By Hunter Perez

I will admit that I was glad that Holmgren pulled down my pants so I could relieve myself – I enjoyed a long piss that helped to calm my nerves. Unfortunately, I wished that he stayed until I finished so he could pull my pants back up. As a result, I was now in the ridiculous position of having my head and hands locked in the pillory while my pants were down at my ankles.

If it had been a sunny day, I might have an idea of time by tracking the sun’s position in the sky. But it was overcast, and my notion of celestial timekeeping was sabotaged.

I tried to alleviate my discomfort and anxiety by calling up happy memories. I recalled Hendrik, a personal trainer that I dated for a while. Hendrik was Dutch with blond hair, blue eyes, pale skin and a superhero’s body – he had the slightest trace of a Dutch accent that I found very sexy, especially when he tried to pronounce non-English words. One weekend, we took a road trip to Atlantic City and spent the day walking along the Boardwalk while floating in and out the casinos. We stayed through dinner at a fancy restaurant and opted to remain overnight – we were able to get a top floor hotel room with a grand view of the Atlantic Ocean. Once in our room, we ordered champagne and oysters from room service and had the most splendid night.

I closed my eyes and found myself smiling as I remembered the sight of Hendrik in the morning, standing naked at the room’s window while looking out at the ocean. He was the most physically perfect man I had ever seen and the sun’s early rays through the window gave him a golden glow. The recollection of his glory helped tranquilize my stress. Though perhaps the memory was a bit too potent, as I started to achieve an erection just as Holmgren returned.

“Wow, nature’s been really generous to you,” he exclaimed, pointing at my groin. “If I knew that was going to be there, I’d have brought my horse and hitched him up to that.”

The influence of Hendrik’s memory on my lower region evaporated immediately and I shut my eyes while cringing at the prospect of another round of Holmgren’s nonsense.

“Well, I just spoke with the warden and I have good news, good news, good news and good news,” he said, looking up from ground level to my imprisonment atop the platform. “Which one do you want to hear first: the good news, the good news, the good news or the good news?”

I kept my eyes closed – it was bad enough that I had to hear him, but the prospect of seeing his toothy overbite grin while he had too much fun at my expense was something that I hoped I could control.

“Okay,” he continued. “The first good news is that I am able to keep you out of the prison population. The warden agreed to have you share a cell with his nephew.”

I am opened my eyes, confused at this announcement. “Why does the warden have his nephew in a prison cell?”

“That’s a sad story,” Holmgren stated, oddly smiling while making that declaration. “Merrifield – he’s the nephew – was an Indiana farmer who went off to the Civil War and came back a few years later with what our era called PTSD. But in 1865, no one knew about PTSD. From what I’m told, Merrifield’s behavior became erratic and violent, and he was shuttled to various relatives around the country. When no one could do anything with him, they shipped him out here to be with his uncles, the warden and the sheriff in Monroeville. He became ill with something and he was sent to a hospital in Albuquerque. I am not entirely certain about what happened there, except that he wound up strangling two doctors to death and threw a third one out of a second-floor window.”

“Wait a minute,” I exhaled. “So, for my protection, you’re locking me in a prison cell with a homicidal maniac?”

Holmgren shook his head and laughed out loud. “He’s not a homicidal maniac. I am with him every day and he’s passive – at least with me. He mostly stares out into space or stares at a wall. I don’t know if he can speak anymore – I’ve never heard his voice. But that leads me to the second piece good news – you’re going to help him get better.”

I closed my eyes again and shook my head, saying to myself, “This can’t be happening.” I opened my eyes and asked, “How can I help someone like him? I’m not a mental health professional. You know that I am just a real estate broker.”

Holmgren clapped his hands and pointed his right index up to me. “Exactly – it’s almost the same thing. Really, think about it. As a broker, what do you do? You’re dealing with nervous and anxious people, you calm them down, you listen to their concerns, you work with them on what they need. And before you know it, you’ve got them doing exactly what you want. With your powers of persuasion, I bet you’ve sold hundreds of moldy, termite-infested homes.”

