Happy as Clams

When I was a younger man, maybe twenty-one or so, I was working a manufacturing job at a local plant. I had spent a couple of years in college, but had failed to realize that majoring in art history didn’t typically open that job door in the Deep South. Fortunately, my best friend’s mother ran one of those temporary labor joints. They had a big van and would drive around town picking up day labor bound for a variety of odd jobs, usually loading shipping containers out at the docks or sorting tomatoes at the packing sheds on Johns Island, either way, the work was usually hard and the pay was usually lame. Because of our inside connection, it was Randy and I who landed the good jobs…or the best of the crap, depending on how you looked at it. Occasionally the jobs even had a benefits package of sorts; after all, there was that one stint with the refrigeration company where we got to service AC units in the girls dormitory at the College of Charleston.

On this particular assignment though, I was tasked with steam cleaning big diesel engines that had been shipped back in to the plant due to various warranty claims. They were from dozers, log skidders, and farm equipment of all kinds, but they always came covered with mud and grease, sometimes so thick that it was hard to tell they were engines at all. We had to clean them before the quality technicians could evaluate the claims, although many times it was quite obvious judging from those gaping holes in the core, that often the engines in question had run shy of oil and thrown a rod or two as a result. They came shipped in heavy gauge wire baskets and a forklift would drop them off every hour on the hour, lining them up for cleaning truckloads at a time; all day long. We wore rubber boots, rubber aprons, and a combination ear muff face shield thingy. Needless to say, I hated the job.

The incessant dampness had eroded away the tips of my fingers, or maybe it was the caustic solution they used to break up the grease. Either way, a couple of weeks into the work I got a liberating phone call from Randy’s mom paroling me from any further Chinese water torture. It seems that one of the larger and more sophisticated manufacturing plants in the area had several openings, and lucky for us, it was their policy to always hire temporary labor first, apparently so they could kick the tires before committing to permanent employment. The pay was much better and the benefits package consisted of much more than any sorority ogling opportunity. I would have to keep my nose clean for a few months, pass a drug screening, and of course…take a physical.

Ok, so here’s the point where you say “he thought he slipped that pass a drug screen thing on by us”. No… wrong. Guess again. It was the take a physical thing that sank me. You see, I had, and still have to some degree, a debilitating fear of needles. If this physical meant that I would have to give a blood sample, then I would surely die from inhaling industrial strength easy-off and over hydration. I didn’t apply for the job.

Now, seeing as we lived in a small town it didn’t take long for Randy’s mom to call my mother, who in turn called my dad, who practically dragged me to that office to turn in my application. I think my dad really wanted me out of the house more than he wanted me having that job. I often look back to find discomfort in the fact that my folks prodded me more to apply for that factory job than they did for me to stay in college.

Weeks went by without a word and I had completely forgotten about the job when I got a postcard in the mail informing me that I and nineteen others had been selected for employment. Randy was not one of them. To this day I’m not sure why I was selected and he wasn’t. Although he said it didn’t change anything, I could tell that he resented me for it and things were never the same between us afterwards. After a series of interviews I was told that I would start on second shift in three weeks, providing the drug test and physical came back in order.

The drug screening and physical actually took place in the same office, an industrial medicine facility that seemed to specialized in denying carpel tunnel claims, spine pain, and neck injuries of any kind presented to them by employees of the plant. These guys were hired guns, not your typical compassionate medical staff. Since I was still gainfully employed steam cleaning engines, I couldn’t take time off to go take a physical, mostly because I didn’t want to take time off to go take a physical, so I scheduled it during my lunch break. Although I only got a half hour for lunch, I was able to finagle an hour out of my foreman in order to “go to the DMV”.

I had worked myself into a knot of anxiety by noon. I had reasoned that since I had to give a urine sample, I should hold what little I had so I wouldn’t have to go through the water drinking ritual once I got to the doctors office, and since it was scheduled during my lunch break, I didn’t get to eat. On the way over I realized that I really, really had to pee. By the time I arrived I was floating, I had to go so bad that it literally hurt. Of course, the office was packed. I went straight to the sliding window at the front counter and explained my situation. I told the receptionist that I was there for an employment physical and drug screening, and that I really had to use the restroom and that if she would be so kind as to provide me with the little container I could go ahead and provide my sample.

If you can imagine what a bank teller looks like when someone slips her a note that reads “Stay Calm, Your Being Robbed”, that precisely describes the expression on the receptionist's face. Apparently some people, guilty people seeking employment that is; try to fool the drug screens in any number of unscrupulous ways. They must have had one of those hidden panic buttons like a teller too because the entire lot of ladies behind the counter sprung into action like defacto DEA agents. I was told that I would have to wait my turn. I was escorted to a seat and handed a clipboard. Every eye in the room was on me and I still had to pee like a race horse.

I waited a painful fifteen minutes, defiant at this point; I agonizingly awaited my name to be called, when alas! Glory be to God, the door open and St Peter called me back. The nurse was nice. She was tall, dark haired, and wore cute designer glasses. I immediately explained my circumstance once again, but it had appeared that the Nazis at the front counter had gotten to her as well. She said, “Just hop up here on the scale and let me get your height and weight and we’ll get right to that sample in just a minute”. I swear, I was nauseated from near bladder eruption and low blood sugar from skipping lunch, but I had come too far to turn back now. I had to stick it out. After she had my proportions recorded, I eagerly asked for my sample cup yet again. “We’re just going to draw a little blood then we’ll be all done and you can go give your sample”. Fine. Did I mention I had a needle phobia?

Ok, so at this point I could care less if they amputated my arm, just get it over with so I can pee dangit! I felt a pinch and a sharp prick. She filled a nice vial and said “Ok, All done”. She handed me my sample cup and escorted me to the bathroom at the end of the hall. I was a little lighted headed, but that was the last thing on my mind. The bathroom was a single, meaning it was just the commode and a corner sink, so I locked the door behind me like any normal person would do and I frantically began unzipping my pants. I wasn’t even thinking about reserving some for the cup, I just wanted to relieve myself at that point. Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh. A warm sensation enveloped my entire body and I felt calm and peaceful. This obviously went on for some time because I think I dreamt about Josephs Technicolor coat in there. Apparently, the low blood sugar, in combination with the extreme anxiety and sudden blood loss, Oh yeah…and all that pee, caused me to pass out.

I could hear them out there beating on the door, but I couldn’t move. I was so warm and cozy down there on the floor of that bathroom. When they finally got that door open it was as if God himself had shined his flashlight on me. There I was in all of my glorious splendor…pants around my ankles and lying in what seemed to be gallons of my own urine, none of which made it into that sample cup. I had hit my head on the door so they wanted to keep me for observation, clearly out of fear of litigation.

I was certain that I had pissed away any chance of employment, but they hired me anyway. Sometimes I wish they hadn’t. Sometimes I wish I’d pissed before I left work. I took that job and spent ten unhappy years in that place. Nowadays, I get up several times a night to pee, and I’m happy as a clam.