After I was offered a job at a water municipality in Irvine, I was made aware that I would have to complete a drug test. I shrugged and agreed because the only drug I have ever done was Tylenol PM, which I was addicted to as a child. So I drove out to Santa Ana to the clinic which I was required to complete my test at.
The clinic was easily miss-able, as was proven by the fact that I passed it three times before realizing that my destination was a tiny building between a clown/party rental store and possibly a crack house. Of course they didn’t have much parking, so I parked in front of the clown/party rental store, where I felt the poorly graffitied clown would protect my truck from any gangster who felt the need to break into my truck. Not that I have much in there worth stealing, besides some dance shoes and Sudoku puzzles.
The clinic lobby was incredibly small, which made it so that I had to squish in between a large Mexican man and a man who kept yelling about a bus back to the Goodwill. I started to fill out the paperwork that I was handed, but found difficulty filling out any information because I was not given a clipboard nor a pen. Luckily, I had my trusty man bag, that’s sole purpose is to be filled with pens. As for the clipboard, I couldn’t find a substitute from my bag, so I had to write awkwardly on my lap, which rendered my penmanship illegible and reminiscent of Thai.
Most of the paperwork consisted of filling my name out repeatedly, but then I reached a sheet that asked my medical history. I went down the checklist, but was uncertain why they would need to know if I had varicose veins. I didn’t think that I had those, but to be certain, I tried to raise my pant leg to see. Unfortunately, this made me lean awkwardly to the side and my head touched the shoulder of the large Mexican man. He glared at me and so I started to lean towards the Goodwill shouting man, but decided I would just put no to the varicose veins question.
I was brought into the back of the building for my drug screen, but they then informed me that I would be receiving a full physical as part of my employment. This started by putting me two feet away from an eye chart and having me read the bottom line, which when two feet away is like 25 sized font. I breezed through and was taken to another room by a tiny waif of a male nurse. He put me on the scale, weighed me, and then asked what height I was. “Like 6’4”, I think.” He sighed and decided that maybe he should actually measure me. He placed me against the height gauge and said, “Yeah, I can’t see that high. We’ll say you’re 6’4”.” This was turning out to be the most blasé physical I have ever taken in my life. The mini-man nurse then told me I had to have my hearing tested.
The hearing test included me being shoved into a tiny, soundproofed box and listening for beeps through headphones. The problem was not my hearing, but the fact that I could not fit into the booth. Going in forward wasn’t working because I didn’t have room enough to turn around to sit, so I was coached to back into the booth. The problem then was the fact that I could not sit on the stool in the booth without having my head pressed against the ceiling. For lack of a smaller stool, I was told to just squat in the booth for the duration of the test.
Hearing tests are bizarre to me, because when I take them, I feel it is necessary to squeeze my eyes as closed as possible, depriving me of one of my senses; therefore, making my hearing superhuman. And apparently, I squeeze the I-heard-something-buzzer just as hard, which makes my palms sweat. Unfortunately for the mini-man nurse, this meant that he would have to take the buzzer from me after the test, which was by then, dredged in sweat.
The next part of my physical was the drug test. I had been prepared to pee for about two hours and was on the cusp of exploding, so I welcomed this test with outstretched arms. I was given a new nurse for this test, who spoke in only disconnected sentences. “Purse,” he pointed at a cupboard for me to put my man bag. “Don’t flush,” he pointed at the bathroom where I would be peeing (which the toilet was filled with blue food coloring) and handed me a cup. I rushed in and peed with great haste, and then I left the cup on the counter in the bathroom so that I could wash my hands. But when I went to turn on the faucet, I noticed that it was wrapped in yellow caution tape that had EVIDENCE displayed along the length of it. I opened the door and stole some antibacterial gel from the nurses’ station, where I found the mini-man nurse glaring at me.
“Did he watch you pee? Martin! Did you watch him pee?” Martin (which, by the way, is pronounced Mar-TEEN <which, when said by the mini-man nurse, sounds like a screeching monkey>) turned the corner and shrugged. “Well you’ll have to do the test again.” That would be a feat impossible, and fortunately enough, the mini-man nurse remembered how blasé this whole physical was and just let my pee pass.
Martin looked at me in the hallway and said, “Cup?” I had left it in the bathroom, like is required at most decent medical offices, but apparently, he wanted me to bring it out, into the hallway, without a cap. I went back and retrieved the sample for Martin, who then started to pour it into vials over the carpet. I couldn’t help but wonder how much pee had dripped into that carpet, but I assumed enough had to gross me out.
After Martin packaged up my pee, I was sent to get my lumbar X-rayed, which was the only normal portion of my physical. The only problem that I faced was trying to contort myself into the positions that the tech needed me to be in for the X-ray. First we tried with my hands above my head, but they hit the wall, so then we tried to the side, which then they hit the base of the machine. We settled with me clutching my arms against my chest while in the fetal position.
The last of my physical was for me to be examined by the doctor, who may have been the only white man in the entire building. He seemed nice enough, but I could tell he was in a rush to have me out. “What’s your name, hands out, pulse, lean, lean, lean, breathe in, out, what school did you go to, pants, shorts.” I didn’t have enough time to answer any question before he would shout out another order. I asked, “Pants?” He made a motion with his hands which meant I should take my pants off. “Shorts?” It didn’t click with me that he meant my underwear, so he tugged his waist band which then made me realize, oh, I have to be naked. Before I could get my briefs down past my thighs, he had already dived in to prod my testicles and demand coughs. He was out of the examination room in less than two minutes from when he entered, and I just had to leave without another word.
I got back to my truck, which had been protected by the graffitied clown, and I hopped in. I started to drive off and reflected on the clinic, which probably deserved a clown graffitied on their wall because that place was the closest I have ever been to a circus in my life. I started down the freeway, but smiling, because I will have a job, and my life can begin, even if it did have to start with hernia check.
