By Hunter Perez

Anyone who complains that I talk too much should spend an hour with Harry – he speaks at supersonic speed while weighing down his verbiage with a grab-bag of labored colloquialisms, off-tangent trivia and an endless supply of melodrama. I debated whether to share his story in its verbatim form, but I could not justify replicating the torture I experienced as his audience and, thus, I will offer the no-frills abbreviated version of his tale.

Harry worked in the finance office of a defense contractor based in New Mexico. He landed the job after graduating from college and remained there for a dozen years, with only a mild promotion in position and pay during that period – although he was insistent on thanking the company for covering the tuition costs so he could complete his graduate studies. As he was going into his thirteenth year with the company, he said that he uncovered some financial discrepancies he considered to be significant. He made some informal inquiries within the company but was unable to secure a satisfactory explanation regarding the final destination of the money in question. He approached his superiors about the matter, explaining at great length what he discovered.

“I was under the impression this would help raise my standing in the company,” he recalled.

Long story short, he didn’t get a thank you from his superiors, let alone a raise or a promotion. As he told his tale, he was visited at the office by federal agents who questioned him at length about the missing money before hauling him off to be indicted on embezzlement charges.

“Once those agents clicked on the cuffs, my life went off a cliff,” he stated sourly.

Harry recounted the indignities of being processed into jail – with a little too much time recalling the depth and scope of the anal probe he received – plus the professional and personal embarrassments he suffered when the indictment seeped into the news. His savings were quickly depleted through his bond posting and legal fees. He was fired from his job and was unable to find a similar position – or any position, for that matter, due to news surrounding the charges against him.

“I was willing to clean toilets and no one would give me a brush,” he lamented.

Unable to get a job, he managed to turn a hobby into a small revenue stream. In his spare time, Harry collected 19th century cameras and used them to take old-fashioned photos. He had enough money to rent a small space at a shopping plaza near Taos that was popular with tourists, and he turned that into a photo studio where visitors could slip on vintage Western clothing and have tintypes and daguerreotypes made. He also took his 19th century photographic tools to parties and small-town fairs – he grew out of his beard and shaved his head to physically distance himself from the man in the news.

“I also changed my name to my current nom de plume,” he admitted, without revealing his real identity.

During this period, he encountered Nicky at one of the parties where he was creating tintypes. He said he was confused that Nicky showed interest in him.

“I mean, come on, friends,” he continued. “After all, Nicky is a big handsome man full of muscles and I’m just this average looking guy. And when told me he was working with the sheriff’s department, I fessed up immediately about who I was – I didn’t want him in trouble. But he said that he knew all along who I was. Well, of course, I appreciated the attention even though it baffled me.”

Harry then bitterly remembered his case – he cursed at his attorney’s dismal courtroom performance and thought he would have a heart attack in court when he heard the guilty verdict. His pricey bond enabled him to be free for several weeks before he was supposed to report to prison, and his finances dwindled to the point where an appeal was impossible to fund. He toyed with leaving the country, but his passport was confiscated before the trial began and he feared that he would be caught if he tried to sneak into Mexico and disappear into Latin America.

“And that’s where Mister Nicky saved my life,” he declared. “He drove me to the ghost town that was once Monroeville and showed me that crazy contraption to take me back in time. For $25,000, he was happy to send me and my photographic equipment far away from my current troubles. I already had the clothing from the era and I bought some 1870s money in an online auction, so I was ready to fit into this place. That was about 10 months ago, and I’ve been here ever since.”

“But how did he come up with the idea of hiding you back in time?” I asked. “That seems to have come out of nowhere. And for someone working in law enforcement, why would he take a bribe to hide someone due in prison?”

Harry looked and pointed at Holmgren. “Well, Mister Nicky said he did a similar thing with you, friend, to help you get out of town when you were in trouble. A couple of thousand bucks and, poof, you’re gone.”

Holmgren turned ashen, and I felt my own jolt – I recalled Holmgren saying Nicky knocked him out after a rejected marriage proposal, sending him back in time as punishment for being spurned.

“What exactly did he tell you about me?” Holmgren demanded, trying not to betray a hint of agitation.

