by Gavin Garza
They rent out the panadería’s backhouse for $950 a month—high school sweethearts, newly engaged, and recently graduated. Every morning they wake up to the panadero loading his van with conchas, polvorónes, and marranitos. The racks smell of Crisco and burnt bottoms. His wife runs the shop when he’s away, hangs a portrait of Zapata where she frosts. She checks on her tenants before they leave for work, gives each a day-old niño envuelto for the road. Johnny works packinghouse on weekdays, minor league wrestles on Sundays. Xochitl’s in community college to save money and takes the rural transit bus. The two say they believe he’s the next Eddie Guerrero.
He was bullied until senior year, and flunked every class except track and theater. Two Bulldogs younger yet taller than him used to kick his teeth in by the benches in the schoolyard. It was maybe the dozenth time being the circle’s center when Johnny realized he didn’t hate people’s reactions to seeing his blood.
So, he figured, if one can’t be loved, then why not be the topic of conversation?
Johnny works packinghouse on weekdays, minor league wrestles on Sundays. Xochitl’s in community college to save money and takes the rural transit bus.
Johnny wrestles at the Rainbow Ballroom, self-taught, shirtless in patched jeans and a flannel tied around his waist. Sometimes, when someone hasn’t thrown a chair into the ring, he gets put through tables. The crowd loves how he sells pain. The locker room loves that he’s safe to work with. His gimmick alters every month or so. He’s only eighteen but thinks he’s grunge right now; his walk-on song is “Loser” by Beck.
Xochitl hasn’t gone to see a match since Johnny brought out thumbtacks, blaming her absence on evening mass. She prays the rosary on the bus for a comfortable wage and her future family. It’s her second semester in Pre-Allied Health. Today she meets with a counselor between Human Anatomy and lunch to discuss transfer requirements and future residencies. Xochitl knows she’ll be asked to think about personal statements, so she outlines as she prays. The bus swerves and exhales smoke around glass in the road. Her parents worked raisins to put her through college—both are in remission now. She prays for a healthy family.
She thinks she can save him. He likes that she’s religious. Both cry after sex.
She thinks she can save him. He likes that she’s religious. Both cry after sex. On Mondays, they watch Raw with chicken-flavored ramen and red chicharrones. On Fridays, their neighbors hand them plates of mashed potatoes and T-bone over the fence just before SmackDown. They watch what she watches every other night. Lately, she’s been into New Girl and Vecinos. Catholic Jesus hangs by his hands over the television. He rubs the knots from her shoulders with his good thumb as she sleeps. She’s scared to dream of the pinholes in his back.
“Fresno: Eros” by Gavin Garza appeared in Issue 45 of Berkeley Fiction Review.
Gavin Garza was raised in the Institute of Basic Life Principles, a Christian cult. Today, he is a Best of the Net nominated Chicano poet who stays rooted to Fresno, California. Garza’s work has appeared in One Art, MudRoom, The Acentos Review, and several more.
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