a substance the government doesn't let people partake of (though I did drink before legally allowed, but, you know, fuck that noise). Let's repeat: passing the test is not a concern, and now that the test is behind me I haven't given the results a second thought.
TAKING the test was a huge concern. I have, to deploy medical terminology, mild paruresis. It is not in my case a crippling condition or anything (I don't plan my day around it and lots of people have much more severe manifestations) but I'm, e.g., incapable of using a urinal if someone else is free in the vicinity, except for instances of most severe and excruciating physical necessity overcoming my psychological blocks. Now, I've taken urine-based tests before (one in this very facility, actually), but they were of a more purely medical nature, and much lower-key in atmosphere. I presented myself and was asked whether I was ready to produce 30 ml. I had a little water, just to get myself in the mood, and said I was.
I was not.
I had washed my hands with the door open as per protocol and solemnly agreed while closing the door that I would not flush the toilet, that I would not run the water, that I would produce 30 ml. But there I stood, fully capable in the physical sense of doing the job, but incapable under that pressure of convincing myself to do it. An attendant was just outside waiting for me to finish my business, and I was on the clock. Inevitably she knocked. "I'm sorry, I couldn't do it," I said sheepishly, and then, "I'm a little shy with it."
"Mmm-hmm. You can wait around and try again. We'll wait until we close."
So I waited, and paced, and downed tiny plastic cup after tiny plastic cup of water, and I thought of rivers and waterfalls and gentle babbling brooks. I needed to use the bathroom. Not badly (not badly enough), but I definitely could fill that fucking cup. I'm ready. "I'm ready."
And this lady fixes me with what I felt was a surprisingly humorless expression and utters the immortal words: "Do you feel the urge to go?" They are delievered almost without rhythm or stress, as close to affectless as a midwestern black lady who's getting pretty annoyed can come. These words cut me. "Do you feel the urge to go?' I do not.
"I think so," I offer with a grin. She is not amused.
I fail, and am additionally informed that I voided (ahem) the test, because while I did not fail it neither did I honestly produce 30 ml of liquid. I would need to speak to my HR person and try again.
On leaving the building, of course, I immediately needed to go to the bathroom. Like, really bad.
The next day I plotted my triumphant return. I'd head over right at 5PM (the testing location was a few blocks from work), pumped so full of water that I'd have no choice but to give them what they wanted. And all day I thought of how ridiculous this was. I should've volunteered to be strip searched, and on satisfying the attendees that I had no mechanism by which to cheat, I should've been allowed to shut the door, run the faucet, and have an hour to myself in contemplation of rolling waves and gentle estuaries. (As it turns out, this happened to my dad when he did some work for a government agency in Miami, except without the closed door, gentle contemplation, and the hour to himself. The procedure there was to strip naked, then put on some sort of paper or cloth doily insufficient to a grown man's proportion, and then be directed con cup to a separate but exposed location and barked at to produce the evidence under the watchful scrutiny of bitter men who dreamed of the fortune their family abandoned in Cuba when they fled Castro.) It was ridiculous. I should've been allowed to volunteer a blood test instead. If it didn't affect my work who cared if I did drugs or not. Fuck them. I was angry, and with my anger I drank water. And drank, and drank, for hours. Round about 3PM I realized my miscalculation. It was too close to the hour of destiny to relieve myself but Jesus Christ did I have to go. I wiggled and pretended to be able to work and, improbably, kept drinking water. Finally at 4PM I succumbed to visions of Tycho Brahe and bolted from the office, rapidly hobbling my way over to the testing location. I burst through their doors and attempted to explain my situation to the attendant when my friend from the day before emerged, fixed me with a bemused look, and asked whether I need some time, or did I "feel the urge to go". Then she smiled (joyous day!) and ushered me to the room, whereby I washed my hands with the door open, promised not to flush the toilet or run the faucets, and did my proud duty as a government employee, as an American citizen.
