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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 08

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By Hunter Perez

Once we were inside the prison, I calmed down. Charleson and Patterson put me back on my feet, and I apologized to them for creating a commotion. Patterson ordered Charleson to return to Holmgren, then he unlocked my handcuffs and walked me back to my cell.

“Sorry we had to be rough on you, son,” Patterson said softly. “I don’t like hurting good people.”

“It was my fault, Sir, and I deserved it,” I said. “You and Private Charleson would be justified in submitting a conduct demerit over how I behaved.”

“I doubt the private will do anything of the sort,” Patterson replied. “And if he did, you have to remember that I am the one who approves and rejects those reports. I don’t see any conduct demerits in your future.”

When we reached the cell, Patterson assured me that Holmgren will able to solve whatever situation was taking place, and he thanked me for being concerned about the lieutenant’s safety. The opening and closing of the cell door awakened Zeb, who was sleeping naked in the middle of our bed. He blinked at me through half-asleep eyes and rolled himself to the edge of the bed, freeing up space for me to join him. While I wasn’t the least bit sleepy, I nonetheless rested next to Zeb.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 07

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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.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 06

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By Hunter Perez

After Holmgren introduced me to Quinn, I saw neither of them for several weeks. I have no idea what became of Holmgren, but I heard a few uncomplimentary things about Quinn. The first complaints came from Charleson, who somehow got into an argument with Quinn over the merits of Emily Brontë’s “Wuthering Heights,” which Charleson adored and Quinn loathed – and to make matters worse, Quinn insulted Charleson’s character based on his taste in literature.

“He had the audacity to question my intelligence and the type of home I was raised in,” Charleson fumed in confidence to me one afternoon. “Just because I wasn’t college educated like him doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate fine writing.”

More concerns about Quinn arose at the rock quarry when O’Dwyer started quizzing me about Quinn.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 05

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By Hunter Perez

I never considered myself to be a jealous person, but after my meeting with Holmgren I was deeply envious of his encounter with Quinn, that adventure-seeking magazine writer he met at the schoolhouse. I was unable to fall asleep because I became consumed with resentfulness over Holmgren’s newfound happiness and the possibility that he might find himself in a romantic relationship.

“Why is he able to go out and about and meet people while I have stay locked in a cage?” I thought to myself. “He knows I don’t belong in here, but he’s keeping me here. He’ll probably keep me here for the rest of my life. He’ll probably quit one day and go off somewhere with his new boyfriend and I’ll be stuck behind bars until I die.”

My unhappiness forced me up, which was just as well because Zeb began snoring at an intolerable level. I sat at the foot of bed, sometimes glancing out of the cell door with the hope that Patterson would come chugging by for a quick chat. By mostly I stared at the floor, slowly asphyxiating myself with self-pity.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 04

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By Hunter Perez

The rock quarry duties would last until mid-afternoon, at which point we would be brought back to our cells. Zeb would crash into a deep, tumult-free sleep, and I would be able to get some placid snoozing in – unlike the nights with Zeb’s snoring and thrashing keeping me up. One afternoon, shortly after we fell asleep, there was tapping at the cell door – it was Private Charleson, informing me that Holmgren wanted to see me in his office. I reluctantly got out of bed and walked out of the cell into the corridor, turning my back to Charleson and putting my hands behind my back. Charleson locked the cell and was about 15 paces down when he realized I was still standing at the cell door.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he walked back.

“I thought I was going to be handcuffed,” I said, still groggy from being awakened. “Whenever Sergeant Patterson would take me to see the lieutenant, he would always handcuff me.”

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 03

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By Hunter Perez

My first night as Zeb’s cellmate was not the most serene experience. We had a none-too-large bed to share, and Zeb’s muscular body took up a surplus amount of space. I also discovered he snored ferociously while twisting and turning in his sleep. After being pummeled aurally and physically, I got out of bed and stood by the cell door, looking out into the dark corridor with the vain belief that I could be rescued. A dim lantern appeared at the far end of the corridor – it was Sergeant Patterson on night patrol, pausing to take a quick look into each cell. When he came to mine, he was initially surprised to see me awake, then looked behind me to the snoring Zeb spread out across most of the bedspace.

“Sorry it had to happen to you, son,” Patterson commiserated. “He’s a great guy when he’s awake, but when he’s asleep it’s another matter.”

“There wouldn’t happen to be a vacant cell where I could spend the night?” I asked. “I’d even be willing to sleep in the stables.”

“Sorry, son, but I can’t let you out,” Patterson replied. “I am sure you can figure something out – you’re a smart one.”

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 02

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By Hunter Perez

Of course, it would be my rotten luck to be handcuffed behind my back to the cell door while Holmgren held out an envelope containing a letter from Nicky – the first direct contact from the 21st century since I arrived in the 19th century. I asked Holmgren to unlock me, but he responded he didn’t have the keys because the handcuffs belonged to Private Charleson.

“I can hold up the letter for you to read or I can read it to you,” he said while balancing his cigar on the edge of the box’s lid.

“You might as well read it to me,” I said, sourly.

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A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 01

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By Hunter Perez

NOTE: This is a sequel! To read the first series, click here

So, how is life mistreating me? Funny that I should ask. Since we last connected, there has been bad news and sort of bad news.

The bad news is that the warden fell in love with Holmgren’s idea of getting the local saloon keeper to pay for his son Zeb’s education while he was incarcerated. As you may recall, Zeb is illiterate, and his dad wants him to take over the saloon business – which is a tad difficult when you can’t read the liquor bottle labels. According to Holmgren, the warden thought the idea was so brilliant that he insisted on a 70 percent to 30 percent split of the “tuition” – the warden, of course, taking the bigger cut. With this scheme, the plan to have my sentence commuted was put on the proverbial back burner – although I fear it will bypass the back burner and go straight into the trash can if the saloon keeper agrees to it.

The sort of bad news was the delay in getting the saloon keeper’s approval – he was called out of town for at least two weeks, thus delaying the finality of whether I would be trapped in prison (if he approved) or set free (if he disapproved). Without a firm answer, I was stuck in limbo – or, to be more precise, the spruced-up solitary confinement cell that was supposed to be a temporary residence on my road to liberty.

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