Do The Time Standing On My Head

DO THE TIME STANDIN' ON MY HEAD

The best result of hearing a police siren when you are in jail is that you know they aren't after you. Of course then you must deal with the reality that your ass is incarcerated. Los Robles prison near Punteranes ,Costa Rica. I've resided in gray bar hotels in a few states back in the U.S. and had the hospitality of carceles y prisons in more country's than I'd like to admit. Taking all into consideration this place is better than most foreign prisons. And much better than San Sebastian prison near San Jose. 

So fucking hot here. My body melts into my plastic covered mattress. And sweat collects in the small indentations left by my arms, legs, head and ass. Tiny pools of persperation that evaporates much more quickly than I thought, being in a tropical location. The chant "offi agua offi" is constant and relentless. The officials or guards turn on the water in the cells twice a day without warning. It shoots out from a pipe in the wall with force. Theres a mad dash to pickup belongs from the floor. And we all scurry for plastic jugs and empty soda bottles to fill. The spewing water also serves as the shower. And I have been caught more than once all soaped up and the water gets shut off. Then I am forced to use my scavanged water I earlier saved in my two plastic bottles. The others laugh and comment with words the devoid of encouragement. They call me Carapicha ,Naco and Gringo Tonto.

Sharing the confines of this luxurious twelve foot by twelve foot cell with five other guests. Three Ticos one Nicaraguan or Nica as the Costa Ricans refer to them with contempt . PURA VIDA. There's a Honduran who is biggest man I've ever been associated with. I call him Lenny after Stienbecks character from "Of Mice and Men" Screaming and hollering fills the place , it's echoing loudly, banging off the walls. A fight has started, just another exhibiton for your entertainment. This time from what I can see appears to be some M13 Salvadoran boys mixing it up with Los Negroes de Limon. There's two guards on duty for eighty to one hundred inmates . They dont seem to be in any hurry to end the violence. 

It's near lunchtime and I'm fucking hungry . I traded my breakfast for an oppurtunity to make a call on a smuggled phone. Now lunch will be delayed or most likely never served do to the disturbance. 

The reason for my internment at this detention facility is a question I have yet to determine. I haven't robbed or assaulted anyone. And I have yet to commit murder which is now a feasible thought if lunch doesnt materialize. Costa Rica has very strict laws concerning the treatment of women. You can receive an all expenses paid vacation in one of their 7 luxurious prisons by just hollering at a woman in public. If you publicly humiliate her by calling her a whore, slut or bitch any derogatory expression, added time. Now strike or hit a Tica you just got yourself a mandatory 90 days internment. 

In my case, Vanessa was upset that I was displaying what she felt was more affection and attention to the other woman in our sexual threesome. She attempted to stab me with a pair of scissors that I luckily deflected. The strike hit my left arm and I received a gash on the lower part of that arm. After wrestling away the sewing dagger she continued with a screaming tirade and blows to my head and chest with my 7 iron. Kimberly finally assists in my defense disarming her. I was enragged but thwarted my anger from reacting with physical retaliation. Kimberly quickly dresses herself and makes a rapid exit holding her shoes in one hand and her $75 in the other. 

"Nos vamos mi amor" she says 

"Amor! You are her amor! How many other times have you fucked her? You carapicha! I saw how you were fucking her. You didnt want anything to do with me." Vanessa screamed. There's just no defense I was able present true or embellished that would aid my exoneration. 

The laceration on my arm was bleeding like an opened fire hydrant and I had developed another cut on the head from my golf club which was also bleeding immensely. She comes at me again with her fists that I stave off with my right arm striking her arms in defense.

"You hit me. Tu me golpeas! Quieres una guerra. Ok mi amor!." 

I wanted no part of a war or battle even a mild skirmish with her. I knew any confrontation would be one I was unable to win. 

"Mi corazon. Listen please I'm sorry if you..." 

I attempt to explain. Instead I hear her voice in the kitchen. 

"Hello give me the police. Hurry my husband is beating me and wont let me leave the house." She cries into the phone. 

Then she turns to me with the most evil grin I've ever observed and displays her middle finger as a victory salute. Within 15 minutes the Costa Rica Fuerza Publica arrive like hounds searching for a fox. I am in the bathroom attending my wounds when they encounter me. Without questions or explanation they take me into custody placing me in "ESPOSAS" the spanish word for handcuffs which ironically translates to "WIVES" in english. 

Understand, I am a guest in this garden of wonderment they call a country. Which i have learned to identify as actually a disguise for it's real identity, a jungle of indifference. I have no legal rights , I am not allowed a hearing with a Judge while she swears out her "DENUNCIA" complaint. Her explanation is only version that is presented.

I am first shipped off to the hospital which is actually a Circus of Disaster manned by clowns posing as Doctors. I wait for triage while bleeding out what I imagine is my entire body's blood supply, still in esposas. I'm without explanation for this phenomeon, but it is a common practice in every country in Central and South America I've visited or lived, that the residents have no sense of urgencey or posess any ability to address a situation with immedicey. There's expressions in Spanish pertaining to exigency, Apurate or Rapido but they're seldom expressed and rarely heard. After an hour and a half a doctor tends to my wounds.

I receive four stiches in my arm and seven in my head. Total of eleven, a number that's only advantageous in Craps and Blackjack. It supposely represents a spiritual visitor. 

My shirt and back are drenched in blood as well as my face but no attempt is made to clean away the crimson plasma that oozed from my lacerations. I am herded off in a Police Paddy Wagon for a 4 hour excursion to my new home here in Los Robles. 

Day 3 has come and gone without my manadatory hearing. The prosecuting attorney asks if I would like a representative from the United States Embassy. I answer "For what purpose?" 

When I was arrested once before for shooting an invader in my own home with a crossbow, I waited four days for my Embassy Liason. "Hope you can afford a good attorney?" He said 

That was the result of my assistance from the U.S. Embassy here. That bullshit you see in movies where the Embassy Liason shakes every tree and searchers under every rock and location for a resolution to your incarceration, is just that"BULLSHIT!" After all it is just a fucking Movie. 

The prison rumble diminishes as 40 to 50 Police dressed in riot gear enter the "POD" with shields, helmets and fucking gas. I make a dash to my plastic mat bed for a towel which I douse with water and tie tightly over my head and face. Lenny notices my defensive measure to lessen the impact of the gas and does the same. I lay back and hear cell doors being slammed closed and the screams of those being beaten by the Police with their wooden clubs and metal batons.

"I wonder what we would have had for lunch?" I mention to Lenny. 

"Dry chicken, overcooked rice and stale bread with warm Kool -Aid." He answers back 

"Sounds delicous!" I respond.

"I know, yo se." Lenny says. 

We both burst into a chorus of laughter as the chaos continues. 

COPYRIGHT 2017 

Word Count 1369