P.R.O.B.E.

“Jonathan?”

A voice was calling to him from beyond the twilight zone of semi-consciousness. The sound was familiar, but more prominent was the rhythmic sensation of his own heartbeat in his ears.

“Jonathan? Jonathan?”

The voice was closer now. Or perhaps it was just clearer. He put his effort into shaking the dull throbbing sensation off and come to.

He shook his head, and in the split second which his eyes opened lights popped like camera bulb flashes. He wrenched his eyes tightly shut again and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to the light around him.

“He’s coming to,” said the voice, now much more sharply rapping against his eardrums.

“Jonathan? Jonathan, look at me.”

Slowly his eyes parted, the lights burning into his retinas felt like razorblades, but he forced his eyes to open, and slowly they relaxed and took in the scene around him.

“Jonathan, are you OK?”

Jonathan groaned and his lungs rumbled deep in his throat. “Wha… what happened?” he asked, “Wha’s goin’ on?”

Ms. Henderson’s face refocused itself from the blob of colors it had been until now. She was looking at him with concern and, more noticeable to him even in his current state of mind, disappointment. Flanking her on either side were two people who were just beginning to solidify in front of him. To her right, a paramedic with flashlight in hand, assaulting Jonathan’s eyes. To her left, a man looking down at him and wearing what was all to disheartening: a police uniform.

This was not going to be a pleasant experience.

...

“Yeah,” said Jonathan, “That’s the last thing I remember.”

“You’re positive that’s your story?”

Jonathan let out an exasperated huff. “Yes. That’s all. Period. Can I go now?”

Despite the question, Jonathan instinctively knew there would be no chance in hell he would be allowed to just leave. When you apparently veer a vehicle off the road in a suburban neighborhood, crash through a senior citizen’s stone garden wall, and come to a halt by getting wedged on a tree stump in his lawn, nobody is really in the “forgive and forget” mood except the person responsible.

But Jonathan did not remember doing this. The last thing he remembered was watching his schoolmates play beer pong at the party. Kelsey Richter had just sunk an impossible shot.

Unfortunately, Jonathan had no recollection of the party eventually being broken up by the police and several underage drinkers leaving the party in the most degrading seat of a police car. Nor did he remember jumping out of the second story window, onto an awning, down to the back lawn and around to the congregation of cars parked along the back street, getting in his, and driving carefully down the road to avoid being caught.

A short time later some prick had reported a Honda very unceremoniously parked on the lawn of a man who once had two non-demolished garden walls.

Luckily Ms. Henderson was there to explain to the police what may have happened.

“I’m Jonathan’s psychologist and his case manager,” she told them, “and I can vouch for his condition. This is not the actions of a raving drunk teenager.”

Jonathan swore to himself slightly. Here we go. His biography.

He sat and listened in embarrassment as Ms. Henderson explain to the police officer his troubled past, his stress induced-blackouts, his personality disorders, the whole nine yards. Yet, as mortified as he was to be in this position, he nonetheless played the “feel-sorry-for-me-i’m-just-a-troubled-kid” card with well-practiced ease. Somehow, as she always did, Ms. Henderson was able to convince the police officer that his behavior would be punished and subsequently dealt with, and that no harsher action was required at the time.

However, intoxicated driving while under the legal age limit and destroying private property was not a sentence that would be avoided. Minor vandalism and public indecency Jonathan could deal with. This instance would be tougher to get out of.

“Thanks, mom.” Jonathan said with a grimace as the police officer went to retrieve the paperwork for Ms. Henderson to sign.

Ms. Henderson’s expression was blank. “you’re not going to walk away from this so easily. I’m here to help you, Jonathan. Our doctor-patient relationship notwithstanding I would appreciate it if you understood why I go to these lengths to help you.”

“I don’t know why,” Jonathan snipped. “You’re my therapist. Stop treating me like I’m your fucking kid. Oh wait, I’m sorry. If that were the case I’d be much worse off.”

Ms. Henderson pursed her lips and remained quiet. The sirens, lights, and angry shouts from the homeowners flared up to the forefront. Jonathan knew he was tugging on very sensitive strings, and silence from Ms. Henderson often times meant that a personal sting did not go un-felt.

After a few moments of silence she spoke. “I know why you’re angry. There’s a lot you’re dealing with. But, please, as I’ve said before, talking about my child is hardly appropriate.”

“Yet you keep staying,” said Jonathan.

“It’s my job.”

“Whoopdie-shit.”

Jonathan snorted. “My condolences. It must suck trying to fill the void.”

“Jonathan.”

“Can’t fix your kid so you fixate on me. Don’t worry. I’m glad to be your surrogate kid since your real one came out of the oven without all its seasoning.”

Ms. Henderson’s eyes flared with a brief moment of what looked to be anger, but it was quickly swallowed by unyielding professionalism. “These police officers will take you into their custody, a temporary holding facility, while we sort out the paperwork. I’ll contact you once it’s done. You’re spending the rest of the weekend in a cell. That was the best I could do.”