Page 92 of Switch!
“Do you have a license for this weapon?” one of the officers shouts in my ear.
“I don’t know,” I respond, my cheek smooshed against the wall. “Probably?”
“Sir, we need you to leave the room.”
This isn’t directed at me. They’re talking to Jesse, who is throwing a fit.
“You’re preventing me from doing my job,” he shouts, “so unless you want a lawsuit on your hands—”
“Get out of my goddamn way!” Stan shouts from the hall. “Screw it. I’m calling my superior so she can talk to yours. Let’s get our bosses involved, see what they say about your breach of protocol.”
It doesn’t sound like much of a threat, but it works. I feel my wrists being released, and when I turn around, Jesse is there, covering me with a robe.
“Get the gurney, Stan,” he says.
“You’re quicker,” his partner replies. “I have more experience dealing with these guys.”
They trade places, and soon Stan is standing in front of me, but his attention remains on the two officers still crowding the bathroom. “My sister is on the force,” he says. “Not here, but down in Portland. She was on the scene during that double bank robbery last month. Did you hear about that?”
This gets the officers talking. I tune out, focusing on the body I’m in and trying to get a better feel for who he is and how he reached this point.
Why did I want to kill myself?I ask.
The answer is an assault on my senses. Sorrow, anger, despair, grief, hopelessness… A grueling mix of unbearable agony fills his mind along with glimpses of memories, but I can’t make sense of them. All I can do is cover my head with my arms and moan.
“Hey!” Stan says, attention on me again. “Are you okay, buddy?”
“What drugs did you take?” barks one of the officers. “Have you been drinking?”
“Ease up,” Stan says. “Let me do the diagnosing, okay?”
He gently moves my arms away and catches my eye, staring into them to… I don’t know. Check my pupils? See if I have a concussion? I don’t have access to Jesse’s medical knowledge anymore. Stan places two fingers over my neck to find a pulse—I still remember that much at least—and asks, “How are you feeling? Your mood can’t be good, but is there anything physical bothering you? Any sort of discomfort?”
I try to assess the situation. This isn’t a happy body. Now that the adrenaline rush is dying down, I can feel what terrible condition it’s in. I’m light-headed, my stomach aches from hunger, and I’m still freezing.
“Cold,” I manage to stammer.
“He’s in shock,” Stan says. A commotion outside the room distracts him. “There you are. Let’s get him loaded up.”
A gurney rolls into sight and is parked in the hallway. Jesse tries to squeeze his way inside, sounding frustrated when he says, “We need space or we’ll be here all night.”
The officers grumble as they file out.
Jesse is finally able to enter the bathroom again. “Are you okay?” he asks.
I nod. “I can walk. I don’t need the gurney.”
“This is how it’s done,” Jesse murmurs. “Besides, it’ll look bad if the police try to arrest a guy on a stretcher. They won’t mess with you this way.”
Fair enough. I let them help me onto the gurney. A blanket is placed over me. I’m not crazy about the straps which pin my torso down. The oxygen mask seems especially unnecessary.
“Standard procedure,” Jesse says when I try to resist.
“Right,” I say. “I should have known that. I’ve seen you do this often enough.”
He looks at me funny but doesn’t reply. In fact, he seems relieved when the mask is placed over my face. I don’t try to speak again. Not until I’ve been loaded up into the ambulance and we’re safely away from the scene. Stan is up front driving. Jesse is in the back with me, checking my vitals.
“I’m going to give you a sedative,” he says, reaching for a drawer. “It’ll help calm you down.”