“Well, I’m just repeating what Mister Nicky said,” Harry answered, eyeing Holmgren carefully. “He said – well, how do I put it? – he said you were in trouble for selling the inside information on that trippy time technology to a country where the government doesn’t like Americans, and that you needed to disappear once you were told you were going to be nabbed. He said you had the money to pay for his travel agent fee and were able to plan your new life in the 1870s before you got here.”

“That never happened,” Holmgren said coldly.

“Well, friend, I’m just repeating what I was told,” Harry muttered. “Y’all don’t blame the postman if there’s an eviction notice in your mailbox.”

“Did Nicky ever speak about me?” I asked. “I was his first boyfriend, back in college.”

Harry rolled his eyes and slapped his forehead. “Oh, fuck – pardon my French. Yeah, you came up one night and didn’t go away for a couple of hours. He got drunk and spent the evening going on and on and on about you – complete with pictures, too. There was one really good picture of you that he had on his refrigerator.”

“Oh, fuck – sorry it’s catchy,” I said. “The London phone booth? I never thought that picture was special. Was it really that good?”

“Yes,” said Holmgren and Harry together, which caused them to chuckle.

“But, friend,” Harry said to me. “How come you’re in convict stripes while your pal here is running the prison? That don’t make sense.”

“Do you have a couple of hours for my story?” I asked.

“No, he doesn’t,” Holmgren said, checking his pocket watch and then looking to the window. “And we’ve been talking so much that the sunlight moved out of here. If you want those pillory photos, we should get moving.”

Harry gathered his belongings into the cart and I took its handle. Holmgren opened the door but then paused and looked back at Harry.

“Tell me, Harry, did Nicky ever try to contact you once you were here?” Holmgren asked.

“Nope, not a word,” Harry replied. “Why are you asking?”

“I was just curious,” Holmgren replied. “Did you ever encounter anyone who acted strangely, as if they didn’t belong in this place and time?”

“You’re asking weird questions, friend,” Harry said. “I don’t remember anyone acting peculiar. I meet some dumb people, but I did that back in 2020s, too. Most people around here are nice, but the other day there was a real pest of a salesman who came into my studio trying to interest me in jewelry. I kept telling him I didn’t have a wife or lady friend, but he had a suitcase full of nonsense – the kind of cheap jewelry they sell in the railroad depots to Easterners who venture out here. I tried to be polite and I think he realized that he annoyed me – he gave me this cheap doo-dad probably as an apology.”

Harry fished into his jacket pocket and pulled out a large black badge with the American flag painted on its surface. Holmgren took it in his hand, examined it and showed it to me before handing it back to Harry, who held his palms in a rejection gesture.

“You can keep it, friend,” he said. “I have my own flag in my studio.”

We ventured out to the courtyard where the pillory stood high atop its platform. Harry took out his camera and tripod and announced he wanted to get a photograph of the empty device first before having us pose with it. Holmgren and I stood off to the side as he set up his equipment and sought to get the proper angel for his shot.

“What do you think of that flag pin that Harry gave me?” Holmgren asked.

“Eh, nothing special,” I said. “I’ve seen pins like that before.”

“You are aware of the symbolism in the American flag’s design?” he asked me.

I took umbrage with that question. “Of course, I do – I’m not a dope. The 13 stripes are for the original 13 colonies and the 50 stars are for each of the states.”

“You are a dope,” he replied contemptuously. “You forget we’re in 1876 – there are only 37 states. We’re not in a state now – New Mexico won’t be a state until 1912. And we didn’t get 50 states until 1959.”

A chill went down my body. “So that pin…”

“…is also a tracking device,” Holmgren said, finishing my sentence. “Like the box with Nicky’s letter.”

Harry announced that he achieved the photo of the empty pillory and asked us to pose at the device. Holmgren and I walked quietly up the platform, and I waited while Holmgren took the padlock from the pillory and opened its top. Without prompting, I put my hands and neck into the device and Holmgren gently placed the pillory’s top above me. I heard the padlock drop into the pillory’s hasp.

