By Hunter Perez

You might be familiar with the saying “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will take you there.” I don’t know who originated that observation, but it could have easily been me. Having somehow unlocked Merrifield from his immobile silence through the most ridiculous manner imaginable, I suddenly found myself wondering how to proceed further. Holmgren pretty much tossed me into this situation without advance planning and I had to think fast about what to do next.

Since Holmgren was supposed to be bringing us dinner, I figured I could keep entertaining Merrifield with my favorite songs until our meals arrived. I was starving, but somehow I found adrenalin to fuel me through the absence of food. I was also trying to recall songs that sparked positive reactions from my past which could be translatable into my current bizarre situation.

I remembered a New Year’s party that I attended with Sloppy Lou during our time together. He invited me to a happening at a loft in Brooklyn that was populated with his show business friends. There must have been 50 or 60 people jammed into the place, complete with a disco ball, blaring music and endless bottles of champagne. During the party, the hosts devised a wild game – players were paired into groups of three and had to draw papers from a hat that had the names of famous singing trios. After being assigned a singing group, the newly formed threesomes would have to quickly rehearse a signature song by those recording artists and perform for the party guests. A panel of hastily selected judges would declare the winners.

I found myself reaching into the hat and drawing the paper marked “Labelle.” Sloppy Lou, myself and a third guy I never saw before and never saw again shuttled into a corner to figure out how we could perform “Lady Marmalade.”  Long story short, not only did we nail the song with Sloppy Lou commandeering an upright piano and myself and the third man acting out the lyrics, but we won the night’s top prize: three boxes of condoms. I kept my box on display in a place of honor in my living room – it was the only time I ever won a prize for any competition.

“Merrifield, my friend,” I announced to my cellmate. “Here is a song about a notorious personality in New Orleans. Someday if we get out of here, I’ll take you to New Orleans and we’ll have the time of our lives.”

I closed my eyes, inhaled and exhaled vigorously, and then launched into “Lady Marmalade” in a replication of that wild New Year’s bacchanalia. I strutted, vamped and growled while roaring into the song. I admit this was primarily for my amusement rather than Merrifield’s edification – if I gave a modicum of thought to this, perhaps “Lady Marmalade” was not the best song to appeal to a mid-19th century Indiana farmer who fought in the Civil War.

“Did you like that?” I asked, hopefully, after wrapping the song.

“Yes…but…but,” he said. The more he spoke, the stronger and deeper his voice sounded, although he was still struggling to connect words into an easy flow of speech. “I didn’t…didn’t understand…some of… it.”

I sat down next to him on the bed. “You mean, you didn’t understand words like Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?” I asked, to which he nodded. “Well, I am sorry, I should have explained. New Orleans used to be owned by France and a lot of people there still speak French. You know, I speak French – I used to live on a French island called Martinique. I had to teach myself French.”

Then I clapped my hands and shook my fists in triumph. “Hey, how would you like me to teach you French? It’s not difficult to learn – I was able to pick it up very quickly. Then when we leave here, we can go to New Orleans, or Martinique, or even to Paris. Would you like to learn another language?”

“Yes,” he answered, nodding slowly. “Would…like that.”

“Great! Tomorrow morning, I will begin to teach you French,” I declared. “I can’t start now because we’re supposed to be having dinner. And speaking of dinner, where is that guy with our food?”

No sooner did I speak that last sentence than I heard the tinkling of spurs amid a clip-clop of footsteps. I saw Holmgren carrying a bucket and a pitcher while another guard walked behind him balancing a tray covered by what looked to be either towels or napkins. Neither of them looked particularly happy as they ventured closer to our cell.

Holmgren opened the cell and held the door open for the second man to enter. He was a prison guard with two stripes on his uniform sleeve – he was a big and burly brute, and I took him to be either in his mid-to-late forties or earlier fifties, based on the creases in his face and greyish flecks within his reddish-brown sideburns and goatee.

