Rosanski’s old Chevy station wagon went airborne as we crested
a hill on the old crumbling highway to Guanajuato. I knew complaining
to Rosanski would only make him drive faster. He was in a foul mood
and that morning had been complaining to me about the ration of
shit he had been receiving from everyone about punching Guatemala
Bob in the face, then kicking him a couple times in the ribs after
he went down. Guatemala Bob had threatened Rosanski with a knife.
At the time Bob was high on several incompatible drugs, and was
not at all himself. Bob weighed 100 lbs. soaking wet and as far
as anyone knew had never before showed any inclination toward violence.
Rosanksi on the other hand was a tough loudmouth Jew from the Bronx.
Although now in his 50’s, he never missed a chance to revert
to his childhood habits, especially when threatened. The fact that
the threat came from someone as simpleminded and harmless as Guatemala
Bob was beside the point.
 Some
of Rosanski’s friends, in addition to criticizing what they
thought was an over reaction to Guatemala Bob’s knife waving,
suggested that perhaps Bob had a good reason for wanting to stab
Rosanski.
When asked about this the next day, however, Bob said he didn’t
remember what his reason was.
“Fuck everybody,” Rosanski had said, “I need to
get out of this town.”
When he said that I saw my chance for a ride to Guanajuato to visit
Jason. Jason had been lodged in the old prison in downtown Guanajuato
for the last two years. Today he would be transferred to a newly
constructed penitentiary that would replace the ancient prison.
And since I owed him a visit, this would be a good time to deliver
the shopping bag full of books and a few other items he had asked
for, that had been sitting in the corner of my bedroom for the past
month.
We were airborne again and landing was not so smooth this time but
Rosanksi easily regained control of the car and went back to dividing
his time between the highway and Monica’s legs. The hem of
her tight skirt had ridden up precariously close to home base. Monica
was an important part of our visit to Jason. Jason had specifically
requested if she could come again, after last Thanksgivings visit.
I was hoping she would make up for how long it had taken me to get
that shopping bag full of stuff to Jason.
I had started visiting Jason when none of his friends would. Jason
had been busted for growing and selling pot in his bedroom from
seeds he had sent away for through High Times magazine. And most
of his friends were either customers or just nervous about visiting
a convicted felon. He was stupid enough to tell the police where
he got the seeds and they had slapped an additional four years for
illegal import onto the seven years for dealing. (He had been subsequently
told by a fellow prisoner, “Man, you would have been better
off being caught with a truck full of marijuana than one plant.”
Agriculture, that is the growing of marijuana—one plant or
one acre—carries the stiffest penalty on the books.) His second
mistake was to use the money he had inherited after his mom’s
death to rent a $300 dollar-a-month room in the prison and hire
a cook to prepare the filet mignons he was buying for himself and
some of the other prisoners. This was contrary to his lawyer’s
advice, who said he should sleep on the floor and eat the beans
and tortillas provided, so he would look just like a dumb hippie,
which he was. Instead, he made himself look like a big time drug
dealer, which he wasn’t. This made his lawyer’s job
real hard, and he ended up facing eleven years.
But as long as Jason had to spend time in jail, he was fortunate
enough to have some money. The way things worked in these old prisons,
you got put in a big room, and that was it. You had the clothes
on your back, and you slept on the floor, and you had your beans
and tortillas twice a day, and in the morning, coffee, if you had
something to put it in.
 For
anything else, you depended on your family or friends. The prison
world was sort of a microcosm of the real world. There were the
haves and the have-nots. The haves could rent a room, bring in a
TV and a nice bed. The have-nots could work for the haves, like
Jason’s cook. Some inmates made things to sell on the outside.
Twice a week there were conjugal visits. In the big open space most
of the men had mattresses to sleep on, brought by their families,
and others had tents for privacy.
There was not much violence. Some real bad guys came into the prison
population once and starting rousting people for whatever valuables
they had. They broke into Jason’s room one night, put a knife
to his throat and took his cash. A group of the prisoners went to
see the warden and the hard guys were put into a separate section
of the prison without sunlight.
On Thanksgiving, Monica and two of her girlfriends and I had visited
Jason. The girls dressed up in their cutest outfits, Monica going
over the top in a tight red skirt and a plunging white blouse. At
the time her curly hair was white blonde, and there was lots of
it. Monica was a card-carrying exhibitionist and the perfect woman
to cheer up a guy passing Thanksgiving in a Mexican jail. When we
arrived Jason took us all on a tour of the prison and showed us
his small room. It was conjugal visit day and visitors could join
the prisoners in the large outdoor courtyard. We went to a corner
of the courtyard where a couple of Jason’s friends were eating
carnitas. We joined them and spread the Thanksgiving meal we brought
over a blanket. Girlfriends and wives of the prisoners were preparing
meals over brazier fires. Children ran around playing and laughing
or eating with their families. On the other side of the courtyard
was a large barred gate with some single men on the other side of
the bars. They had spotted Monica and her friends and had climbed
up the bars for a better look. There were catcalls and whistles,
which the girls took with smiles and grace. They were calling out
to Jason for him to bring the girls over, Jason ignored them. Monica,
who spoke Spanish well, obligingly found excuses to get up and move
around. The prisoners were very happy with Monica and she enjoyed
making them happy.
