Free Flowin’

One of the more disturbing job tasks that the workers I supervise periodically complete is observing clients submit to urine drug tests. No, I don’t mean the workers hand them the cup, they enter the bathroom, void their bladders and then bring us the sample. Oh no, we actually get the distinct pleasure of being locked inside a small bathroom with some of the grungiest, most pungent smelling individuals in our community, the smells of their seldom washed nether regions attacking our nasal passage like an unstoppable invading army. The awkward circumstances of violating another’s personal space in the most private of rooms then reaches unparalleled levels of vileness as our eyes must fix upon a stranger’s genetalia while they let loose with torrential outpourings of kidney-filtered golden solutions that cascade from their fleshy flumes into awaiting plastic receptacles, all in the name of verifying that the client provided a “legitimate” sample. Knowing that many potential employees would shy away from applying for a job that requires completing such a task, the governmental agency I work for is clever enough to omit this from the essential job functions listed on the job classification description, and instead they insert the vague statement “other job duties as assigned”, knowing they can add just about any disgusting duty they want, up to and including the aforementioned drug testing, which is little more than legalized voyeurism.

One of the greatest perks of becoming a supervisor in our agency is the greatly reduced amount of client contact, and therefore escaping the torment of urination observation. While I certainly do not revel in the misfortune of the workers who must perform this task on a repeated basis, I’m not going to lie and say that I longingly pine for the days when I was required to stare at another man’s member while he urinated into a collection vial. Although drug testing is no longer part of my normal daily routine at work, given the limited number of men that work at my particular office, I am sometimes asked by female coworkers to drug test male clients for them. A few days ago, a coworker asked me to drug test a client for them, and as I was unable to make up some excuse as to why I was so busy I could not do so (note to self: keep a bogus stack of papers that is labeled “Immediate Attention Needed” for time such as these), I agreed to test the client. I was introduced to Jim (name changed for anonymity’s sake. I know, you readers would have picked Peter. Har, har, har. I refuse to use such low brow humor in my blog. OK, who am I kidding? I am sure there will be some terribly crass humor coming up shortly). Jim seemed to be a normal enough guy, dressed in a shirt and tie, and not emitting a particularly malodorous scent, which I counted as a definite plus. I led Jim to the bathroom, confirming that he had drug tested for our agency before (I do this in case I need to explain to any drug testing virgins why the creepy employee guy is following them into the bathroom). After we entered, I closed the door behind us, and listened to the metal on metal clank that reverberated from the deadbolt with a note of finality that ricocheted between the tiled surfaces of the lavatory. I handed Jim the plastic cup to collect his sample, and he turned toward the toilet. I then heard the distinct sound of the interlocked teeth of his zipper becoming unhinged from one another, and I half expected to hear the overhead speaker spark to life with the classic adult film theme “bow chicka bow wow” and a seedy sounding baritone croon out, “Cool Ranter and Richard Fitswell star in….Bathroom Buddies 2: Toilet Time.”

The next two minutes, which seemed like two hours, included Jim staring at the wall, frustration mounting in his face as his uncooperative urethra unrelentingly held onto it’s liquid captive with a vice-like grip. My heart really went out the poor, exasperated guy as the begging began. There is really nothing sadder than a grown man pleading “come on, come on” with his stubborn, hanging appendage. If not for needing to maintain a level of professionalism, I would have summoned up my best pep rally cheerleader voice, gotten down at his waist level, and encouraged him, “Come on little Jimmy, you can do it! We’ve got urine, yes we do. We’ve got urine, how bout you!?” But instead I was relegated to helpless bystander as another two miuntes passed by at a snail’s pace.

At this point, the awkwardness of the silence was unbearable, and I tried to give Jim an out by asking if he wanted to go wait outside, drink some water, and try in a few minutes. Jim, who apparently was as stubborn as his urinary tract, and was not going to admit defeat, declined my offer and asked that I turn on the faucet. Ah yes, the old running water would certainly help I thought, and I agreed to do that. Well, it worked all right, but not for Jim. Being in the bathroom with the running water made me have to pee. I half-contemplated telling Jim to step aside, let me provide his sample, and we could just both be on our way.

Another two minutes passed, and as nice a guy Jim was, I was just about ready to be finished with our alone time. Hell, I would have massaged his kidneys and sang him a toddler’s potty song at that point if it would have helped him urinate. Jim soon gave a meager sample, and said “I managed to squeeze out a little bit.” I knew he meant he had used every ounce of energy in his pelvic muscles to expel the urine, but his statement made me think of a wild-eyed Jim choking the life out of his penis, forcefully wringing it like a barely damp rag until it released a few droplets of liquid waste product. Jim and I then parted ways, he out the front door of the office, and I back to my desk to immediately begin creating my “Immediate Attention Needed” stack of papers.