I got off the bed and put out my hands to relieve the guard of the tray, but he walked past me and put the tray at the foot of the bed. Holmgren thrust the pitcher into my hands and said, “Here, fresh from the well. You wanted water, you’ve got water.”

Holmgren then walked to the corner of the cell and placed his bucket down while extracting the current bucket. I saw the other guard remove the covering from the tray to reveal two large tin plates loaded with beef stew cubes and clumps of mashed potatoes topped with sprinklings of green peas. Each plate had a wooden spoon and a tin cup next to it.

“Thanks, that looks delicious,” I said to Holmgren. “If you don’t mind my gluttony, can I ask what we might me getting for breakfast?”

“I haven’t thought that far in advance,” he snapped.

“Well, can I make a request for maybe bacon and eggs?” I said. “Has coffee come out here yet?”

“Yes, we have coffee,” Holmgren moaned, clearly not happy with my inquiries. “And we’re not running a restaurant. You’ll get what you are given.”

“In regard to the coffee, how are you in the milk and sugar?” I followed up.

“Damn, you are incorrigible,” Holmgren spat, looking away from me.

“Don’t be pissy – I won’t ask for bagels because I imagine you probably don’t have bagels here, but I am kind of surprised if milk and sugar hasn’t gotten here yet,” I said.

The other guard turned and stepped forward between us. “Begging the sergeant’s pardon,” he said in hoarse grumble of a voice. “But is the sergeant comfortable in being spoken to in such a manner? Other prisoners have received conduct demerits for being far less brazen in their speech.”

Holmgren closed his eyes and shook his head – clearly, he’d rather be anywhere than where he was. “Corporal Patterson,” he said in a low but firm voice. “I take the blame for this situation. The prisoner has been here since this morning and been in my custody, but I neglected to provide him with the basic rules of the prison regarding how to address those in charge. I appreciate your calling this to my attention.”

Holmgren looked at me while pointing an index finger to my face, still maintaining that low but firm voice. “The rules of this prison require a show of respect to those in authority. When addressing the guards, the prisoners refer to the guards by our rank and surname, or by calling us ‘Sir.’ Do you understand that?”

I found the pomposity of the request idiotic and starting laughing. “I have to call you ‘Sir?’” I asked, then pointing to Patterson and saying, “And I have to call him ‘Sir,’ too?”

“Yes,” Holmgren said, unamused at my response. “You do understand?”

Maybe it was my hunger or my exhaustion or the sheer craziness of my situation, but this was too much to believe. Laughing out loud again, I said to Holmgren, “You’re ‘Sir’? And your friend is ‘Sir,’ too? What is this, a Sidney Poitier movie? Do I have to sing that Lulu song, too?”

Holmgren grabbed my arm and began to drag me out of the cell. “Corporal Patterson, I need to speak with this prisoner privately for minute,” he said. “Please lay out the meals.”

I was dragged into the corridor to a section just out of sight of the cell. Holmgren threw me into the wall and slapped me across the right side of the face. The force of his large open hand was devastating – I toppled over and my face burned from the assault.

“Don’t you ever embarrass me in front of my men again,” he yelled. “I don’t mind bantering with you in private when it is just the two of us, but when I am on duty and with the other guards, you are not to make me the butt of your jokes.”

I crouched on the floor in a fetal position, cradling my face with my hands. “You hurt me,” I cried, my voice dropping into an infantile wail.

Holmgren grabbed my hair and yanked me upward. “Do you understand what I said?”

The pain in my face became intense and I began sobbing. “You hurt me. You didn’t have to hurt me.”

He pulled my hair again, shaking me violently. “Do you understand?” he screamed.

“Yes,” I yelled, furiously rubbing my face in a vain attempt to soothe its throbbing. “Yes…yes, Sir.”

Holmgren released my hair, peeled my hands from my face and poked at my cheek and jaw. “There’s nothing broken,” he sneered. “The only thing I hurt is your pride.”

I crumpled on the ground, cradling my face in my arms. “I don’t want to be here anymore,” I lamented. “I want to go home.”