All things considered, if you had to be in a prison, Jason’s
prison seemed not all that bad on that particular day. I wondered
how the new penitentiary would compare. I didn´t like the
sound of it—penitentiary. I would soon know, as the ride from
hell was now over and Rosanski was pulling into a parking lot.
We parked and went through a security check before being led to
a visitor’s waiting room. We were told we would see Jason
one at a time. The penitentiary was clean and sterile.
I went first. I was ushered to a seat in front of a one-inch-thick
plexiglass window, with a circle of small holes drilled into the
center. When Jason sat down on the other side of the glass I could
barley hear what he was saying. Suddenly Jason stood up and said,
“I can’t stand this anymore,” and disappeared.
Not knowing what else to do I sat and waited. After what seemed
an eternity a guard appeared and motioned for me to follow him.
We wound our way through some passageways to a steel door where
Rosanski and Monica were waiting. As the guard turned a large key
and opened the steel door, he stared at Monica in a way that made
my skin crawl. He nodded us through and closed the door behind us.
I heard the lock fall into place. Jason was on the other side waiting.
I never did ask him how he had done this.
We moved around freely, Jason took us to see the cell he shared
with another man. It was clean and modern with bunk beds. After
this we went to what seemed like a large hallway and stood talking.
Occasionally prisoners passed by, and I began thinking about the
absence of guards anywhere. I could feel Rosanski tensing up a little.
“Not many guards around,” I commented. I wondered where
that door was and if the guard was still on the other side.
“No fucking guards,” Rosanski clarified.
Three inmates passed us, all staring at Monica. Rosanki told her
to stop standing with her legs apart, her perpetual stance, like
a gunfighter. But in that stretch skirt and high heels it didn’t
look like she was looking for a shootout. Jason changed places with
her, putting her back to the wall. Rosanksi eyed her cleavage. “Doesn’t
help,” he offered.
“Jason, maybe we should find that door,” Monica suggested.
 Before
Jason could answer, one of the prisoners came up and murmured something
rapid in Spanish in Jason’s ear. “He wants us to go
to the cafeteria, ” Jason said.
“I’m not hungry,” said Rosanski. We were all silent
for a moment while the prisoner waited. At last Monica said, “Shit,
let’s just go.”
We followed Jason and the inmate deeper into the prison to the cafeteria.
We were seated in the very middle of the dinning hall. At one end
was a group of ten prisoners sitting on tables and benches. It was
as modern and clean as the rest of the prison. No one was eating.
More men began to file in. They formed a circle around us three
men deep. The ones in the back stood on tables. No one said anything,
neither them nor us. After the last man came in, they just sat.
Then a man squeezed through the crowd carrying a tray of food. He
came forward and put it on the table in front of Monica. He said,
“Es lo mejor que nosotros tenemos hoy, pero hay otras cosas
si no te gusta.” It was a piece of fish, rice and broccoli.
Monica sat and stared at it.
“Eat,” whispered Rosanksi.
“I’m a vegetarian,” she whispered back, still
staring at the food.
“Not today,” he muttered.
While they watched in silence, she ate it all. When she had finished,
a man came for the tray, and another brought her a small dish with
a slice of pineapple on it. When that had been taken away a man
came forward with a woven cloth belt.
“I made this,” he said in English, and put it in front
of her. This was followed by a model of a boat, a Guadalupe carved
of wood, and a handbag made of woven plastic bags.
On the way back to San Miguel, Rosanksi drove at a more moderate
speed. We rode in silence for a while and then Monica murmured in
her Texas drawl, “Well, you boys sure know how to show a girl
a good time.”
 This
would be our last visit to see Jason. Shortly after this, he was
returned to the States as part of a prisoner exchange program. Two
planes taxied into position opposite one another on a landing strip
somewhere on the border. In single file, shackled Mexican prisoners
awkwardly shuffled down the stairs of the American plane towards
the Mexican plane, where shackled American prisoners were doing
the opposite. As the two lines passed one another, the Mexicans
whispered the same message over and over again to the American prisoners.
“You’ll be sorry,” shuffle, “You’ll
be sorry,” shuffle, shuffle.
Four months later Jason’s case was reviewed by a U.S. judge
and found to be lacking sufficient evidence, and he was released
from a U.S. Federal penitentiary. I had one phone call from him.
He said he was putting an ad in the Situations Wanted column of
the classified sections of several newspapers. The ad stated that
he had just been released from a Mexican prison after four years
of incarceration for smuggling pot, that he was experienced in international
import and export, could work under stressful conditions, was a
self-reliant organizer and spoke fluent Spanish.
All true.
(All Artwork from prisoners. Visit www.prisonart.org
for information on outsider prisoner art.)
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