Something in that police officer's eyes just whispered "touch me."  Granted, he never voiced this passionate request aloud, but rest assured, it was implied .  You see, he and I went way back.

  

   The year was 1997, a more innocent time before McDonald's had admitted to frying their food in beef fat.  It was summer, and I was minding my own business on a park bench in New York City, pondering life's questions, such as "how did I get to New York? and "what did that helper monkey put in my Goddamn drink?"  I was preparing to get up when it happened.  I couldn't believe it at first, but after taking a moment for the event to register I was forced to accept the truth.

   You see, a man had run by on the jogging trail in jogging shorts.  RED jogging shorts.  The son-of-a-bitch knew.  I sprang up from the bench, knocked down a nearby child, and took his shoes.  Now it was time.  I threw the shoes on the ground and ran after the man in the red shorts.

   "Stop!" I screamed, in hot pursuit.  He looked back, saw me and increased his pace.  We continued on the trail for half a mile.  I was gaining on him, screaming various obscenities while his running form grew more and more frantic.  Finally, he collapsed out of exhaustion, fatigue, and the fact that I tripped him.

   "Where are they?"

   "What?"  Clearly he wasn't going to talk, so I slowly pulled my switchblade out of my pocket.  He immediately looked confused.  Most likely because, as I was later informed during a bar fight in Grand Rapids, my "switchblade" was more commonly known as a "hamster," which explained why my switchblades kept dying in my pocket.

   "Tell me what you did with my kidney stones, you miserable fuck!"  Little did he know that I was lying, as he actually looked more depressed than miserable.

   He sprang into action, running away again at full speed.  I was about to give chase, but suddenly saw a carpenter ant I thought I recognized.  By the time I realized this was a different ant, the man was gone...

 

   Going through an experience like that with a man, you form a special bond.  A bond that enables you to read his thoughts.  So naturally, when the police officer's eyes met mine that day in the coffee shop, I knew what he wanted.

   "Touch me," said his eyes.

   "Really?  Here?"  I asked him.

   "What?" said the cop.

   "You want me to touch you right here in the coffee shop?"

   I believe he was starting to say "yes" as I lunged for him.  He would later tell the district court judge he was trying to say "go away."  Either way, I have no regrets.

   I spend my time alone in this cell now, counting down the days until I can begin my quest to touch the police officer in the red jogging shorts.