By Hunter Perez

Now, why in the world didn’t I allow Nicky to uncuff me when he made the offer? Perhaps I was being noble – his fantasy of arresting me clearly meant a lot to him and maybe I didn’t want to hurt his feelings? Or maybe I was still aroused at the concept of being his handcuffed prisoner? I had never done this type of a scene and I found it to be fun. At least for the initial part of the trip.

But once we got off the highway and took the road to the ghost town, my arms became sore and my shoulders hurt. The erection that accompanied me at the start of the journey disappeared and ride became more onerous while driving across a road in serious need of paving.

The area we drove through was conspicuously absent of civilization. Granted, the desert landscapes were beautiful in their ochre austerity, but to this urban denizen the absence of people, places and things was unsettling.  And as a real estate professional, the location raised a host of questions.

“Tell me, why do you want to buy a ghost town?” I asked.

Nicky turned and looked at me through the mesh separating our part of his police vehicle. “It seems like a good idea.”

“How?” I asked. “This is the middle of nowhere.”

“Well, the place has a great history,” he added. “Monroeville was a thriving frontier town in the 19th and early 20th century. Legend has it that Jesse James and Billy the Kid took refuge there – not together, of course, they didn’t know each other. It was later used by some movie companies as the backdrop for Westerns – another legend has it that John Wayne shot some cowboy films there. Then it was a tourist attraction for a while, but it’s been closed.”

“And your plan?” I asked. “Do you want this to be a tourist site, a movie set or a frontier town?”

“Sort of all of the above,” he answered. “Tourists love the Old West towns, and the state’s film board is always bringing movies and TV shows here. I’ve also been reading articles that senior housing is the hottest thing – I figured we could put up a community for the old folks in the area surrounding the main strip.”

I looked out the window at the desert grandeur and couldn’t see what Nicky envisioned. “But if you’re going to have a community, you need things like stores and schools and churches – and for seniors, being close to medical centers helps. You will certainly need water and sewer and electrical power. All you have here is cactus and rocks.”

“It’s like ‘Field of Dreams’ – build it and they’ll come,” he replied.

By now, I wasn’t just regretting that I was still handcuffed, but I rued that I was even a passenger in this odyssey. I hoped the visit to the site would be quick and painless and that I could get back to my hotel.

After a too-long amble, we came upon the first man-made structure since leaving the highway – a large security fence that seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. Nicky pulled into a driveway along the fence, took out his phone and tapped some number, causing a portion of the fence to pull back and allow us to enter.

“That’s quite a security apparatus to protect a bunch of old cowboy buildings,” I said.

“Vandals turn up where you least expect them,” he said. “I have a friend who owns an art gallery in Santa Fe and he said that some crooks went up on his roof and stole the copper wiring from his heating and air conditioning system.”

Normally, I would have pointed out the warped comparison between a thriving art gallery and a derelict tourist trap, but I was too tired for a debate. We drove down a dirt road and finally the ghost town came into view. Nicky stopped the car, opened the back door and helped me to get out, unlocking the handcuffs quickly. I began to shake my arms and stretch my fingers, trying to affirm feeling was still present.

“I bet your shoulders hurt,” he said. I nodded and he stepped behind me to massage them. His hands were rough and strong, and the pressure felt therapeutic. Then, he rested his chin on my right shoulder, leaned to the side of my face and kissed my cheek.

“I hope that makes it feel better,” he whispered.

I tried to stifle a giggle – his behavior was so ridiculous that it more entertaining than annoying. I could imagine watching Pepe Le Pew cartoons and taking notes on how to enact a seduction.

Less amusing was the reason for the visit – I couldn’t see how any self-respecting ghost would take up residence in this town. And calling it a town was an exaggeration – it was a long, dusty thoroughfare with four dilapidated wooden buildings on one side, three small stone buildings on the other and the ruins of a barn at the far end of the road.

“You want me to appraise this?” I said. “What buildings are from the Old West and what came later?”

“Those buildings were here when it was a tourist place,” he said, pointing to the wooden buildings. “From what I was told, they were modeled on the original buildings on this street. The buildings across from them are original. It might make sense to see them first.”

The three stone buildings had faded painted signs identifying their premises: Bank & Trust, Town Hall, and Sheriff. We went into the Bank & Trust first, and I was mildly surprised to see it kept the resemblance to a 19th century bank, complete with old-style teller windows and a floor-to-ceiling vault. A layer of dust coated the floor and the ledges of the teller windows, and the floors showed signs of a termite buffet, but with proper restoration it could be impressive.

“Are any of these registered as historic landmarks?” I asked Nicky.

“I don’t think so,” he said.

While I looked at the teller windows, I heard a tiny metallic click – Nicky had his phone out and photographed me. I ran an index finger across the teller window ledge and held up a digit full of dust, which he also photographed.

The Town Hall was less interesting, with a series of offices with heavy dark doors. None of the offices had any furnishings, and dust also coated the floor, but what seemed to be the original gas lamp fixtures were on the wall. I pointed to one of the fixtures and Nicky snapped my photo.

The Sheriff’s space was the smallest of the three. A broken-down desk and splintered desk were in the middle of room, and three small jail cells were in a far corner. On the wall about two feet from one of the cells was a knob where a large key ring with two oversized keys rested.

“That’s weird,” I said, pointing at the keys. “I am surprised they’re still here. Things like that would fetch some money in an antique auction – no one makes keys that size anymore. Even your copper wire thieves would run off with that.”

“Let’s see if they work,” Nicky said as he took the keychain from its knob and fitted the keys into the lock of a cell. He couldn’t get it to open. He tried a second cell and could not make the key work. With the third cell, he shook a key and clicked the door open.

“Hey, can I get a picture with you in here?” he asked. “Since you’ve been arrested, we might as well go full convict and get you in jail.”

I nodded and walked into the cell, with Nicky closing the door and jiggling the key to shut it. He pulled on the bars and nodded slightly, then pulled out the camera and came to the bars of the cell. I stood behind him as he held up his phone to get us together. He then took a second photo while holding the oversized key up.

“Now, just one of you in jail,” he grinned. I clutched the bars of the cell tightly and pretended to look like a villain, then looked sad. He clicked a few photos while shaking his head in approval. When done, he swiped his finger across the phone and nodded before sharing the photos with me – I wasn’t a very convincing jailbird, but he was a handsome arresting officer.

“Please email them to me,” I said.

Nicky then put his arms through the bars of the cell and cupped his hands behind my head. He pushed me to the bars and leaned forward until his face was with mine. We kissed through the bars in a long, slow, passionate embrace. The cold steel of the bars seemed strangely invigorating when balanced with the warmth of his lips.

Nicky then stepped back, returned the keychain to its wall knob and slowly walked out of the space, closing the door behind him. I stood clutching the bars, wondering how long it would take for him to pop back in while chuckling about his prank. A minute passed and then another and the door to the space didn’t open.

I pushed on the bars of the cell door, but they were solid. I hoped the age of the structure would allow me to force the door off its hinges, but after pulling and pushing I found it locked in place. I called his name out, but got no response.

In the distance, I thought I heard the sound of Nicky’s car engine revving up. I pulled out my phone and texted him, “Hey, pal, I think you forgot something.”

Within ten seconds, he texted back, “Hey, pal, I didn’t forget a thing.”

Click for next part

Click for previous part

Click to start at Part 1