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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 17

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By Hunter Perez

(The final chapter to the story)

It was dark by the time Patterson came scurrying across the courtyard with a bright lantern in one hand and an oversized ring packed with keys in the other. He was huffing and puffing in tremendous movements and paused for a minute at the base of the pillory to catch his breath. I feared he would collapse before ending my imprisonment, but he caught his second wind and quickly freed me. He asked about my physical well-being before handing me a small silver flask which he said contained brandy.

“Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course,” he added. “You never catch a cold with brandy.”

Patterson was apologetic that he did not arrive earlier, explaining that an emergency arose within the prison that required all on-duty guards. In our walk back to the cottage, Patterson provided an excruciatingly in-depth recollection of the emergency, giving violently graphic details to the bloodied injuries that several brawling prisoners inflicted on each other. By the time we reached the fence outside of the cottage, Patterson exhausted his gory story and paused for healthy sip of his “medicinal” brandy with the assurance that it helps rebuild strength and courage.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 16

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By Hunter Perez

The interior of the cottage looked as if somebody’s grandmother was recruited to inspire its décor: frilly lace curtains, heavily upholstered furniture, framed needlework on the walls and fragile doilies with porcelain figurines of fauns and lambs sitting atop sturdy oak tables. A fireplace took up much of a wall in the living space and an ornate clock was perched on its jagged wood mantlepiece. As I just emerged from a prison cell residency, the coziness overkill came as a shock.

The kitchen was large and more utilitarian in design and haphazard in its presentation, with dishes and pots scattered carelessly about. There was no running water for the large sink, and an oversized pitcher laying on its side in the basin challenged me to figure out how to clean the dishes and cookware without the benefit of a faucet. A wood-burning stove occupied a corner of the space. The box marked “cottage food” that Patterson carried over was plopped on a dark wood table with chairs parked on each of its sides.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 15

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By Hunter Perez

The next three weeks swirled into a prolonged magic show, with yours truly as the unlikely Pygmalion and Merrifield as an even more unlikely Galatea. Patterson brought us a huge box full of goodies that he purchased in Monroeville: books, newspapers, magazines, a black-and-white board for chess and checkers, a pack of playing cards, and several notebooks and pencils. Everything I requested was included except for the requested harmonicas, which Holmgren nixed. But even without the opportunity for harmonica interludes, each day was filled with so much activity that there rarely a wasted minute.

We started the morning with exercising. I tried to vary the exercises to prevent the boredom and a repetition of routines. Merrifield took it upon himself to invent a new exercise by lifting and lowering the bed. Unfortunately, he was caught doing that when Patterson arrived one morning with our breakfast – the guard scolded him gently for mishandling prison property and scolded me more harshly for encouraging such shenanigans.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 14

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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?

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 13

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By Hunter Perez

Merrifield finally woke up and released me from his grip. He rolled on his back, raised his arms into the air and yawned, then looked over at me with his newfound smile. I was moved by the serenity he displayed – he seemed to be completely at peace and joy with the world, so very different from the tortured man I encountered the previous evening.

“Do you…do you…have dreams?” he asked. His voice had settled into a deeply pleasant and masculine tone, although he still paused with slight uncertainty between words.

I sat up in the bed and tousled his long blonde hair. “Sometimes,” I answered. “Sometimes they’re good dreams, sometimes they’re not. Why are you asking?”

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 12

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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.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 11

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By Hunter Perez

The cell was around eight or nine feet in both length and width, with an unusually high ceiling, but it seemed cramped due to the presence of an oversized bed placed up against a wall in the middle of the space. The bedframe was crudely carved out of wood and its mattress was thin. A ratty brown blanket was crumpled at the head of the bed, which was covered in a dirty stained sheet.

The bed was obviously custom made – if not very well made – for the XL-sized occupant of the cell. Merrifield sat at the right edge of the bed and stared into the bars that kept him imprisoned. I guessed he would be either six-foot-five or six-foot-six if he were to stand up.

He sat slightly slouched over in a motionless manner. I had to stare very hard to notice the slightest clues of life when he betrayed an occasional eyelid blink and when his upper chest rose and fell in micrometers while breathing.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque – Part 10

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By Hunter Perez

As I stood in the pillory dreading the prospect of several extra hours added to my imprisonment, I tried to decipher why Nicky would ever consider proposing marriage to a screwball like Holmgren. Between the casual cruelty of his prankish behavior and his nonstop talking, I would imagine anyone who harbored romantic thoughts about Holmgren would eventually either turn homicidal or suicidal in having such a lunatic as a lover.

There wasn’t very much material for me to put together a portrait of what made Holmgren tick. The key to his character, I theorized, was that he remembered me from photos that Nicky copied from online. I wondered what kind of a person would have such a crisp recall of photos of a friend of a friend? Were my photos that stunning? I think he called one photo a “male model” shot, which no one ever said about me. Was he as obsessional as Nicky? I thought opposites attracted – perhaps not in this case.

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