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Description
“Sso waitaminute. You'ere inna gang then? How'd that happen?”
It was six drinks and nearly and hour later before either of them felt comfortable enough-- or rather, sloshed enough-- to pursue the questions weighing on their minds. Unfortunately, by this point, the questions were becoming rather difficult to pose.
“He said to me, 'chico, bienvenido al fondo del agua.' And there was some yelling on my part. I think I was hungry.”
“Clé,” Nelly suppressed a fit of giggles, “That don' make sense, and y'arent speakin' English anymore. Start over.”
“Okay...” Clé stared hard at the far wall as if it might tell him where to start the story. He turned and drained the last of his glass, then motioned for the bartender to give him another. “Okay. They put me on a train to Fetterman Penitentiary. After they arrested me. I don't really remember that much, grâce à Dieu. Except I was friggin' scared and hungry.”
Nelly nodded slowly, as if her continued listening might advance the story along smoothly. It didn't.

Tell you what: nevermind. I'll spare you the slurred words and dodgy time lines particular to this barside story telling. The story goes as thus.

Clé met Morelos Ayala for the first time upon being shoved into a cell after arriving at Fetterman Penitentiary. This event marked the end of a three-day succession of thirst, hunger, fear, anger, humiliation, and burgeoning apathy that seized him from his home and dropped him into his new life as a convict.
Just inside the cell, Clé's muscles responded listlessly as he leaned into the cool grey wall nearest him and collapsed against its sorry embrace. Only his eyes remained vigilant-- the only clue that he was still alive at all. They took in everything: the grimy concrete forming each surface that worked to close him in; the two iron bunks furnished with poor mattresses and poorer blankets; the wash basin and pit toilet opposite these; the cabinet populated by colorful trinkets and icons, among other unidentifiable items; the mustachioed man who bantered with the guard and regarded Clé with a curiosity thinly masked by satisfied nonchalance.
“Who do you think I am, the undertaker?” The man called to the guard, tilting his head towards Clé. “I can turn a man into a corpse, but I can't do much with them after that.”
“Figured we'd save you the hassle, this time,” the guard snickered. “Well, watch out for this one, anyway. Heard he was causing trouble most the way up here. And he came a long way for it.”

If Clé were sober right now, he would tell you that since his arrest, he had begun to feel like he stood on a ridge between his old life and an insane abyss, one that grew ever greater and drew him closer to the ledge as he slid deeper into the prison. It seemed to be that the further he went, the smaller his world became; the smaller his world became, the more he struggled to hold onto every single piece.

The mustachioed introduced himself as Morelos Ayala, a name unlike Clé had ever heard. He tried to make conversation, slowly softening his words while Clé did nothing more than stare back. Eventually he gave up, and went about arranging things on his shelf. Soon, the guards opened the locks to escort the prisoners to supper, and Clé slipped backwards in the line, far away eyes that might pay him any attention. In the mess hall, Clé sat alone at a small table with broken benches, pushed away into a corner of the room. He kept his back to the wall, watching both the doors and Ayala intently.
But once he began to eat, his vigilance was lost. He suddenly realized how wasted he felt, how weak and worthless his muscles and tendons had become while passing into this world. He felt just how heavy his depression had been as it began to lift itself. The tasteless food was like a small, sick salvation, a bitter medicine that cured his disease while reminding him just how ill he had been in the first place.
His attention was so strictly and suddenly internal that he did not even notice the large, tattooed man approach and sit across the table.
“Little kid like you doesn't need all that food, now do ya? I think you'd better let me help you with that,” the man said in a voice that swore sincerity with its fingers crossed. He reached for one of the unidentifiable items on Clé's plate.
Startled by the intrusion, Clé batted the man's hand away and retorted, “fuck off.”
The man grabbed Clé by the front of his shirt and lifted him from his seat, drawing back his fist to make a punch that would surely knock the living daylights out of a grizzly bear. Clé tried to shield himself and prepared for the worst.
“Back off. The kid's mine.” Clé looked around and found himself and the offending prisoner to be surrounded by Morelos Ayala and fifteen of his men, a few of whom appeared, impossibly, to be twice the size of Clé's attacker. The man lowered Clé slowly and left the table without a whisper. Ayala picked up Clé's plate and escorted him to a vacant spot beside his own. Clé, overwhelmed and indignant, began to protest loudly.
Ayala barked, “¡Cállate!” and smacked Clé upside the head, not hard, but in such a way that Clé quieted himself and sat down. Ayala, with a wave of his hand, called the attention of all at the table. “Oye, hermanos, this here is Clé.” Murmurs of “hola” and “¿qué pasa? ” sprouted across the table.
The other inmates, watching these exchanges carefully, took Ayala's actions to mean he was claiming Clé as his punk, trading him protection for favors of any kind. But this was a misjudgment. Ayala was recruiting Clé to the gang.