(2) On my last day at Medium Sized Law Firm I realized that I had lost my driver's license. Also, I'd lost my old college ID, which was worthless except for pretending to be a student at the local symphony, but was a nice reminder of what I looked like roughly fifty pounds ago; the college ID sat just behind the license in the same pocket of my wallet. I had no idea, and have no idea, of where these items were lost, or when. The last time I know for certain I pulled my license was a week before I noticed it's absence, and I've gone into or called every place I can remember being in the interim asking if they'd found it. No such luck, of course. So, being somewhat paranoid, I freaked out about what would happen if I were caught out on the street without ID, and thereby started carrying my passport, which of course made me freak out about what would happen if I lost my passport. Since my driver's license was actually issued in a state where I've never spent more than three months at a time and have no intention of living in for the forseeable future, I figured I ought to get a license issued in Illinois, which means starting from scratch, which means that I will need to provide a proof of citizenship (my precious passport, which has been photocopied several times in luxurious color, preserving the accuracy of a picture which shows me roughly sixty pounds ago), proof of residence (a bill or lease), and a social security card (oops). So I had to spend an afternoon at the social security office a week ago, which if you weren't concerned about how much money you were making seems like it could be a pretty decent job. You can dress casually and conduct your job with friendly enthusiasm but at a very slow pace, which to be honest is probably about how I'd do it myself. All of this was more interesting a week ago when I didn't have a social security card, which finally arrived in the mail a few days ago. Now I just need to hit the DMV and, uhm...I'm not actually sure I'd pass a driving test. I'd certainly flunk a parking test. I'm not sure I'd pass the written test. I have no idea what they'd ask of me. I might shoot for a state ID just to get my passport out of my pocket and worry about driving (in which I have little interest) later; for now I'd just like something that attests to my name and birthday.
It all has exposed a kind of raw anxiety about not being able to prove that I am who I say I am, which shouldn't be surprising considering that I'm a mildly paranoid person who is additionaly less than 100% secure with his essential Americanness (I mean, I'm about 87% secure; this is a long topic I've written at length about elsewhere under other pseudonyms and will eventually regurgitate here, but not tonight). The import with which we invest a few small and easily misplaced pieces of paper and plastic has become unsettling to me. I discussed this with a good friend from high school, and he related that he and his girlfriend were talking about the recent Supreme Court decision re: voter fraud in Indiana, and she'd opined somewhat skeptically about what sort of person really wasn't able to cough up some government ID; my response, which jibed with his, was along the lines of, "Well, someone who doesn't have his shit together," but as recent events in my life demonstrate, it's pretty easy to not have your shit together. I'm a mildly disorganized person who's moved around a lot and I was a misplaced passport away from truly being up shit creek. This is getting a bit self indulgent, now. It's not like I was in any real trouble (I think).
TAKING the test was a huge concern. I have, to deploy medical terminology, mild paruresis. It is not in my case a crippling condition or anything (I don't plan my day around it and lots of people have much more severe manifestations) but I'm, e.g., incapable of using a urinal if someone else is free in the vicinity, except for instances of most severe and excruciating physical necessity overcoming my psychological blocks. Now, I've taken urine-based tests before (one in this very facility, actually), but they were of a more purely medical nature, and much lower-key in atmosphere. I presented myself and was asked whether I was ready to produce 30 ml. I had a little water, just to get myself in the mood, and said I was.
I was not.
I had washed my hands with the door open as per protocol and solemnly agreed while closing the door that I would not flush the toilet, that I would not run the water, that I would produce 30 ml. But there I stood, fully capable in the physical sense of doing the job, but incapable under that pressure of convincing myself to do it. An attendant was just outside waiting for me to finish my business, and I was on the clock. Inevitably she knocked. "I'm sorry, I couldn't do it," I said sheepishly, and then, "I'm a little shy with it."
"Mmm-hmm. You can wait around and try again. We'll wait until we close."
So I waited, and paced, and downed tiny plastic cup after tiny plastic cup of water, and I thought of rivers and waterfalls and gentle babbling brooks. I needed to use the bathroom. Not badly (not badly enough), but I definitely could fill that fucking cup. I'm ready. "I'm ready."
And this lady fixes me with what I felt was a surprisingly humorless expression and utters the immortal words: "Do you feel the urge to go?" They are delievered almost without rhythm or stress, as close to affectless as a midwestern black lady who's getting pretty annoyed can come. These words cut me. "Do you feel the urge to go?' I do not.
"I think so," I offer with a grin. She is not amused.
I fail, and am additionally informed that I voided (ahem) the test, because while I did not fail it neither did I honestly produce 30 ml of liquid. I would need to speak to my HR person and try again.
On leaving the building, of course, I immediately needed to go to the bathroom. Like, really bad.
