Time had become still. 
I had taken up the habit of exercising (religiously) just to keep my mind active.
While in the middle of a routine, one of the guards appeared with the usual food ration: rice and beans. At least this time, the beans were red, a different color for a change.
I thought that maybe Ana had gotten the same since she didn’t secretly send me anything to eat that day.
Aside from the lingering thoughts in my head, I would frequently check my towel and underwear which I always washed every time I took my morning shower, to see if they had dried. I would hang them on the iron bars so that the air that was released from the A/C in the main office down the hall, which escaped from underneath the door, would make its acquaintance with the natural heat of the place and slowly dry them.
Lights went off and the moon entered my cell through the tiny peep hole on the wall. Another day was wasted, vanished. Nothing had been done to erase the misery that occupied my life.
In the middle of the night, I saw one of the guards walk pass me. Then I heard whispering in the women’s cell when the man opened their door. There was sudden laughter and after a few minutes everything went back to normal. I found out later that the guard was trading sexual favors with one or two of them for good food from the outside.
Next day came and went like the other previous ones: a cold shower early in the morning before sunrise, then exercise and more exercise before sundown.
I hadn’t seen my own face since I arrived and I could feel my beard stick out more than I liked. It itched constantly.
I was lying down on the cold cement bed when the guy next door shouted at me in a hushed hoarse voice.
“Hey…you, next door…!”
I looked through the iron bars, but all I could see was the guy’s hand holding a brown paper bag between the bars.
“Here…grab this…you must be hungry. It’s chicken…my wife brought it for me.”
“Do you have anything to drink?” he asked.
“No man, I don’t have anything.”
The man passed me a carton of orange juice and some clear plastic bags filled with water.
“If you need anymore, let me know.”
“Thank you, man. I appreciate it. What’s your name?”
“They call me Barahona. What’s yours?”
“They call me Cuba.” I didn’t want to give him too much information.
“The only thing I can tell you is that these mother-fuckers are vicious. Try not to talk too much. I recommend you get a good lawyer. The sentences here are stiff as nails.”
“But they didn’t get me with any drugs.”
“It doesn’t matter, they’ll make sure they fuck you up. How much are they trying to pin on you?”
“Fifty kilos.”
“Man. You’re talking at least 20 years.”
My legs got weak and I started to tremble. The mere thought of spending a good part of my life in that hell hole, really shook me up.
Since that day forward, Barahona and I became good friends. He proved to be a wonderful companion and savior in some ways.
It is something I’ll never forget.
TONY ROCA THE AUTHOR 