Unfamous Men

By Jeff Gomez

A new retelling of the classic novel

Inspired by Of Mice and Men, John Steinbeck's timeless tale of Depression-era friendship, Unfamous Men chronicles a different group of doomed dreamers: Mexican fruit pickers in Southern California in the years following World War II. 

Tomás, a sma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harrow Books
• Release date: Nov 12, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733112819

Jeff Gomez

Jeff Gomez is the author of five books. He lives in California.  

Book preview

Harrow Books Logo

Harrow Books

© 2019 Jeff Gomez

ISBN: 978-1-7331128-0-2 (print)

ISBN: 978-1-7331128-1-9 (ebook)

unfamousmen.com

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To Luis Gonzales Gomez

(1909–1995)

This is a story of misfortune. Or so it would seem. The end is not yet told.

—Cormac McCarthy, The Crossing

The car stopped at the edge of Saticoy. Two men got out. The first was short and dark-skinned, with high cheekbones and eyes so brown they looked black. He hopped quickly out of the passenger side of the front seat, a brown paper bag under his arm. He stepped onto the running board before hitting the road. The second man had lighter skin and was nearly double the size of his friend. He took up most of the back seat of the beat-up, navy-blue ’36 Plymouth. The car tilted when he got out. The smaller man thanked the driver and watched as the car continued to its destination.

The two men turned to face the small town. It held a church, hardware store, post office, bank, three grocery stores, and four bars. A set of train tracks led to a small wooden depot and platform. Side streets were dotted with small one- and two-bedroom houses, some of them not more than shacks. In the backyards were cheaply built lean-tos for boarders, Mexicans who worked in the fields. In front of a row of Quonset huts built at the start of the war, an elderly woman swept dust off the hard-packed dirt of her front yard. Telephone poles placed around the town made a cat’s cradle of wires above the buildings. Black power lines stretched down to each house and business. Shiny new TV antennas reflected the late-afternoon sun.

The larger man looked up, as if finally realizing that he was no longer inside the car. His head was nearly shaven, which, when he stood up straight, made him look like a missile. He pointed toward the town. But the smaller man, who had jet-black hair combed straight back, shook his head and began to walk in the opposite direction, toward the Santa Clara River. The larger man followed.

He stared at the ground as he walked, eyes down and chin placed firmly on his chest. His arms were raised slightly, his huge hands joined and suspended in front of his belly, fingers interlocked. His steps were short, despite his long legs. The smaller man, his own legs slightly bowed, moved with a nervous bounce. His arms held the paper bag close to his side, as if he were afraid someone was going to come by and take it, even though the streets were empty.

Their clothes were ordinary and mostly clean. Jeans, white shirts, denim jackets, and black boots turned brown from walking through the lettuce field that morning. They were without luggage, and except for the brown bag held by the smaller man, they had no possessions of any kind. They didn’t even have hats, even though it’d been a hot day, unseasonably warm for March in California.

As the two men hiked down to the water’s edge, sycamores and live oaks gave shade to sagebrush and cactus. The sandy, gravelly riverbed was visible through the clear, running water. Further downstream, willow and poplar trees could be seen beyond a row of low shrubbery, the river winding toward where it emptied into the sea near the harbor in Ventura.

The men entered a clearing that had a large expanse of blond sand surrounded by a ring of pepper trees. As they stood there, the smaller man barked, Well, Juanito, you might as well sit down. This is going to be our bed for the night.

The larger man lowered himself onto the bank of the river. Sand pushed out all around him. The smaller man at first only squatted, restless, not wanting to commit. But he, too—without any other real option—finally sat down with a huff. He placed the brown paper bag near a bush and began picking up pebbles, throwing them expertly into the water. For a few minutes, the splash of the skipping stones was the only sound.

Tomás? The larger man’s voice was small and childlike. His face, with rolls of fat at his neck, along with a large forehead made him look like a giant infant. Only the stubble on his chin and the sideburns hanging below his short hair gave any hint as to his real age. "I’m hungry."

Tomás didn’t reply. He just kept on picking up pebbles and throwing them into the river. He tried to force Juanito’s presence, as well as their current situation, out of his mind. He focused instead on the rushing water. He thought back to his days in the US Navy. He’d spent as much time as possible looking over the deck of his cruiser, staring down at the churning water and imagining the worlds that lived in the depths beneath the surface.

Tomás? Juanito repeated.

Look, I know you’re hungry, he snapped. I’m hungry, too. How could I not be? We haven’t eaten since breakfast. Tomás looked at the darkening sky. And all we’ve got for dinner is what that guy just gave us. But I’m warning you, it’s not going to be much.

Juanito looked around, examining his surroundings. He touched the sand, as if to make sure it was real. He then looked over his shoulder, at the path that had led them from the road to the river.

Why didn’t we get anything to eat in town?

I told you before, Juanito, said Tomás, his voice scolding, we don’t have any money.

Juanito considered this. It always took a long time for his thoughts to form. What happened to the money my aunt left me?

Tomás replied, his voice full of innocence, What are you talking about?

They gave it to you because I couldn’t be trusted. A breeze momentarily distracted Juanito as he looked from tree to tree to see the waving of the branches. When the wind stopped, his thought was almost gone with it. He was about to ask again about food when he remembered. The money, Tomás. They gave it to you. For me. For both of us. So we could go see my uncle in Los Angeles. That’s what we’re doing, right?

Before answering, Tomás took something out of his jacket pocket and played with it in his hand, nervously. That was the plan, yes.

So, what happened? Why aren’t we there?

We got . . . sidetracked, Tomás answered, reluctantly. But we’ll get there, don’t you worry.

Juanito turned toward the town and clutched his stomach. I’m hungry, Tomás. I need something to eat.

I can give you what we have now, Juanito. But once it’s gone, it’s gone. Tomás looked through the canopy of trees to the sky, trying to judge how long it’d be before it was completely dark. We might as well save it for a bit. Try to make it last.

Juanito thought about this for a few seconds. He had another thought about the food, but it escaped and was replaced by another. We left before getting paid.

What? Tomás said. You know I can’t hear you when you put your chin in your chest like that.

Our jobs, Juanito answered, looking up slightly. That ranch. Picking lettuce. We left before getting paid. Why?

At first, Tomás didn’t answer. But then he turned quickly and snapped, You want to pick lettuce for the rest of your life?

I want to be with my uncle.

I know, Juanito. I know.

I could be in bed right now, instead of sitting here on this sand. I could have had pie and cake and all kinds of good things for dinner. Instead, I’m out here in the cold with you.

Well, if you don’t like it, then maybe you should leave. Go out on your own, if you think you can make it to Los Angeles by yourself. Tomás pointed back toward the town. Hell, leave right now. Maybe you can hitch a ride and be there by midnight.

Juanito raised his head and looked toward Saticoy. You don’t think I could do it, but I could. Juanito tried to make his voice sound firm, but it wavered and was hardly above a whisper. His eyes were practically closed. And I should have, too. I’d have been there by now.

You think so? Tomás began to laugh. You’d have gotten on the wrong bus and ended up in Canada, you big fool. Or wound up dead in a ditch.

Juanito blinked. He didn’t know where Canada was, but figured maybe it was near Los Angeles and that might be close enough.

Of course, if you did go, Tomás said, sounding sinister, you’d have to explain what happened to all of his sister’s money you were supposed to bring him.

Juanito’s doughy face became gripped with fear. But I don’t have any of that money. You were in charge of it, and you lost it.

And that’s what I keep telling you. Tomás motioned to the trees and orchards and fields all around them. "That’s why we’re here. To work for a couple of weeks and earn it back. And then we can