Every year I have to get drug tested to renew my A-Card, and every year I bitch about it in the newspaper. The above image is from the first column I wrote about dragging my weary ass to the clinic to get tested.

My column for the S.F. Examiner this week is about getting older, pissing in a cup and Prop 22. In that order…

This time of the year always fills me with dread. Not just because I’m one year older, but as a taxi driver, I get a special birthday present from the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency: the onerous task of renewing my A-Card, the permit that allows me to operate a taxicab on the streets of San Francisco. The process includes, among other indignities, pissing in a cup.

Each year, I dutifully go down to the Concentra Medical Center in Potrero Hill and sit in their crowded lobby, squirming on a chair with a throbbing bladder, waiting for my turn to donate a specimen. The ordeal usually takes over an hour.

It’s humiliating. Demeaning. A violation of my privacy.

And for what?

According to the SFMTA, the Drug and Alcohol Testing Program for taxicab drivers was implemented in 2015 to comply with state law. I guess mandatory drug testing is supposed to convince the public that taxis are safe, and drivers – at least for three days out of the year – are drug free. But hardly anyone cares. It’s just another hurdle you have to jump through for the privilege of being a taxi driver.

Then there’s the hassle of getting a medical marijuana card. Even though weed is legal in the state of California, Proposition 64 doesn’t change the transportation code. Since my preferred CBD tincture includes a small percentage of THC, during the next few weeks, I’ll have to hunt down a shady doctor somewhere who still offers marijuana referrals. Already tedious challenge before COVID, now it’s surely to be a major headache. In fact, every step of this entire process will be more of a hassle because of COVID. You can’t even go grocery shopping nowadays without encountering various aggravations.

So yeah… happy birthday to me.

Meanwhile, Uber/Lyft drivers only need a pulse and a smartphone to perform the same job. Even Assembly Bill 5, which made Uber/Lyft drivers – according to state Law – employees, doesn’t require them to adhere to the same standards as taxi drivers. No, they don’t have to piss in cups or do rigorous background checks. It doesn’t make the ride any safer. AB5 just guarantees app-based drivers minimum wage, health care, worker’s comp and other benefits that employees enjoy.

Sounds awesome.

For Uber/Lyft drivers.

No wonder Uber and Lyft are spending hundreds of millions of dollars to get an exemption from AB5, inundating social media and other markets with ads, urging people to vote yes on their Proposition 22.

Even though we’re exempt from AB5, it shouldn’t be surprising that most taxi drivers are opposed to Prop. 22. Forcing Uber and Lyft to treat their drivers like employees just might create a level playing field for taxis to survive. The companies will undoubtedly raise the rates, and maybe they won’t have as much freedom to flood the streets with inexperienced drivers. If Prop. 22 passes, though, it could be another deathblow to the taxi industry.

Still, AB5 is a garbage bill. Although its author, Lorena Gonzalez, has insisted vehemently on Twitter that it wasn’t specifically directed at Uber and Lyft, et. al., why have so many other industries been able to carve out exemptions? Even freelance writers, including myself, who were initially hit hard by AB5, are finally getting an exemption, along with many other occupations that traditionally have been performed – happily – by independent contractors who ended up as collateral damage in the passing of AB5.

That just leaves Uber, Lyft and all the assorted delivery companies in the crosshairs of AB5.

There was never any discussion, of course, except among ourselves, that taxi drivers were misclassified as independent contractors. Oh no, no, no. One just needs to glance at the letterhead in the paperwork the SFMTA sends you to renew your A-Card. There, at the top, is London Breed’s name. Since taxi drivers fall under the jurisdiction of San Francisco, the burden would fall on The City to provide benefits to taxi drivers. And nobody in Sacramento or City Hall wants that.

I guess we should just be grateful we don’t have to pay a renewal fee for our A- Cards this year. That would be the ultimate degradation now: paying for the luxury of being a taxi driver.

_________________________

Originally published by S.F. Examiner.

Other columns about the SFMTA drug tests:

Between a Jackhammer and a Piss Cup

The SFMTA Makes Me Wanna Smoke Crack

itch-tenderloin-san-francisco-christian-lewis

“Well, there’s no point is crying over spilt cocaine,” I say with a nervous chuckle, even though no one else in the taxi seems to share my humor at the situation.

The guy up front looks at me aghast while the two in back unleash a salvo of invectives as they make a futile attempt to scrape up the loose powder.

This is obviously not the time for jokes.

Apologizing, I hit the dome light and look in the back. There’s white powder all over their pants, the seat around them, their shoes and the floorboard.

Uhhh… “That’s not good.”

Just moments before the three guys got into my taxi in a celebratory mood. They even asked permission before snorting their drugs, which was thoughtful, since most passengers never inquire if I have a policy on consuming illegal substances before doing blow in my backseat. At least once or twice a night I have to brush cocaine residue off the leather interior…

A few rides later, I comment on the previous coke explosion to another set of happy passengers.

“I really hope this isn’t going to influence the drug test I have to take next week,” I add, jokingly. “It would just be my luck that some of the airborne molecules permeated my mucus membranes.”

“Even if you did a Tony Montana pile of cocaine, it would be out of your system completely within 72 hours,” the girl behind me says with authority. “Sooner, depending on your metabolism.”

That’s right. The only drug that stays in your urine for any significant period of time is marijuana, which the San Francisco Municipal Transportation Agency allows an exemption for, as long as you have a medical recommendation.

The whole drug test thing is completely absurd, another example of how The City holds taxi drivers to a higher standard than our ride-hail counterparts. Not to mention the cost of getting the marijuana recommendation and the $120.50 for the A-Card, as well as the time and energy running around taking care of these errands. And for what? To prove that we’re more professional than Uber and Lyft drivers?

That would be great if it actually mattered to the general public. But it doesn’t. Most people just want to tap a button in their phones and have a car show up. They could care less whether the driver was a drug fiend on PCP, a former or prospective terrorist or a law-abiding citizen.

The whole process is so infuriating, I feel like getting high just to deal …

As the night progresses, I fantasize about sabotaging my UA and testing positive for every drug on the list by going on a drug-collecting crusade that would impress Hunter S. Thompson.

Coke and ecstasy are easy to acquire at most bars in the Mission or on Polk Street … I could stop by Pill Hill and pick up some heroin … Swing by the Plaza for a little crack … I must know a meth head or two … PCP though … Since it gained peak popularity with criminals in ’70s cop shows like “Kojak” and “Baretta,” is angel dust even readily available?

“I’m sure we could do some online research and cook some up,” Mr. Judy suggests, when I broach the subject with him.

As he starts listing the kitchen utensils he’ll probably need to concoct some homemade PCP in his friend’s kitchen, I quickly change the subject …

Three days after peeing in a cup, I’m pulled over in front of Beck’s Motor Lodge answering a phone call from Wisconsin.

A grim voice on the line tells me, “I need to speak with you about the results of your recent urine analysis …”

As if my thoughts were enough to pollute my sample, I get a little nervous. “OK,” I mumble after an audible gulp.

“You tested positive for marijuana,” the doctor says. “Can you tell me why there was marijuana in your system?”

Uhhh … “Because I smoked it.”

“When was the last time you consumed marijuana?”

I did study really hard for the test … “A few days before. I don’t do it all the time or anything,” I lie.

“It seems the SFMTA has a unique policy that treats a positive result for marijuana if you have a doctor’s permission. Do you have that documentation?”

Of course.

After emailing a scan of my recommendation from the 420 Doc in Berkeley, my only obstacle to driving a taxi for another year is heading down to One South Van Ness and forking over the $120.50 fee to the SFMTA.

I feel so special.