Later in the cell, alone with Ayala, Clé let loose. He began shouting, throwing everything he could find that was not bolted down: bits of concrete, pillows, blankets, his shoes, even the shirt off his back. Ayala carefully blocked Clé from the cabinet of trinkets, and with a veil of calm, quietly waited out the storm.
“Chico, how far are you from home?”
Clé went quiet, and sunk to the edge of Ayala's bed. He shook his head slowly. “I was on that train so long, I don't even know where the fuck we are.”
“Then where's your family?” Ayala sat on a chair across from Clé, keeping his eyes at the same level.
“By now...” Clé bit hard on the inside of his cheek and turned his thoughts over. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
Ayala was quiet, then reached around, pulled a trinket from the cabinet and handed it to Clé. Clé turned it over in his hands: it was a small gilded carp.
“That was made over two thousand miles away, in my hometown, by my cousin. He gave it to me when we formed our guerrilla army and left to fight for the revolution. Maybe I'm lucky though, because I still have that, and I still have my men with me.
“If you are going to make it through here with your sanity and your life, you need a family. Here, my men are my brothers. Mis hermanos.”
“I don't have any brothers,” Clé handed the carp back to Ayala. “My family is all women.”
Ayala held the trinket carefully in the palm of his hand. “Then we will be your brothers. Welcome to El Fondo del Agua.”

Description
“Sso waitaminute. You'ere inna gang then? How'd that happen?”
It was six drinks and nearly and hour later before either of them felt comfortable enough-- or rather, sloshed enough-- to pursue the questions weighing on their minds. Unfortunately, by this point, the questions were becoming rather difficult to pose.
“He said to me, 'chico, bienvenido al fondo del agua.' And there was some yelling on my part. I think I was hungry.”
“Clé,” Nelly suppressed a fit of giggles, “That don' make sense, and y'arent speakin' English anymore. Start over.”
“Okay...” Clé stared hard at the far wall as if it might tell him where to start the story. He turned and drained the last of his glass, then motioned for the bartender to give him another. “Okay. They put me on a train to Fetterman Penitentiary. After they arrested me. I don't really remember that much, grâce à Dieu. Except I was friggin' scared and hungry.”
Nelly nodded slowly, as if her continued listening might advance the story along smoothly. It didn't.

Tell you what: nevermind. I'll spare you the slurred words and dodgy time lines particular to this barside story telling. The story goes as thus.

Clé met Morelos Ayala for the first time upon being shoved into a cell after arriving at Fetterman Penitentiary. This event marked the end of a three-day succession of thirst, hunger, fear, anger, humiliation, and burgeoning apathy that seized him from his home and dropped him into his new life as a convict.
Just inside the cell, Clé's muscles responded listlessly as he leaned into the cool grey wall nearest him and collapsed against its sorry embrace. Only his eyes remained vigilant-- the only clue that he was still alive at all. They took in everything: the grimy concrete forming each surface that worked to close him in; the two iron bunks furnished with poor mattresses and poorer blankets; the wash basin and pit toilet opposite these; the cabinet populated by colorful trinkets and icons, among other unidentifiable items; the mustachioed man who bantered with the guard and regarded Clé with a curiosity thinly masked by satisfied nonchalance.
“Who do you think I am, the undertaker?” The man called to the guard, tilting his head towards Clé. “I can turn a man into a corpse, but I can't do much with them after that.”
“Figured we'd save you the hassle, this time,” the guard snickered. “Well, watch out for this one, anyway. Heard he was causing trouble most the way up here. And he came a long way for it.”

