By Hunter Perez

Holmgren slowly lifted the glass from the desk and vigorously sipped its whiskey content, keeping his foul gaze at me while he consumed the drink. I stood at door and tried to consider how I would respond to this new predicament.

I assumed I would be facing an evening’s worth of abuse – certainly verbal and probably physical. Having my wrists tightly handcuffed behind my back offered a painful reminder of who was the alpha in this encounter. If Holmgren was drunk or on the verge of inebriation, then I didn’t know what to expect – he was erratic while sober, and whiskey would certainly make a crazy situation worse. Patterson’s behavior outside of the room only preyed on my apprehension – how many other prisoners came before me to experience Holmgren’s whiskey-soaked wrath?

While he drank, he used his free hand to tap out a monotonous rhythm on the desk. I thought it was best not to meet his eye contact, if only to give him the self-satisfaction in affirming his authority over me. I bowed my head and looked across the floor while shifting my arms to find a modicum of ease within the handcuffs.

I heard the glass being placed on the desk and then heard the splash of whiskey being poured from its bottle into the glass. He was drinking from a large water glass, so listening to him readying a refill terrified me. I tried not to show my feelings and clenched my jaw to prevent any unnecessary verbiage that would only inflame him.

“What was it that you said to me when you were in the pillory?” he finally spoke. “Oh, yeah, I remember: ‘Get down on your knees and service me.’ Come around the desk, pretty boy.”

I slowly walked from the door to the desk while Holmgren beckoned me to move to where he was sitting. He swiveled in his chair and revealed himself to be seated with pants around his ankles. He took another sip from his glass while stroking himself.

“To borrow a line from the poet: Get down on your knees and service me,” he said.

I looked down to the floor again, stepped back and shook my head. “No, Sir,” I said in a voice that I could barely hear.

He banged the glass on the desk and snapped his fingers. “I am not asking you, I am telling you,” he said with annoyance. “Get down on your knees and service me.”

I kept moving back and would not look up at him. “No, Sir, I can’t,” I said in a somewhat louder tone.

“You can’t?” he repeated mockingly. “Oh, you can’t? What happened, faggot? Did you suddenly get a craving for fish tacos?”

“Please don’t call me names, Sir,” I said, even louder, but still refusing to look in his direction.

Holmgren choked out a laugh. “Oh, you’re giving me orders? Stupid, you’re in handcuffs and convict stripes, and I’m your jailer. Should I get a mirror to remind you which one of us is which? If you can suck the dick of that giant blond idiot, you can suck mine.”

Whether it was the whiskey that was talking or whether the booze liberated a hidden feeling, I didn’t recognize this version of Holmgren. “Please don’t say insulting things about Merrifield, Sir,” I responded.

He pounded his fist on the desk. “Do not tell me…”

I couldn’t stay silent and circumspect. “And I am not sucking his dick, Sir,” I yelled, looking straight at him. “You asked me – no, you threw me into a cage with no preparation – to help deal with Merrifield’s shell shock. And I am doing what I can to help him, but that does not include satisfying my carnal needs. And Merrifield has shown no sexual interest in me, nor do I have any in him. I don’t care if you call me names or hit me like you did earlier, but leave him out of this.”

Holmgren slumped his chair, raised his hands before his face and clapped in a lethargic manner while smirking. “Bravo, clown. How touching. I am almost moved to tears – or maybe it’s the dust in the place setting off my allergies. Oh, I wish I could have left him out of this place a long time ago – I would have left him swinging in the gallows for what he did, but his family has enough clout to shoo away the hangman and I’m stuck with him. Though he seems to like you a lot. I’m sure you’ll like it when he impales your tight little hole with that big fat cock of his.”

I felt a rush of vomit in my throat. I turned away from Holmgren and bit into my lip – he was dying for a reaction and I knew I shouldn’t give it to him. The room became still as I heard the glass being dragged across the desk before being placed back down a few seconds later.

“I wish Nicky was here to see this,” he said, and I turned back to look at him. “Oh, Nicky would laugh himself sick looking at this. The first boyfriend, the one who got away, in a cage – locked up the last boyfriend, who wanted to get away, and who used to yell at him to quit that damn auxiliary sheriff shit. I begged him to get out of law enforcement and look at me, I’m a correctional officer. Ain’t that a kick in the head?”

He took a long swallow from the glass, shook his head violently and slouched over the desk. Although he was looking at me, I somehow felt he didn’t see me.

