Chapter Text
"And you'll call me when you first get the chance?"
"Yes papa—“ that phrase leaving his lips at an increasing rate each day that draws closer to January 4, 2002, his report date.
Domingo shoots him a sympathetic stare.
"Papa can you sit still for one second?" His father’s running around, calling the bank and Nacho's landlord, trying to get his affairs in order but he knows it’s to distract himself from his only son going to prison, just like he did when his mom got sick.
It's almost noon and they need to leave soon. Manuel wanted to drive him to the prison himself, be the one to drop him at the gates of Southern New Mexico Correctional Facility or SNMCF. Prison.
It’s a miracle he got bail. It’s a miracle he was allowed to report on his own after sentencing. It’s a miracle he got the minimum, 2 to 5 years for possession with intent to distribute across state lines. At least that's what his lawyer said in the meeting room after sentencing while running between court rooms and chugging cups of coffee. His dad found him through some referral service, a public defender type. He thinks he got a deal on him because his brother is a big law lawyer. "Mijo, intelligence runs in the family" he kept saying, but honestly, he thinks he got off easy because of 9/11. Too many Muslims and Sikhs to arrest and torture to care about another Latino kid caught dealing drugs.
Prison was never out of the question. But not so soon. And not federal prison. Ignacio Varga, a felon. He’s only 24 years old. Tuco had just given him his own crew a year ago. Him, Domingo, Cesar and a white kid named Bo. Tuco was having him run shit a lot more recently—counts, cracking heads. He even brought him to a meeting with his uncle last week.
Tuco said this isn't a big deal; that he wasn't mad; that he thinks someone set him up. Nacho knows it was probably just bad luck that landed him at the wrong place at the wrong time, when the feds set up a check point and he was on a run. As long as he didn't roll and got out quickly he could get his job back when he was released.
Mingo passed along a message from Tuco in the morning, while his dad was on the phone with the lawyer. The message didn't make sense, Mingo said he was pretty fucked up when he called him. "Tell him that my cousin is at the prison. Tell him to drop my name. Luco." Luco? Like Tuco? Their parents named them Tuco and Luco? Fucking weird family.
"Okay mijo lets go." His dad puts the phone down and looks hard at Nacho, seems to want to start crying but quickly looks away. Nacho takes that as a signal that he’s on thin ice emotionally and knows that if he stays quiet they can get through this. He doesn't want to spend their last moments together watching him process his failure.
Nacho has no intention to fuck up again. He's not going to stop dealing but he's never going to make a mistake again. He knows this.
He chose a simple outfit. Jeans and a black t-shirt. Who knows how fashion will change in two years when he puts it back on.
He keeps saying two years because he thinks if he says it and thinks it enough, it will happen. Nacho can follow the rules. He didn't get in trouble that much in school. Only for skipping, but he never cheated and he never got in fights on school grounds. He didn't deal drugs until he graduated. And his grades were shit but that's only because he didn't try, not because he wasn't smart.
Mingo kept trying to tell him that federal prison was cushier than normal prison, but he knows he’s just trying to make him feel better, like he always does. Mingo has that way of viewing the world that makes Nacho want to bubble wrap him and protect him like a little bird. The only reason he let him deal drugs was because he knows his family needs the money. And because he would be there to protect him. Nacho sucks his teeth in and shakes his head. Honestly, aside from the boredom and criminal record, his biggest worry is how Mingo will fare without him. His father said he would let Mingo work shifts at the shop since he'll need the help but that won't keep Tuco from demanding his share. He tries to keep these thoughts at bay and focus on the moment.
In-processing. He can do this. This is the hardest part. He knows this from spending summers at sleep away camp when his family could still afford that. He always got so homesick the first night, almost made the counselor send him home, but something inside him said to wait it out; that tomorrow he would feel better. He was 8. He's never known where the voice comes from. The one that grounds him. The one that keeps him from acting on his emotions. His mother always said he was an old soul. He thinks she just meant that he wasn't impulsive like the other boys.
He's reading meditations—well he's trying to read meditations. Live in the moment. Don't worry about the future.
They reach the prison without much talking. His father hugs him and then turns away quickly and gets in the car. There's nowhere else for him to go. It's 3:50 and his report time is 4:00pm. Right on time, like a man who opens his shop everyday at 6:00 am sharp.
He breathes. The guard sitting in the atrium looks at him, uninterested. It’s all so anticlimactic, like he's heading to a dentist appointment.
He reaches for the door. He won't step outside again for at least two years.
Bye papa. He doesn't look back.