If Clé were sober right now, he would tell you that since his arrest, he had begun to feel like he stood on a ridge between his old life and an insane abyss, one that grew ever greater and drew him closer to the ledge as he slid deeper into the prison. It seemed to be that the further he went, the smaller his world became; the smaller his world became, the more he struggled to hold onto every single piece.

The mustachioed introduced himself as Morelos Ayala, a name unlike Clé had ever heard. He tried to make conversation, slowly softening his words while Clé did nothing more than stare back. Eventually he gave up, and went about arranging things on his shelf. Soon, the guards opened the locks to escort the prisoners to supper, and Clé slipped backwards in the line, far away eyes that might pay him any attention. In the mess hall, Clé sat alone at a small table with broken benches, pushed away into a corner of the room. He kept his back to the wall, watching both the doors and Ayala intently.
But once he began to eat, his vigilance was lost. He suddenly realized how wasted he felt, how weak and worthless his muscles and tendons had become while passing into this world. He felt just how heavy his depression had been as it began to lift itself. The tasteless food was like a small, sick salvation, a bitter medicine that cured his disease while reminding him just how ill he had been in the first place.
His attention was so strictly and suddenly internal that he did not even notice the large, tattooed man approach and sit across the table.
“Little kid like you doesn't need all that food, now do ya? I think you'd better let me help you with that,” the man said in a voice that swore sincerity with its fingers crossed. He reached for one of the unidentifiable items on Clé's plate.
Startled by the intrusion, Clé batted the man's hand away and retorted, “fuck off.”
The man grabbed Clé by the front of his shirt and lifted him from his seat, drawing back his fist to make a punch that would surely knock the living daylights out of a grizzly bear. Clé tried to shield himself and prepared for the worst.
“Back off. The kid's mine.” Clé looked around and found himself and the offending prisoner to be surrounded by Morelos Ayala and fifteen of his men, a few of whom appeared, impossibly, to be twice the size of Clé's attacker. The man lowered Clé slowly and left the table without a whisper. Ayala picked up Clé's plate and escorted him to a vacant spot beside his own. Clé, overwhelmed and indignant, began to protest loudly.
Ayala barked, “¡Cállate!” and smacked Clé upside the head, not hard, but in such a way that Clé quieted himself and sat down. Ayala, with a wave of his hand, called the attention of all at the table. “Oye, hermanos, this here is Clé.” Murmurs of “hola” and “¿qué pasa? ” sprouted across the table.
The other inmates, watching these exchanges carefully, took Ayala's actions to mean he was claiming Clé as his punk, trading him protection for favors of any kind. But this was a misjudgment. Ayala was recruiting Clé to the gang.

Later in the cell, alone with Ayala, Clé let loose. He began shouting, throwing everything he could find that was not bolted down: bits of concrete, pillows, blankets, his shoes, even the shirt off his back. Ayala carefully blocked Clé from the cabinet of trinkets, and with a veil of calm, quietly waited out the storm.
“Chico, how far are you from home?”
Clé went quiet, and sunk to the edge of Ayala's bed. He shook his head slowly. “I was on that train so long, I don't even know where the fuck we are.”
“Then where's your family?” Ayala sat on a chair across from Clé, keeping his eyes at the same level.
“By now...” Clé bit hard on the inside of his cheek and turned his thoughts over. “What the hell am I supposed to do now?”
Ayala was quiet, then reached around, pulled a trinket from the cabinet and handed it to Clé. Clé turned it over in his hands: it was a small gilded carp.
“That was made over two thousand miles away, in my hometown, by my cousin. He gave it to me when we formed our guerrilla army and left to fight for the revolution. Maybe I'm lucky though, because I still have that, and I still have my men with me.
“If you are going to make it through here with your sanity and your life, you need a family. Here, my men are my brothers. Mis hermanos.”
“I don't have any brothers,” Clé handed the carp back to Ayala. “My family is all women.”
Ayala held the trinket carefully in the palm of his hand. “Then we will be your brothers. Welcome to El Fondo del Agua.”