DISCLAIMER: At the insistence of my Wife, I am forced to confess that the following story is sheer fantasy. It never happened. But could have.
Back in the day when I was in my prime and fightin’ crime, long before the era of cell phones, having a pager assigned to you in the Probation Dept. was quite the thing. It carried with it an aura of status and importance, as only a select few were issued these devices. I viewed them, correctly, as just another form of electronic monitoring. My opinions were later vindicated, as every homeboy drug dealer and crack-whore client of mine was soon wearing a “beeper”. Now its cell phones, and every goddamned idiot in the world has one.
Anyway, I was eventually given one, the status symbal having long since evaporated, and told to wear it while out of the office or when conducting jail interviews. I took the device home that evening to show off my new status ( now right up there with the crack-whores and drug dealers), which duly impressed my wife; especially the pulse feature.
The next morning, after a particularly zesty session of ‘quality time’ the night before, Wifey has still feelin’ a little frisky, and suggested that at some point in the morning I set the pager on pulse, place it in my jockey shorts, and that she’d give me a little ‘ring’. Her way of saying “I’m thinking about you”. Well, how could I pass that up?..
So its off to work I go. The day started as usual with three reports and jail interviews to do. I slipped the pager down my shorts and went about my day, forgetting all about the whole matter as time wore on. Then the trouble began. During the middle of my last jail interview, Wifey decided to say hello. It was kinda kinky I know, but pleasant none the less. The problem was, the pulse feature didn’t stop. The more the pager pulsated, the more aroused I became, and what could I do? I was stuck interviewing some fool on a stool and couldn’t very well unzip my pants and reach down into my crotch to turn off a pager. It didn’t let up. I didn’t want it to let up. I couldn’t concentrate. I lost my focus, or should I say my focus was rapidly shifting. The inmate on the other side of the glass was wondering what was going on, while I was revisiting the night before. It was when I asked the client about his drug history that I lost it: “Mr. Hernandez, how long have you been using hh…hh…hH..HH…HHHH….HHHeeeerroin?” whereupon I jettisoned a wad of ‘boys’ right into the pager which subsequently shorted out and began beeping loudly. With an expression on my face somewhere between euphoria and panic, I hastily ended the interview, wishing I had a cigarette, and exited the holding cell area as fast as I could, causing all the deputies down there to wonder what the hell was going on. Embarrassing as that was, my folly was only surpassed by the lame explanation I had to make up for my Supervisor as to how and why the pager malfunctioned and became sodden with a goo that was now turning crusty. “The battery blew up on me Boss”. He didn’t buy it. I wonder if the stain on my pants had something to do with it?
Although never really accused of any wrong doing, I was subsequently banned forever from wearing a pager at work.