First things first, though; I had to go to Kingswood Medical Center to drop a urine sample and to blow into the fucking breathalyzer. I blew into the little white plastic nozzle (Vickie the nurse explained to me how to do it--um, I know how, bee-yotch, I'm a professional at this) and the results were a beautiful .000. As they should have been.
And then it was on to the piss-test. I'd previously been told that there would be a doctor in there with me--his job was to make sure that I'd not have a Whizzinator taped next to my package. "He's not going to, like, watch me go, is he?" I'd asked. "I mean, he's gonna be in the room, but is he going to be, like, right there?" The woman answered that because of the reason that I was there and per my company's request, yes, he'd be watching me urinate. Sah-weet.
Well, I reminded myself, I'd been the one who had put myself in this situation so if I had a problem with it, I could bring it up with Drunk Adam. Drunk Adam hasn't been answering the telephone, lately, so it's unlikely that my complaint would be heard. And, even if it were heard, nothing much would be done about it. Drunk Adam's usual response is, "Meh, fuggit. Pass the Guinness or get the fuck outta my way."
Anyway, on to the piss-test. Doctor C_____ was the lucky individual who drew the the short straw and got to see my penis. In all it's nervous-to-be-looked-at-in-the-men's-room glory. "Um," I said as I unzipped my pants and pulled out my monster, "this is a little awkward, huh?" The doctor didn't say anything. I said to the silence, "Well, I put myself into this situation, so...." Doctor C_____ said, "Did you?" and moved closer to my side. "Um, yeah." "Well, you did," he said.
Silence ensued. Somewhere, a cricket rubbed its wings together.
My penis was having some serious stage-fright. Usually, in the men's room, great pains are taken to avoid even the intimation that junk could be being scoped. My boy Babar wasn't used to such unabashed scrutiny. Eventually, though, the pumps kicked in and the five Dixie cups of water that I'd slammed before the "test" made their way through my plumbing and splashed down into the cup, with the remaining fluid calling home the chemically-blue waters of the medical center's toilet. Doctor C_____ reminded me not to flush. "I know it's a habit, but...."
Right, Doc. I am a criminal and I should be treated as such. No flushie-flushie, and my dick is under the microscope. I know. Intellectually, I know why the rules are as such: my company is paying me to be at work sober and I have had an assuredly rotten track record of compliance. They have their asses to cover and they have to be sure that I am not an employee of the disingenuous variety, intent upon "sticking it to the company."
Still, though, the whole matter was a little humiliating. Fuck it. It is what it is. I'm over it. Well, maybe not completely over it. In a small act of childish belligerence, I shook off extra long for the good doctor's benefit: you wanna look at my cock? You're getting paid to look at my cock? Here it is. Get a good look at it. I'll not be back again. (Er, except for the times in the future in which I'll be sent to the clinic for the random drug tests. Um, forget I said anything, Doctor C_____. You're a swell dude. And you do a great job. Um, looking at penises.)
I sure hope that they don't pick up any of the heroin in my system. Smack, horse, the Big H--it's a tough habit to kick. As is meth. As is weed. Bennies are no fun to stop, either. Nor is coke and opium and 'shrooms.