“I remember the first time I saw your photo,” he said, his voice dropping into a melancholic timbre. “It was on the door of the refrigerator of Nicky’s place. Mister, I couldn’t believe what I was looking at – I never saw such a handsome man in my life. You had a black leather jacket and a lilac shirt with a green tie – I never saw anyone dress like that. And some kind of hat, like a fedora. So cute, real pop star cute. You were in a British phone booth and you were giving a thumbs up.”

“It was a peace sign,” I corrected. “The index and middle finger as a V with the other fingers folded in front of them.”

“Whatever it was, I was smitten,” he continued. “And Nicky was a damn hot guy, but I’d toss him to the wolves if I knew I could be with that guy in the picture. And, lo and behold, but who should come tumbling down the time travel tunnel and fall into my lap? Well, maybe not into my lap – obviously, I offend your sensibilities.”

Holmgren stood and pulled up his pants, tightening his belt to secure it in place. He sat on the desk and toyed with the now-empty glass. “You know, I’ve been here for about two years and I’ve mostly adapted to things. I’ve gotten used to the lack of modern conveniences, the bad food, the limited conversations, this crazy job. I even got used to shitting in an outhouse in the middle of the night.” Then he stopped and began to shake, as if suddenly enveloped in chills. “But I can never get used to this loneliness. There’s no one to say, ‘I love you’ or hold my hand or wake up next to me on a sunny day or snuggle with me on a rainy night.”

Holmgren clutched his stomach and doubled over on the desk. I started to approach him and said, “I’m sorry, Sir.”

He bolted up with anger. “Stop calling me ‘Sir,’ you idiot. I told you to say that when there were other guards around because I didn’t want to look foolish with your smart aleck comments.”

I began to move back and looked away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. What…what should I call you?”

Holmgren went silent, forcing me to look back in his direction. He seemed lost in his own thoughts before he bowed his head. “Nicky used to call me Johnno. He was the only one who ever did. I would get little post-it notes at my desk from him with ‘Johnno’ in big fat letters and hearts and smiley faces floating around my name.”

Holmgren looked at me in what I perceived as a state of agony. He held his hands out, as if pleading for mercy. “Please, call me Johnno when we’re together. I miss hearing that name so much.”

I started to walk closer to him. He stood up and pulled out a handkerchief from his pants pocket to wipe his eyes.

“Say it, please,” he said, in almost a whimper.

I stood directly in front of him and breathed deeply. “Johnno. Your name is Johnno. Johnno.”

Holmgren took his left hand to his mouth, held his index and middle fingers together, kissed them and put the fingers on my lips.

“Your name is Johnno,” I said in the voice of whispery lullaby.

Holmgren lunged at me and hugged me tightly, burying his face on my shoulder. The power of his grasp hurt my handcuffed-restricted arms, but I didn’t betray my discomfort.

“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I like to imagine the whiskey can tranquilize me, but it has the opposite effect, or so that busybody Patterson tells me. I never learn.” He ran his down my back and pulled at the chain connecting the handcuffs. “I don’t have the keys – the old guy has them, otherwise I’d let you out.” He stuck his tongue into my ear and provoked a giggle from me. “I love hearing you laugh. Someday, I’ll have you naked and horizontal on silk sheets, and you’ll be laughing with me.”

Holmgren planted a quick kiss on my cheek, stood back and patted my cheeks. “Patterson probably thinks that I’m disemboweling you. He’s such a doom and gloom sourpuss. I better have him take you back.”

Holmgren walked to the door and stuck his head into the corridor and yelled, “Corporal Patterson, please escort the prisoner back to his cell.”

I heard Patterson’s footsteps racing down the hall. The corporal barged into the room and quickly surveyed the scene but seemed confused to find nothing amiss.

“I have paperwork, Corporal Patterson, so I will be here for some time. Today seems to have a bumper crop of conduct demerit reports, so let me go through them. You can retire after the prisoner is returned. Good night, corporal.”

Patterson saluted Holmgren and escorted me down the corridor. Nothing was said between us until shortly before we reached my cell.

“He didn’t hurt you, son?” Patterson asked.

“No, Sir, he just hurt himself,” I replied.

Merrifield was standing at the cell bars and started to smile when we came into view. Patterson unlocked my handcuffs and deposited me back into the cell before disappearing.

“Comment allez-vous?” Merrifield asked with a sincere expression.

I burst into laughter and hugged him. “La vie est belle.”

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