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 by Terrie Shattuck |
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THE AMERICAN DRIVE-THRU DRUG TEST: "Welcome to
doc-in-a-box. May I take your
water please?"
I sought a writing position with a 12-person multimedia startup, which had broken free of its parent company like a kid crossing the street by herself for the first time. Childhood may be great for creativity, but not always for managing employees in a fair, professional manner. As you know, writing demands the split-second, life-or-death acuity to think, type, stare, and interview folks over the phone. Drug-testing was required. So I submitted to three hours of health-checks which covered blood pressure, reflexes, heart rate, height and weight, a throat and ear exam, and lastly the urinalysis. (I draw the line at drawing blood. And you should too. Haven't you given enough?) I drove to an office in a business park near an upscale grocery and a discount lighting store. The receptionist reminded me less of anyone in a healthcare setting than of the good check-out people at my local Gas 'n' Snack. I waited briefly near a display of mail-order wonder vitamins, then I took a chair in an "exam room." The walls were cluttered with photocopied office cartoons and posters of the Hang In There! genre. Soon, a right jolly gentleman appeared, RV-ready in flannel and suspenders. We talked about diets and an event from his boyhood, and he thumped my back and knees and looked down my throat. I decided he was perfect for the job, because while the setting seemed oddly counterfeit, I didn't feel ill at ease; only like we were playing Doctor's Office. He sent me on to the next room, where a woman took my blood pressure while I sat next to a stair-stepper and some other overflow storage items. She was not unpleasant, not terribly professional, and really tired. I think she said she was trying to quit smoking. Then I drove across town to the lab. The complex was damp, mazelike, and heavily shaded by trees. Several offices were vacant. The entrance nearest the lab was locked and I had to find another door. I entered the suite. An icy technician gave me instructions. She followed me closely to the restroom. I imagined for a second that I was standing on a trap door. Every touchable thing was hair-triggered lest I try to slip her something else for the genuine contents of that cup. The flushing handle was taped to the tank. The cold and hot water were taped in the OFF positions. The sink drain was taped closed. I know I registered surprise, because the tech was now impatient, so I closed the door gingerly and did the deed. I was allowed to wash my hands after the cup was safely in her keeping and she had removed the tape from the fixtures. By the time I met up with the plastic cup, several people had engaged in quasi-clinical procedures to carry out a degrading test based on an assumption about the work force, so I could join a small firm where I would not drive company vehicles, operate dangerous equipment or need a security clearance. Did I mention that I don't ingest anything other than ibuprofen and the occasional Sominex? Does that change anything? An acquaintance has made it her policy to refuse drug testing on principle — right after the hearty handshake and the job offer. She says this gives employers "brain cramps." They should probably be tested for that, and I know just the place. 
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