El
Humor de Gill Gevins
A Small Favor
by Gil Gevins - author of Puerto
Vallarta on 49 Brain Cells a Day.
Miguel was broke again, nothing
new, and in need of what he called a "small" favor. He had a
friend in jail, he said, in Guadalajara, who was desperately
depressed and threatening to commit suicide. "I
must go see him at once," Miguel declared, "and
I need a ride."
"A ride?" I said. "Amigo, that's a
five hour drive-each way."
"Yes," Miguel said, full of optimism, "if
we leave early in the morning, we can make it home
before dark."
I made a prolonged, disgusted
grunting sound, to which Miguel replied, "Great!
Fantastic! See you tomorrow at seven."
By noon the next day we were standing outside the
main gate of the Salinas de Gortari Federal Institute
for Social Rehabilitation and Public Security, on the
outskirts of Guadalajara.
The SGFISRPS, as it was known for short, was a thoroughly
impressive structure with high dun-colored walls, guard
towers and enough razor wire to maim an entire sub-continent.
Soon a taciturn fellow appeared who deposited us in
an office, where we stated our business to a full-figured
but friendly female official.
"He can go in," she told Miguel, pointing
at me, "but you can't."
"What do you mean?" Miguel shouted. "I'm
the one who's doing the visiting. He's just my ride."
"It's your clothes," the woman explained. "They
look just like the inmates' uniforms. We have strict
rules about this. No exceptions."
On the verge of hysteria, Miguel begged, wheedled
and argued, but all to no avail.
"Why don't you two exchange clothes," the
woman said, suppressing a smirk: I was half a head
taller than Miguel, and he outweighed me by ninety
pounds.
Miguel said, "You'll
have to go in my place."
"What? What are you talking
about? I don't even know the man."
"He's desperate for company," Miguel said. "Seeing
you will be better than nothing."
"Miguel, you're putting
me in a very awkward position. What did this guy
do anyway?"
"A misunderstanding," Miguel
mumbled.
Miguel informed the woman of our decision and she
had me fill out some forms, sign my name seven times
and empty my pockets. Thinking she was simply going
to inspect my belongings, I laid my keys and my wallet
on the counter.
"Take off your hat," she said. I handed
her my hat. "And your belt," she added, dumping
all of my stuff into a plastic bag.
"I'd prefer to keep my belt on," I said. "I'm
just a few months out of surgery and everything is
kind of loose on me, so."
"Please, take off your
belt."
Beltless, hatless, keyless
and walletless, I was ushered into a closet sized
room at the rear of the office. "Miguel,
what the hell should I tell your friend?"
"Just tell him you came in my place," Miguel
said, "and try to convince him that life is worth
living."
Inside the small chamber I
was gently frisked by an amiable guard and allowed
to pass through another door and up to another counter,
where a man handed me a small metal disk with some
numbers etched into it. "Whatever
you do," he said, "don't give this to anyone.
Without it, you won't be allowed to leave the prison."
"You're joking," I
said.
"This is a maximum security prison," the
guard said. "We don't joke."
Squeezing the metal disk with all of my strength,
I followed the guard through a series of metal gates
and doors (all of which were locked behind us), deeper
and deeper into the bowels of the prison. At yet another
small desk, manned by a former female shot-put champion,
I was asked to present the disk.
Reluctantly, I opened my fist and displayed the chunk
of metal.
"Please give it to me," she
said, holding out her hand.
Thinking that this had to
be some kind of test, I said, "No way. I give
this disk to no one."
"They meant the inmates, not me, sir," she
said. "I need to write down the numbers."
"I'll read them to you."
Suddenly she reached out and grabbed my hand. A short
tug-of-war ensued, which I quickly lost.
This is one strong matron,
I thought to myself, as I prepared to shed blood,
if necessary, in order to regain sole possession
of the disk. After recording the numbers in a ledger,
however, she simply handed it back. "Whatever you do," she counseled
me in her Master Sergeant's voice, "don't give
that disk to anyone!"
A new guard led me down a
long hallway. At the end was one final door, which
he clanged shut ominously behind me. "You have one hour," he
said.
And there was Carlos, a small, thin man in his late
thirties. He certainly looked unhappy, but even more,
he looked surprised.
"Who the hell are you?" he
asked.
"I'm a friend of Miguel's," I said nervously. "They
wouldn't let him in because he was wearing the wrong
clothes. And we're, you know, kind of different sizes,
so we couldn't.you know.so, he, uh, sent me in his
place."
"He sent you in his place?" Carlos
asked disbelievingly.
"Yes," I said without
enthusiasm.
Needless to say, everything to do with my current
circumstances was making me increasingly uncomfortable:
being locked inside a prison, my loose pants (which
were indeed on the verge of slipping over my hips and
falling to the floor); the likelihood of losing the
mythic metal disk; and, last but not least, being alone
in this room with a convicted whatever, who I was somehow
supposed to talk out of committing suicide.
"I'm supposed to, you know, try to make you feel
better," I said lamely.
Carlos digested this for a
few moments and then cast an eye at the room's only
furnishing, a small cot built into the wall. "Okay," he said finally, a
strange predatory look clouding his eyes, "let's
get started." So saying, he began to unfasten
his pants.
On the instant I swore to myself a solemn oath: if
and when I escaped from the SGFISRPS, my first voluntary
act would be a phone call to Miguel's wife. The miserable
worm had actually sent me on a conjugal visit!
Grabbing the loose waist of my pants in my free fist
(the one not clutching the disk), I yanked them up
and held on for all I was worth.
"Whoa Carlos!" I said, backing slowly towards
the door, "we seem to have a small misunderstanding
here."
"What do you mean?" he
asked, a tad more intensely than I would have liked.
"What I mean is. uh. Time's
up! Guard! Time's up!"
Gil Gevins
lucycucu@pvnet.com.mx
Gil Gevins is the author of the hilarious books,
PUERTO VALLARTA ON 49 BRAIN CELLS A DAY and REFRIED
BRAINS available over the internet at http://www.gilgevins.com Archives
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