#159 Peanut Butter Sandwich
I watched the little kids playing on their swings, jungle gyms, slides and stuff. I’ve always loved the sounds of children playing. Their laughs and giggles brought me back to when I was a child and life was enjoyable. Not like today where I have to work as a maintenance man in a high rise to earn a living.
I sat on a bench about to eat my banana and peanut butter sandwich, just like my mom used to make me when she was alive. Since she passed away, I ate one every day to keep her memory alive. A cop came up to me and said, “Enjoying the kiddies, are ye?”
“Yeah, I come here every day to watch them.”
He squinted and looked me over real good. “Can I see some identification?”
I had changed into my janitor’s uniform and left my wallet in my other clothes, “Sorry, I don’t have any with me.”
The cop grabbed me by the hair, pulled me to my feet, spun me around, “Hands on the tree, spread your legs. You’re under arrest.”
“What, under arrest for what?” I put my hands on rough tree bark, and I was sure to hold onto my sandwich
“Anything you say can be used against you,” he continued with the Miranda Rights.
“I didn’t do anything.”
“Guys like you always say that. I saw how you were ogling the kids.”
“Just a f-ing minute, what do you mean ogling. I just enjoy watching them.”
“Guys like you need to be locked away. Arms behind your back.”
I stuffed the sandwich in my pocket before he put handcuffs on me. Once taken into the police station I went to the booking area. The cop behind the desk asked the arresting one what I was being charged with.
“Molesting kids at the playground,” the arresting officer said.
“I’d never molest a kid. Why are you accusing me?”
“We have an eyewitness that identified you. She saw you hanging around the playground.”
“I go there to eat lunch every day. It’s way better than eating where I work.”
“Who do you think will believe that when our witness says she saw you molesting a little boy?”
They took my handcuffs off to fingerprint me. Then a cop took me to a dirty cell with a shit crusted toilet and an iron bunk in it. No blankets, sheets, or pillow, just plain cold steel. I sat on it, took out my sandwich, dropped it on the dirty floor, and snatched it up before the five second rule kicked in. Does that rule counted for a scuzzy cell floor? Bits of dirt and stuff stuck to the sandwich, so I pulled it off. On TV it shows how when locked up they only give you a baloney sandwich; and that’s what a cop brought me. As a vegetarian, no matter how hungry I got, I wasn’t about to eat baloney. I opened my mouth, closed my eyes and was about to bite down on the bread I had taken the baloney from. A voice said, “Phallometry.”
A cop stood outside my cell. “Phalla, what?” I said.
“A penis lie detector. It’ll test your manhood and reveal your sexual persuasion,” he said. “We use it for guys charged with diddling with kids.”
“That’s bull-shit, I never molested anybody.”
“Then you’ll volunteer for a Phallometry?”
“I don’t even know what it is, or how it works.”
“It can be proved with the erectometer if you’re one of those who commit sexual crimes against children. By measuring blood-flow in your penis when you’re exposed to photos, movies or audio suggesting sex with children or other men we can tell if you’re Gay, Straight, Pedophile, or all three. You can’t lie about what you like and don’t like because the device detects what arouses your Twinkie.”
“That’s crazy. I’m not taking any test. What if the test showed I got aroused? Would that prove me guilty? I want a lawyer.” Hell, I used to get aroused watching holes being drilled in metal. This test would only prove was that Penis the Menace has a mind of its own that sometimes takes control.
“A lawyer isn’t going to help you. We have an eye witness who can identify you as a molester, so if you don’t take the test, you’ll sit in jail for a long time waiting to go to trial.”
I knew from watching “Law and Order” that the cops could keep me locked up until I went to trial, and that took months. I looked at my dirty peanut butter and banana sandwich and thought of the baloney sandwiches I’d be served during that time. “Okay,” I said, “I’ll take the test.”
I entered a room and met a middle-aged woman. When she got close her perfume was the same as my girlfriend used, and the scent caused me to become aroused.
“Hi, I’m Gloria,” she said, “I’m a certified phallometrician and I’ll be performing our tests today.”
She measured the circumference of my erect penis with a rubber strain gauge, and then she measured the volume of my genitals with an airtight cylinder and inflatable cuff. Her being close to me caused my measurements to exceed their normalcy I’m sure. She attached electrodes to my penis and showed me pictures of nude and semi-clad children and played audio descriptions of forced sexual scenarios and measured my arousal levels.
They were high, but I knew they were because of Gloria, not the movies, pictures, or tapes.
The cop came in the room and said, “Well?”
“He’s off the chart. Oversexed to a point where anything will excite him,” Gloria said.
“Great! With those results, he’ll be behind bars for years.”
Framed. Behind bars for years. I attempted to take a bite from my peanut butter sandwich and the tears falling from my eyes soaked the dried up bread. The sandwich fell apart in my hands. Like my life was about to.