Prison is dangerous. That’s especially true of the crowded dayroom in the moments before the guards unlock our cell doors. With all those guys standing in close proximity, anything can pop off.

So, when my buddy Cuba suddenly stopped talking and stared at me, as if through me, I got a bit nervous. 

He had just been telling me about a funny incident that took place at his job in the kitchen. A co-worker had been caught stealing over 10 pounds of raw meat by shoving the meat in a plastic bag and then into his jacket sleeve. The story itself wasn’t funny per se, but the way Cuba told it sure was. 

Cuba is tiny: just over 5 feet tall and about 110 pounds. He looks like Mr. Magoo. He has a strong Cuban accent and a bubbly personality. All of that I found particularly funny that day. He made me laugh so hard that I impulsively gave him a slight hug, just for a second or two, before backing in to continue laughing.

That’s when I noticed something odd. 

“What’s wrong?” I asked. 

Concerned there was a fight behind me, I quickly turned and scanned the scene. Everything seemed OK. The place was packed with inmates waiting for the cells to be unlocked, but there were no fights or signs of tension.

“Nothing,” Cuba said. His face had gone blank. 

I still had some laughter to unleash. But my little friend remained frozen, staring through me. 

I scanned the dayroom behind me again, slightly worried that I might be in danger myself. I paid special attention to people’s hands (for weapons), and also to eyes and faces (for signs of shiftiness or nervousness).

Still, nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. 

“What’s wrong, Cuba? You’re making me nervous.”

“Nothing,” he said. But he would not look at me. He was still staring straight toward the wall. I moved to his left side to try and see what he was seeing. 

Cuba was in his 60s. I worried he was having a stroke. So I asked him, “Are you OK?” 

He nodded yes, but remained a statue. 

“Cuba! I’m concerned. You’re getting me nervous. Please tell me. What’s wrong?” 

After a few seconds, he looked at me and, in a very soft and broken tone of voice, said: “Biktor, I’ve been locked up for over 23 years, and this is the first time someone has ever hugged me.” 

Now I was frozen, speechless.

From that day on, I hugged Cuba every time I saw him.