“Get up,” he ordered. I stayed on the ground shaking and he kicked me. “Get up.”

“Yes…Sir,” I murmured, raising myself slowly while keeping a hand on my face.

Holmgren pushed me back into the cell. Patterson was standing at the foot of the bed watching this sorry spectacle while Merrifield stared through the cell bars, seemingly oblivious to what transpired. I stayed at the far corner of the cell near the waste bucket while Holmgren stalked to the foot of the bed.

“Corporal Patterson, finish what you’re doing,” Holmgren barked.

Patterson took one of the plates and handed it to Merrifield, who mechanically accepted it without making eye contact. Patterson took the tray and wiped a section of it with his fingers.

“I hope you two appreciate this meal,” Holmgren said, turning his view between me and Merrifield and then back to me. “The cook wasn’t happy to make two special meals at the last minute and I needed to open my wallet to get him to prepare your supper. I am willing to go the extra mile to make you happy.”

“Merrifield,” I yelled out across. “Tell the nice sergeant how much we appreciate what he’s doing for us.”

Merrifield’s head slowly turned and he looked directly at Holmgren. “Thank you…Sergeant,” he said, in a voice that was even more robust than a few minutes before.

Patterson dropped the tray and it crashed to the stone floor in a shrill clatter. He ran over to Merrifield and pressed himself right before his face. “Merrifield, my boy – my poor boy, you can speak?”

Merrifield looked Patterson straight in the eyes and nodded stiffly. “Yes. Yes…I can…I can speak.” He looked down at the plate in his hands and looked back to Patterson. “Thank you…thank you for this.”

Patterson stumbled back and scurried to Holmgren, his face contorted at a low level of hysteria. “Sergeant,” he implored. “He’s speaking. He hasn’t spoken since they brought him back from Albuquerque. He hasn’t spoken since those bastards did what they did to him.” Patterson looked back to Merrifield and then turned to Holmgren. “He’s speaking. Sergeant, is he going to be well again? I’ve prayed every night for these past few years for him to come back to us.”

It seemed as if Patterson was going to have a nervous breakdown – he was shaking while his eyes glossed over with tears. Holmgren put his hands on Patterson’s shoulders and said, “He’s going to be well. It will take a while, but he’ll be back to us. Get your tray and let’s go.”

Patterson picked up his tray, stared at Merrifield and put a hand to his knee. “God bless you, my boy.”

“God bless you…too,” Merrifield answered.

Patterson began to rush out of the cell when he stopped to look at me. He then turned back to Holmgren and then to Merrifield and then looked at me with suspicion before pointing in my direction while asking Holmgren, “Did he do that?”

“I’ll explain at the barracks,” Holmgren said while shoving the bucket into his hands. “Just empty and clean the waste bucket for the morning visit.”

Patterson raced out of the cell and down the corridor. Merrifield began to slowly chew his dinner. Holmgren began to approach me but I turned my back to him and faced the wall, still cupping my face.

“I’m sorry,” he said, though his tone did not sound very apologetic to me. “You wouldn’t listen otherwise, so I…”

“Just go away,” I interrupted without turning around. “Go away…Sir.”

I felt his fingers on the center of my back for a second. “This is not how I wanted things,” he said.

“I just want to eat my dinner and go to sleep…Sir,” I bleated.

“We’ll be back in the morning,” he said. “You’ll have a nice breakfast. I promise. Good night.”

I heard his spurs-tingling walk exit the cell, which was followed by the metallic clink of the cell door being closed and locked into place. As he walked down the corridor, I went to the bed and sat down, then picked up my dinner plate. The beef was undercooked, the mashed potatoes were lumpy and the peas were cold. The water I poured from the pitcher was warm. But under the circumstances, it was a meal sent from heaven and I devoured it within a minute.

I watched Merrifield as he ate. He took slow and deliberate bites with an expression of mild surprise, as if he was unexpectedly reacquainted with a long-absent and half-forgotten friend.