I jolted up and tried to force the top of the pillory from my neck. “Excuse me!” I yelled. “I am not a flim-flam man. I am a damn honest broker. And I don’t even sell homes – I do commercial real estate.”

Holmgren shrugged. “Even better. And time is on your side. When the Brooklyn Bridge opens in eight years, you’ll be the first one to sell it.”

Holmgren laughed, but I didn’t.

“Can you please just shoot me in the head and get this over with?” I implored. “Really, I won’t hold it against you. If I get to Heaven, I promise to put in a good word for you with Saint Peter.”

Holmgren paced in a circle, more than happy with himself. “I can’t do that. I just can’t shoot a prisoner because he wants to be shot. But if you want me to get the blacksmith…”

“Enough with the fucking blacksmith,” I yelled. “I just can’t believe this. What other good news is there? You said there were four good news dispatches to share.”

Holmgren leaned against the platform and eyed me with another of his toothy grins. “This is my favorite good news. The warden said that if we can get his nephew back to good health, I’ll get a promotion. That makes me a lieutenant, and at the rate I’m going I could be on the path to becoming warden when the old man retires.”

“But I’ve already said that I’m not a mental health professional,” I whimpered. “What happens if he doesn’t get better?”

Holmgren pulled a cigar from his jacket and ran it under his nose, inhaling through his nostrils so loudly that I could hear him up on the platform.

“Oh, I didn’t think of that,” he said. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to put you on a chain gang and send you out to do some work in the desert. They’re always building something out there.”

My patience with Holmgren had evaporated and I couldn’t tolerate being in his company. “In a way, I’m glad I’m locked in this thing because otherwise I’d jump down there and strangle you.”

Holmgren snapped his fingers and pointed his cigar to me. “Oh, I almost forgot – the fourth good news. I asked the warden if we could make an exception to our rules and let you out of the pillory before the five hours were up. He said that considering you would be working with his nephew, he could make an exception and allow you to get an early release.”

I thought that I was going to cry. I shouted my thanks to Holmgren and he nodded in appreciation before lighting his cigar, taking a strong drag and turning his back while leaning against the platform. He blew a straight train of smoke into the air and returned the cigar to his mouth.

I waited a minute and then another minute. “Well?” I finally asked.

He turned around and looked up to me with a gaze of mild annoyance. “Well, what?”

“You said the warden agreed that you could let me out of this thing early,” I said, with more than a little impatience.

“Yes, I know,” he responded. “But you just said that you were enjoying yourself. Why would you want me let you out if you’re having a good time?”

I felt my face turn hot with rage. “I never said I’m having a good time.”

Holmgren let forth another train of smoke and pointed his cigar at me again. “Look, a minute ago you said – and I quote you exactly – ‘I’m glad I’m locked in this thing.’ You obviously like it in there.”

I sputtered and started to answer, when he demanded, “And what’s with that erection I saw a few minutes ago? If you really hated being in there, you wouldn’t have your dick in the air like that. You’re the first guy I put in that thing to react that way.”

“Get me out of here now!” I yelled.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he said. “It’s okay. If you’re glad to be in the pillory, I’m happy that you’re happy. And if you really like it, I can let you stay there for another hour. Or even two extra hours.”

I hung my head and wanted to cry. “Two extra hours?” I muttered in anguish.

Holmgren clapped his hands and let out a cheer. “Sold to the man in the pillory. You’ve got yourself an extra two hours.” He then pulled out his pocket watch, examined its time and added, “Hey, I have to split – I have paperwork to finish and an inspection to do. I’ll be back later – and don’t worry, I’m not a clock watcher. You can have as much time as you want.”

Holmgren stuck his cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pants pocket. He spun around and walked with a spry step across the courtyard.

“Let me out of here!” I yelled after him.

Without turning back, Holmgren raised his right arm and waved a goodbye with his hand. I kept pleading for my release until he disappeared out of sight.

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