The Tattooed Devil Wears Chucks

The Probation Officer

Before I'm even standing in front of the sliding window of the secretary's desk, it slides open with a squeak. The elderly woman—who is still rocking horn-rimmed glasses of which I'm doubting is due to a trend from this era—pops her gum, making me cringe. "You can take a seat, Mr. Parker. Scott will be out in a moment to collect you for urine analysis."

I've been here once, and she already knows who I am. The tattoos covering my skin are not easily forgotten, apparently, because her disgusted stare can't seem to leave them. With an annoyed eyeroll, I drop myself into one of the few seats that doesn't have yellow stuffing protruding out of it. My hands link together on my stomach, and I lean myself back into the seat until my head hits the wall behind it. Since I have no desire to read about golf, or the intricacies of farm life, I know not to bother with the outdated magazine selection on the table beside me. I also have no desire to review the photos and titles of all of the people who work in this place. That leaves me to stare at the drop ceiling and count how many water stains I can find, while listing to the bothersome popping of gum from behind the glass. I'm to thirty-six when the door beside the desk swings open.

"Jackson." Scott motions with his head for me to follow. The man shows little enthusiasm when we both know we are in for a good time.

Scott, a short, round man with a receding hair line and an indent where a wedding band should be, seems to be a man of very few words. I really can't blame him, as the man gets to watch people piss for a living. I stand to follow, leaving the luxurious waiting room behind us for an even more dreary hallway of faded lighting and faux wood paneling. Even though I'm here to see the county sheriff, whose office is to our right, I'm first directed to an unmarked bathroom to our left, and it's unmarked for a very special reason. It's where the trouble-makers go to pee.

"Anything you'd like to tell me before we begin?" Scott asks, applying a pair of blue exam gloves. "Any chance for a positive drug test today?"

"Not a chance," I answer honestly. "If I do good, do I get a sucker when we're done?"

Nothing. I don't even get the hint of a smile from him. He motions to the urinal. Tough crowd.

"I'm going to turn the water off so that you cannot flush." He begins a spiel that I'm sure he knows by heart. "You will urinate in the cup, and I will be the one to cap it. Do not touch any part of the cup other than the exterior. Do you understand?"

"Do people honestly ever answer no to that question?"

The cup is extended to me without an answer. With a sigh, I take it. I never could get used to this, not even back home. After unzipping my pants and taking my dick into my hold for aim, we are both stuck waiting. I can daydream of everything from a waterfall to a goddamn monsoon and not piss on command with someone watching. The water I chugged on the way here doesn't even help.

"Sometime today." He rocks on his heels.

Like he has anything else to do around here. It's not like that waiting room was with other law-breakers waiting for their turn. His paperwork for speeders going two over the limit will have to wait a few minutes longer. When he releases another aggravated breath, it only makes it worse.

"It's not as easy as it looks, pal. You think you could do better with someone staring directly at you and waiting?"

"I wouldn't break the law in the first place. I'm not a criminal, and therefore, I don't need to worry about it. Fill it."

Right, my eyes lift to the ceiling. I'm just the worst of the worst around these parts. Hide the wife and kids—Jackson Parker is on the loose in small-town Iowa. His eagerness isn't exactly helping, and now, I'm just ready to press my luck and hope for some sort of humor to get us both through this.