“Did you like it?” I asked as he finished his last mouthful.

He nodded, and his look of mild surprise turned strangely wistful. “Yes, I…I liked it a lot. It’s been…I’ve not had…nice to…have.”

I took his plate and spoon, combined them with mine and put them by the cell door. He gulped down his water and I refilled our cups. He stared into the cup and began to blink his eyes rapidly. I asked if there was something wrong and he shook his head no. He looked away, coughed loudly and said with a greater decibel, “Who are you?”

I slipped off my shoes and wondered how to answer him. The truth would confuse him and I didn’t want weave a knot of lies that could come undone when I least expected. I shrugged and replied, “Nobody. I’m nobody special. Actually, I’m very tired. I am just going to use the bucket and I would like to lie down.”

I popped up, pulled down my pants, walked to the corner of the cell and pissed into the empty bucket. For some reason, the harsh sound of my piss rattling about the metallic bucket made me giggle. I pulled my pants up and stood aside as Merrifield followed me to the bucket with his own urinary offering.

I crawled to the foot of the bed and laid on my back. “I hope I’m not going to be in your way,” I said to Merrifield as he returned from the bucket. “I don’t want to bother you and take up your bed, but I can’t sleep on a stone floor.”

Merrifield shook his head no and pointed to the right side of the bed. “Go there,” he said.

Obeying, I stretched out at the edge of the bed, ensuring the majority of the space would be open to my cellmate. He took the left half of the bed, spreading the blanket entirely over me. The mattress was tough – it was most likely stuffed with straw – and the prospect of spending an indefinite stretch of nights on its surface was not appealing.

“I guess they don’t have pillows in this place,” I said. “It’s my first night in a prison and I never slept without pillows before.”

I then felt Merrifield’s hand slide under this neck, followed by his forearm. “I hope this…this can help,” he said.

Merrifield’s hard forearm wasn’t pillowy soft, but it elevated my head. Resting on my back, I began to feel relaxed. The cell became quiet and I was grateful that some peace was at hand, even if it was in the final minutes of the chaotic day.

In a few minutes, the quiet of the cell was interrupted by the rhythmic tweets of Merrifield’s nasal snoring. I looked at him and he was completely at ease, his chest rising and falling gently while low pinches of sound escaped from his nostrils. I stared up to the ceiling and convinced myself I would get used to that noise.

“Everything is okay,” I said to myself. “My problems are over for now.”

As I started to acclimate myself to this surrounding, I felt Merrifield’s arm move under my head. The bed creaked as Merrifield turned over in my direction, his left leg falling over my lower body while his other arm plopped on my chest. I looked over to him and saw he was still sleeping, his nasal snoring coming to a stop. I tried to sit up and found that I couldn’t elevate myself – Merrifield had stapled me to the bed with his large hard body.

“Well, I spoke too soon,” I mumbled.

Strangely, I began to find the pressure of his arm and leg to be calming, not unlike the feeling created by a weighted blanket. I closed my eyes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep. I had no idea how long I was asleep, and I awoke I was confused about the lapse of time – had I been asleep for hours or minutes?

Once awake, I felt warm breath blowing on my face. I turned my head and saw Merrifield watching me – but what was truly unusual was how he observed me. I was under his gaze while he flashed a large smile. I remembered that Holmgren said that he never saw Merrifield smile, so I felt thrilled that I could extract another small victory.

“What a nice smile you have,” I said to him. That made him smile even wider. “Is it time to get up? I don’t know how long I’ve been asleep.”

“I heard…heard guards down…the corridor,” he said softly. “That means it…it will be morning…morning soon.”

“I see,” I replied. “So, should we get up and start the day? Or should we just lay in bed?”

Merrifield closed his eyes, smiled even wider, and with his arms and leg pulled me closer to his massive body while he nuzzled his face into my neck. Within a minute, he was asleep again with his nasal snores while I was immobilized in his hug.

“Okay, so now I’m a body pillow,” I thought. “What else could possibly happen to me?”

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