ARReSTeD DeVeLOPMeNT - 𝑎𝑛 𝑢𝑛𝑛𝑒𝑐𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑛𝑢𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛

11 || slight misunderstandings are rampant in this one

"George Bluth here for the singles retreat," George Senior said, his bags wheeled meticulously behind him as he stood at the front desk of the resort.

"May I get a middle name?" the bored teenage receptionist asked, his personality so outwardly friendly that he was likely reading off some sort of script.

"Uh," George Senior pondered, "Senior?"

The receptionist typed on his keyboard for a moment before shaking his head. "Yeah, that isn't in our records."

"Okay, well I don't have a middle name, then," George Senior decided. "I guess they never... wrote me one."

He was right. We didn't.

"Did you get a confirmation text or email when you signed up?" the receptionist asked. "That'll have your reservation info which I can use to check you in."

George Senior opened his phone with his first finger like seniors do, scrolling through his texts. "Is it the five-digit number?"

"Yeah. Just read the whole thing to me."

"Should I read it slowly or quickly?" George Senior asked. "Or should I give you a number and wait to hear you hit it on the keyboard-?"

"No, just," the receptionist sighed. "Just read it. It doesn't matter."

"Okay," George Senior replied. "Six."

The two stared at each other for a few moments.

"And then?" the receptionist asked.

George Senior paused. "I thought you wanted to hit the number before I continued."

"No," the boy replied. "Just tell me the number."

George Senior looked back at his phone. "The whole thing?"

"Yeah."

"All at once."

"If you will," the receptionist replied. "Please."

"Okay," George Senior said. "Oh, wait, I just accidentally deleted the text."

The boy, in exasperation, sighed intensely and leaned back in his chair. "Holy sh—"

It was a mediocre day back in Orange County. As Lindsay opened the door of her hospital room to finally leave, a cast roughly the thickness of a small sumo wrestler wrapped around her entire foot all the way up to her knee, she was informed in a way that she found very distasteful that she was not allowed to drive herself home.

"Why can't I drive?" she asked directly to the doctors who were absolutely not prepared for this question.

"Well, I mean, look at you," the nearest doctor said, pointing her pen at the cast. "Absolutely not. You're also on a dose of Ativan that's far too unsafe to drive with."

"And you think I can't manage myself?" Lindsay challenged, straightening her spine even at her leaned-over, crutches-in-armpits angle. "Is it because I'm a woman?"

"What? I'm a woman," the doctor said in return. "Obviously not. It's policy that we do not let you leave until someone else can drive you home."

Lindsay glowered impactfully at the air. The air predictably did nothing back, so it's barely worth pointing out that it happened given the fact that it resulted in nothing.

"Look, my car is here and I have nobody to drive me with it, so if you don't mind, I can take myself-"

"I can drive you."

Lindsay looked up to see a tall male doctor that looked very much like every tall male doctor on television. Very white, very male, very tall, very chiseled jawline and very much man with beard while also having not so much of a very much face mask, for the very purpose of exposing very much face. Lindsay was very much smitten, very much still mad but very much liking what this was turning into very much indeed so.