Juan was quiet for a long time. When he was at home, he had a role to play. He was the head of the house, the decision-maker. But he’d grown up with Roberto. They’d worked the same jobs together back in Mexico. When Juan first came to the United States, Roberto supported him until he got on his feet. Roberto was one of the few people on earth Juan could confide in.
“All my life, all I’ve ever done was work,” Juan looked down at the can in his hands. He absently swirled the contents around. “Now, I feel like I’m losing everything that’s really important to me. It’s getting bad.”
Roberto came around and placed a reassuring hand on Juan’s shoulder. “Yeah, sometimes I feel that way too.” For once, Roberto dropped the bombastic act and spoke to his brother from his heart. “It always seems like the scales are tipped in favor of the corrupt and morally bankrupt.”
Juan looked up. Roberto held up a bottle of Modelo, rocking it gently, silently asking if Juan’s was empty and if he wanted another. Juan declined with a shake of his head, returning his gaze to the can he was holding.
“Let’s get some music going!” Roberto tried to change the somber mood. “Look, hermano,” he said over his shoulder as he walked towards the speaker. “Nothing ever stops the Torres men! We’ve been through a lot worse times than this. It’s gonna be OK.”
Juan smiled as the first strains of “La Valentina” began to crackle from the speaker. The song told the story of a courageous and valiant soldier named Valentina Ramirez.
Juan held up his can, indicating he was ready for another. “Sometimes I just wonder if any of those politicians understand what it’s like for working men like us.”
“Trump just won the Republican Primary. He understands,” Roberto screwed up his face in concentration. “He’s a fighter. They’ve thrown everything they’ve got at him, but still he fights. No one but him could take on those pinche cabróns and win.”
“It’s true.” Juan shook his head slowly. “We need him.”
Roberto nodded and popped the bottle cap off his Modelo with his bare hands.
“Do you really think Trump is a good leader?” Juan stretched out as he leaned back in his chair, one hand moving to massage the crown of his head. “I mean, I support him. How can anyone face all the impeachments, lawsuits, and fake news?”
Roberto returned to his chair. It creaked, protesting loudly as he settled his great bulk in it. “He’s not superhuman,” he also leaned back, stretching out his legs. “But I think Trump understands that his opponents are muy estupido. They may be evil and rich, but they’re not too smart. They think guys like us can’t see what they’re doing.”
The two men clinked their beers together, “Salud!”
“Yeah…” Juan mused aloud.
“Yeah, what?” Roberto asked.
“Oh, I’m just thinking that politics is messy,” Juan’s gaze was focused into the distance. “But we’ve got to have hope, right?”