The violent outburst disoriented Juan. “Customers, OK. I got it.”
Pablo leaned back in his chair, taking a big drag from his cigar before folding his arms across his chest. He seemed to be studying Juan, who squirmed uneasily. “I’ve been in this business for over thirty years,” he said at last. “And I’ve never been caught. You know why?”
“Why?”
Pablo flicked a long ash from his cigar, “Because I’m clever, OK?”
Juan nodded.
“Do you still think this is all about getting this or that politician elected?” Pablo held both arms out and waved them towards the warehouse hall. About Republicans and Democrats?”
“Yeah,” Juan replied, forgetting to say, “Yes, Sir.” He was getting sick of lectures and angry at getting slapped. “You told me I’m different, that I’m smart. You said it was because I’m a true believer. Well, I am! I told you I’d do anything to get Joe Biden elected. I feel the same about Kamala Harris, not that she's the nominee. That’s why I’m here.”
Pablo’s deep, rumbling laughter seemed to fill the room. “OK, I said that,” he confessed. But tell me something: Who do you think pays for all of this? Who do you think my connection is?”
Juan squinted his eyes, is this a trick question? He didn’t wish to appear ignorant in front of his uncle, but he didn’t want to appear weak, either. So, he guessed, “Somebody big at the Democratic National Committee?”
Pablo rocked his head back and forth, saying, “Well, maybe a little bit yes and a little bit no.”
“What do you mean?”
“Juan,” Pablo pointed his open hand, knife-edge, straight at his nephew’s face. “You are el soldado,” he said, meaning ‘a soldier.’ “I am ‘el señor de la guerra,” he announced dramatically, ‘the warlord.’ When these businesspeople need to get something done, they come to see me. Maybe they need a permit, or some legislation to pass, or just a simple loan. Whatever they need, they come to me. So, let me ask you, do you think it’s just the Republicans that come to see Tio Pablo?”
Juan considered this. “Are you saying that Democrat businessmen come to see you too?”
Again, Pablo’s rumbling laughter issued forth. “Some of the biggest purchasers of our tortillas come from the Democratic Party!”
It felt like Juan’s world was reeling. “Why?” He almost pleaded. “Why would Democrats pay for any of this?”
Pablo put his hand on Juan’s shoulder, “Don’t feel so bad, sobrino,” he said. “They don’t always pay. They usually just look the other way and let us do our business.”
“But why!?”
Pablo’s grip on Juan tightened, and he drew his face close to look deep into his eyes. “Because they like the way things are now. They don’t want change. They don’t care about beating the other party or even about passing laws. All they care about is keeping their community, our community, in line. That way, they keep the jobs they have. Do you understand?”
I’ve been so dumb, Juan’s heart sank. Now, his idealistic notions about improving his community just seemed childish.
Pablo witnessed Juan’s loss of political innocence. “Good,” he grunted when he was satisfied the transformation was complete. Now, tell me what you’ve learned.”
Juan glowered into the old man’s eyes. His stare was now just as pitiless as Pablo’s. “I’ve learned this is all just a game.”