Idle Hands

Going to jail in Durango, Mexico is easy l.i.v.i.n. It’s actually not even really punishment at all, which makes one wonder how a handful of murderers, drugs dealers, rapists, child molesters, and petty thieves can ever get rehabilitated. Guess what? They can’t. They go to jail for whatever reason, serve their time, and then go right back out and commit another one.

There’s one big prison, so bicycle thieves hang out with serial killers. They learn a few things, or perhaps they start doing drugs—there’s a pharmacy in the prison that has everything a fiending junkie could need: dope, pills, speed—anything. A drug dealer serves more time than a murderer, and during visiting hours small children jump rope and play jacks with pedophiles, who may serve less time than the guy who stole your TV. Oh, what’s that you ask? Do they form gay relationships with each other and start dropping the soap on purpose? No, because the women’s prison is attached to the men’s. There are four restaurants in the jail where they can wine and dine one another. That, and the sleepover conjugal visits. Did I just say sleepover? Yes, sleepover. They have them a few times a week, and for most of the husbands or wives on the outside, it’s the only place they have to go.

One afternoon I sat in this prison and passed the afternoon over a delightful plate of muffins, coffee, and watermelon slices with squeezed lime y chili powder (it was brought to me by the inmate who runs one of the cafés). A tattooed cholo approached me. He looked mean. Scary. Had a spider web tattooed on his face and India inked teardrops running down his cheeks. His name was Jesus. He offered me his goods. “¿Hola, te gustaria comprar?” he asked. Then for three pesos he handed me this little light bulb with a tiny ship inside. When I took it and thanked mi amigo, he offered me a heavily lacquered wooden bible. I wanted it bad, but I had to stop. Supposedly in this prison, buying one of the inmates’ crafts means you agree to have sex with them in the bathroom. Just kidding…or am I?

LESLEY ARFIN