“I’m not going to lock it, so don’t go bleating about being trapped,” Holmgren whispered as we looked down from the platform and watched Harry move the tripod back a half-foot while he fiddled with his camera equipment. After a minute’s silence, Holmgren said to me in a low voice, “Do you hate me?”

“Why did you wait to lock me in a pillory before asking that?” I said.

“Don’t answer the question with a question,” he snapped. “Do you hate me?”

I sighed and shook my head as far as the pillory would allow movement. “Honestly, I hate a lot of things you do to me – like this, for example. But on a person-to-person basis – no, I don’t hate you. I was hoping that you could be a friend to me, and I am still hoping, but you always remind me that you’re my jailer and not my friend.”

Holmgren began tapping his fingers on top of the pillory. “If what Harry said about what Nicky said about me is true, would you hate me?”

“I think that’s a run-on sentence,” I answered.

Holmgren swatted my butt hard with his hand. “I will lock you in there if you don’t stop being a smart-aleck.”

I could tell from the displeasure in his voice that Holmgren was not making an idle threat. “I don’t know the circumstances that brought you here,” I said. “All I know is what you originally told me when I first met you. If you did something that…”

I stopped, trying to figure out how to answer without being kept in the pillory for hours. I then continued, “If you did something that could have gotten you in trouble, I would need to hear your side of the story before I could answer your question.”

Holmgren did not voice a response to my reply, although he gently rubbed the area of my butt where he swatted me.

“Gentlemen, I am ready,” Harry shouted out from behind the camera. “Please look into the camera and hold your pose for one minute. Don’t speak, don’t blink, don’t move.”

Harry ducked under the camera’s blanket while Holmgren and I remained stationary for the minute. When Harry emerged from under the blanket, he clapped into the air and declared that a successful photograph was achieved.

To my relief, Holmgren opened the pillory and I was able to eject myself into free movement. Suddenly Charleson and Patterson came running into the courtyard calling out Holmgren’s name. The lieutenant raced down from the platform and huddled with them – the guards seemed in a panic, with Charleson pointing frantically into the prison while Patterson held up his hands in a pleading manner. Their anxiety transferred to Holmgren.

“Get down here immediately,” Holmgren ordered me, to which I obeyed. He then pulled me aside and put his face directly into mine.

“They’re here,” he said. “I don’t know if Nicky is with them, but they’re here from our time and they have guns. They’re holding the Jones boys as hostages at gunpoint until Harry and I speak to them.”

“We’re going back home?” I breathed nervously.

Holmgren shook his head angrily. “No, not home. They want me and Harry to go to prison – most likely a supermax.”

“What about me?” I said.

“This isn’t a rescue party,” he continued. “And don’t delude yourself into thinking you’re being rescued – if they get you, you will be kept in federal custody for years because you learned about the time travel technology, which is the ultimate in top secret technology that we have. Trust me when I say this – you will be trading one prison for another.”

I tried to hold back my tears. “Johnno, is it true that…that you did something very wrong?”

Holmgren ran a finger under my eyes. “I’ve done a lot of stupid things that I am not proud of – but I am not going back with them. If I have to pay for what I did, it will happen here and now.”

Holmgren turned to Charleson and Patterson and directed them to take me back to my cell. I tried to grab Holmgren, but he pushed me away. Charleson took my left arm, but I shook him off and reached out to Holmgren, who ordered the guards to restrain me. Charleson grabbed me in a headlock and threw me on the ground, putting his knee on my head while Patterson grabbed my wrists behind me and locked them into handcuffs. The guards lifted me up and held me before Holmgren.

“Put the prison into lockdown and have the guards on standby for an emergency,” he said.

“That will take too long, Sir,” Patterson said. “They want to see you and the photographer now.”

“Just do as I say,” Holmgren barked. “I need to speak with Harry alone.”

Charleson and Patterson started to drag me away, and I screamed out to Holmgren, who ignored my pleas. I tried to dig my heels down to stop them, but Charleson threw me face down to the ground and turned me over. Patterson grabbed my ankles, and Charleson lifted me under my armpits and I was carried off, yelling and trying to wriggle myself from their clutches while both kept telling me to be quiet and behave.

To be continued …