You hear a bit of everything at a barbershop; even religion and politics are fair game.
While a brown-skinned man waits for his turn in the chair, he buys a Coke from the vintage soda machine. The owner, Scottie still sells them in glass bottles for fifty cents.
Juan immigrated from Mexico with his family when he was six years old, because his father feared the warring drug cartels that threatened their mountain village.
Dad found work in construction, and his son first joined him on a job site when he was only sixteen years old.
Two years later, Juan’s dad was killed in a tragic accident. Juan then became the sole provider for his mother, who spoke little English.
Thankfully the young man flourished. Setting rebar and pouring concrete in the blazing sun became like walking and breathing.
Yet, he was often wary. Federal agents might come at any moment, detaining those who couldn’t prove they were United States citizens. All Juan can prove is that he’s a survivor.
Back at the barbershop, he finishes his Coke, while a man in the barber chair talks about “real” Americans. Juan doesn’t react, but inside he smiles. “It’s real to me.”
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Flash Fiction by David 
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