It was another dark Tuesday morning. Once again, Juan arrived in the Vos de la Gente headquarters alley at four-thirty am.
The routine was for Juan to change into a postal worker’s uniform, climb into a waiting USPS delivery truck, drive to a pre-determined location, and wait.
There were several different locations, but the delivery generally took less than twenty minutes. Once safely back at the Voz de la Gente headquarters, Juan changed back into his street clothes, and the real mailman got his truck back.
Tio Pablo was waiting for him, “Good morning, Señor Torres!” Pablo bellowed the greeting through the inevitable haze of cigar smoke that seemed to cling to his uncle’s ponderous frame. His use of the honorific ‘Señor Torres,’ instead of just his first name, communicated to the whole crew that Juan was a man of importance. Perhaps destined one day to run the whole operation. Pablo was getting his crew accustomed to the idea.
Juan was getting accustomed to it, too. He used to feel uneasy as Pablo counted out the hundred-dollar bills into his palm, but now he rather enjoyed the routine. I deserve this, he thought. I’m the one taking all the risks.
“We’re getting a good price on tortillas,” Pablo guffawed. “Business is very good!”
Juan never counted the money Pablo handed him, at least not while anyone was watching. There will be plenty of time for that later, he thought. Pablo usually paid him thousands of dollars per delivery. Why not? I’m hauling millions of dollars in ballots for him.
Later, after the crew left and there was no one to impress, Juan and Pablo shared their customary tequila shots.
Pablo was trying to explain the ‘family business’ when Juan interrupted with a question. “How are we going to get Joe Biden elected again? I mean, he’s not doing too good. Anybody can see that.”
Pablo blew out a puff of smoke, “There’s no way Biden makes it, sobrino,” he confided.
“What are you talking about?” Pablo objected. “What have we been doing all this work for if he’s not gonna win?”
Pablo scratched his chin. He seemed to be looking at something far away. “I’ve never seen an election like this one,” he said. The Independent candidate, RFK Junior, is pulling too many votes away from Biden.”
“So, the Democrats are gonna lose?” Juan asked. He was still trying to figure out the complexities of US elections.
Pablo shook his head, “I only said Biden wouldn’t make it. It’s not too late for the Democrats to choose someone else.”
Juan took a sip of tequila and sat silently for a long time, considering the angles. “But I thought Biden already won the Democratic primary,” he was trying to put the puzzle pieces together. “So, how could they get someone else?”
“Ah,” Pablo indicated to Juan to refill his cup. “That’s because the Democrats have something called superdelegates. These cabróns don’t have to select the hombre who wins the primary. They can select anybody they want during the Democratic National Convention.”
Juan shook his head. “I think I’ve got to go home now, uncle,” he said. “This is all too confusing.”
Pablo gave one of his rumbling belly laughs, “Don’t worry, sobrino.” He slapped Juan good naturedly on the shoulder. “Our side knows all the tricks. Joe Biden may not become President, but believe me when I say the next President will be a Democrat!”