The next day I plotted my triumphant return. I'd head over right at 5PM (the testing location was a few blocks from work), pumped so full of water that I'd have no choice but to give them what they wanted. And all day I thought of how ridiculous this was. I should've volunteered to be strip searched, and on satisfying the attendees that I had no mechanism by which to cheat, I should've been allowed to shut the door, run the faucet, and have an hour to myself in contemplation of rolling waves and gentle estuaries. (As it turns out, this happened to my dad when he did some work for a government agency in Miami, except without the closed door, gentle contemplation, and the hour to himself. The procedure there was to strip naked, then put on some sort of paper or cloth doily insufficient to a grown man's proportion, and then be directed con cup to a separate but exposed location and barked at to produce the evidence under the watchful scrutiny of bitter men who dreamed of the fortune their family abandoned in Cuba when they fled Castro.) It was ridiculous. I should've been allowed to volunteer a blood test instead. If it didn't affect my work who cared if I did drugs or not. Fuck them. I was angry, and with my anger I drank water. And drank, and drank, for hours. Round about 3PM I realized my miscalculation. It was too close to the hour of destiny to relieve myself but Jesus Christ did I have to go. I wiggled and pretended to be able to work and, improbably, kept drinking water. Finally at 4PM I succumbed to visions of Tycho Brahe and bolted from the office, rapidly hobbling my way over to the testing location. I burst through their doors and attempted to explain my situation to the attendant when my friend from the day before emerged, fixed me with a bemused look, and asked whether I need some time, or did I "feel the urge to go". Then she smiled (joyous day!) and ushered me to the room, whereby I washed my hands with the door open, promised not to flush the toilet or run the faucets, and did my proud duty as a government employee, as an American citizen.
(2) On my last day at Medium Sized Law Firm I realized that I had lost my driver's license. Also, I'd lost my old college ID, which was worthless except for pretending to be a student at the local symphony, but was a nice reminder of what I looked like roughly fifty pounds ago; the college ID sat just behind the license in the same pocket of my wallet. I had no idea, and have no idea, of where these items were lost, or when. The last time I know for certain I pulled my license was a week before I noticed it's absence, and I've gone into or called every place I can remember being in the interim asking if they'd found it. No such luck, of course. So, being somewhat paranoid, I freaked out about what would happen if I were caught out on the street without ID, and thereby started carrying my passport, which of course made me freak out about what would happen if I lost my passport. Since my driver's license was actually issued in a state where I've never spent more than three months at a time and have no intention of living in for the forseeable future, I figured I ought to get a license issued in Illinois, which means starting from scratch, which means that I will need to provide a proof of citizenship (my precious passport, which has been photocopied several times in luxurious color, preserving the accuracy of a picture which shows me roughly sixty pounds ago), proof of residence (a bill or lease), and a social security card (oops). So I had to spend an afternoon at the social security office a week ago, which if you weren't concerned about how much money you were making seems like it could be a pretty decent job. You can dress casually and conduct your job with friendly enthusiasm but at a very slow pace, which to be honest is probably about how I'd do it myself. All of this was more interesting a week ago when I didn't have a social security card, which finally arrived in the mail a few days ago. Now I just need to hit the DMV and, uhm...I'm not actually sure I'd pass a driving test. I'd certainly flunk a parking test. I'm not sure I'd pass the written test. I have no idea what they'd ask of me. I might shoot for a state ID just to get my passport out of my pocket and worry about driving (in which I have little interest) later; for now I'd just like something that attests to my name and birthday.
It all has exposed a kind of raw anxiety about not being able to prove that I am who I say I am, which shouldn't be surprising considering that I'm a mildly paranoid person who is additionaly less than 100% secure with his essential Americanness (I mean, I'm about 87% secure; this is a long topic I've written at length about elsewhere under other pseudonyms and will eventually regurgitate here, but not tonight). The import with which we invest a few small and easily misplaced pieces of paper and plastic has become unsettling to me. I discussed this with a good friend from high school, and he related that he and his girlfriend were talking about the recent Supreme Court decision re: voter fraud in Indiana, and she'd opined somewhat skeptically about what sort of person really wasn't able to cough up some government ID; my response, which jibed with his, was along the lines of, "Well, someone who doesn't have his shit together," but as recent events in my life demonstrate, it's pretty easy to not have your shit together. I'm a mildly disorganized person who's moved around a lot and I was a misplaced passport away from truly being up shit creek. This is getting a bit self indulgent, now. It's not like I was in any real trouble (I think).
posted by medrawt at
00:59
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