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Dagoberto Gilb 1950-

Born in Los Angeles, Dagoberto Gilb put himself through college with a variety of paritime jobs, earning a B.A. and M.A. in philosophy and religion from the University of'California at Santa Barbara. He then spent sixteen years as a construction worker and C:lI"penter, taking time off every few months to write. Gilb's collection of stories, The Magic (1'

Blood (1993), won a number of awards, including the PEN/Hemingway Award for first tic-tion. His novel The Last Known Residence ofMickey Acuna was named a "Notable Book of theYear" by the New York TimesBookReview in 1994. Gilb has taught at universities in Texas,Arizona, and Wyoming; he is now on the faculty of Southwest Texas State University, inSan Marcos.

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Love in L. A.

Jake slouched in a clot of near motionless traffic, in the peculiar gray of con-crete, smog, and early morning beneath the overpass of the Hollywood Freewayon Alvarado Street. He didn't really mind because he knew how much worse itcould be trying to make a left onto the onramp. He certainly didn't do that everyday of his life, and he'd assure anyone who'd ask that he never would either.A steady occupation had its advantages and he couldn't deny thinking about thattoo. He needed an FM radio in something better than this '58 Buick he drove.It would have crushed velvet interior with electric controls for the L. A. summer,a nice warm heater and defroster for the winter drives at the beach, a cruise con-trol for those longer trips, mellow speakers front and rear of course, windows thathum closed, snuffing out that nasty exterior noise of freeways. The fact was thathe'd probably have to change his whole style. Exotic colognes, plush, dark night-clubs, mai tais and daiquiris, necklaced ladies in satin gowns, misty and sexy likein a tequila ad. Jake could imagine lots of possibilities when he let himself, butnone that ended up with him pressed onto a stalled freeway.

Jake was thinking about this freedom of his so much that when he glimpsedits green light he just went ahead and stared bye-bye to the steadily employed.When he turned his head the same direction his windshield faced, it was maybeone second too late. He pounced the brake pedal and steered the front wheelsaway from the tiny brake lights but the smack was unavoidable. Just one secondsooner and it would only have been close. One second more and he'd be crawl-ing up the Toyota's trunk. As it was, it seemed like only a harmless smack, muchless solid than the one against his back bumper.

Jake considered driving past the Toyota but was afraid the traffic aheadwould make it too difficult. As he pulled up against the curb a few car lengthsahead, it occurred to him that the traffic might have helped him get awaytoo. He slammed the car door twice to make sure it was closed fully andto give himself another second more, then toured front and rear of his Buickfor damage on or near the bumpers. Not an impressionable scratch even inthe chrome. He perked up. Though the car's beauty was secondary to its abil-ity to start and move, the body and paint were clean except for a few minor

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.1111/1.5.This stood (1111 ilS OIiC of his few clearcut accomplishments over the\'I';II'S.

Bcfore he spoke to the driver of the Toyota, whose looks he could see might

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II'('scnthim with an added complication, he signaled to the driver of the car thatIII him, still in his car and stopped behind the Toyota, and waved his hands and~ho()khis head to let the man know there was no problem as far as he was con-1('I'IH.:d.The driver waved back and started his engine.

"It didn't even scratch my paint," Jake told her in that way of his. "So how 5\,CHIdoin'? Any damage to the car? I'm kinda hoping so, just so it takes a littleIllore time and we can talk some. Or else you can give me your phone numberIIOWand I won't have to lay my regular b. s. on you to get it later."

I le took her smile as a good sign and relaxed. He inhaled her scent like it was('bm air and straightened out his less than new but not unhip clothes.

"You've got Florida plates. You look like you must be Cuban.""My parents are from Venezuela.""My name's Jake." He held out his hand."Mariana."They shook hands like she'd never done it before in her life."I really am sorry about hitting you like that." He sounded genuine. He fon-

dled the wide dimple near the cracked taillight. "It's amazing how easy it is toput a dent in these new cars. They're so soft they might replace waterbedssoon." Jake was confused about how to proceed with this. So much seemed sounlikely, but there was always possibility. "So maybe we should go out to break-fast somewhere and talk it over."

"I don't eat breakfast.""Some coffee then.""Thanks, but I really can't.""You're not married, are you? Not that that would matter that much to me.

I'm an open-minded kind a guy."She was smiling. "I have to get to work.""That sounds boring.""I better get your driver's license," she said.Jake nodded, disappointed. "One little problem," he said. "I didn't bring it. 20

I just forgot it this morning. I'm a musician," he exaggerated greatly, "and, well,I dunno, I left my wallet in the pants I was wearing last night. If you have somepaper and a pen I'll give you my address and all that."

He followed her to the glove compartment side of her car."What if we don't report it to the insurance companies? I'll just get it fixed

for you.""I don't think my dad would let me do that.""Your dad? It's not your car?""He bought it for me. And I live at home.""Right." She was slipping away from him. He went back around to the back

of her new Toyota and looked over the damage again. There was the trunk lid,the bumper, a rear panel, a taillight.

"You do have insurance?" she asked, suspicious, as she came around the backof the car.

"Oh yeah," he lied."I guess you better write the name of that down too."

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434 SANDRA ClSNJo'IU IS ( ,'('mlt/II Nil 1.1/.1'1Nt/lilt'

He made up a last name and address and wrote down 1he nall1eor an inslIlance company an old girlfriend once belonged to. lIe considered giving a n'alphone number but went against that idea and made one up.

"I act too," he lied to enhance the effect more. "Been in a couple of movies."She smiled like a fan."So how about your phone number?" He was rebounding maturely.She gave it to him."Mariana, you are beautiful," he said in his most sincere voice."Call me," she said timidly.Jake beamed. "We'll see you, Mariana," he said holding out his hand. Her

hand felt so warm and soft he felt like he'd been kissed.Back in his car he took a moment or two to feel both proud and sad about

his performance. Then he watched the rear view mirror as Mariana pulled upbehind him. She was writing down the license plate numbers on his Buick,ones that he'd taken off a junk because the ones that belonged to his hadexpired so long ago. He turned the ignition key and revved the big engine andclicked into drive. His sense of freedom swelled as he drove into the now mov-ing street traffic, though he couldn't stop the thought about that FM stereoradio and crushed velvet interior and the new car smell that would even makeit better.

(1993)

Questions for Discussion and Writing1. Write a character sketch ofJake. Consider his conversation, actions, motives,

wants, accomplishments, and ethics, as well as his car, clothes, age (as you fig-ure it), and any other traits that you find relevant.

2. Does Jake have anything in common with his Buick? How about Mariana andher new Toyota? Does she share any attributes with her car?

3. What do you think the title means?4. How does the last paragraph capture the essence ofJake's character?

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Sandra Cisneros 1954-

Sandra Cisneros, the daughter of a Mexican father and a Mexican-American mother,grew up with her six brothers in the ghetto neighborhoods of Chicago. She attendedLoyola University and went on to earn a master of fine arts degree at the University ofIowa Writers' Workshop, where she started writing sketches about her childhood as apoor Latina. She developed these into the book The Houseon Mango Street (1983), aprize-winning collection of more than forty short narratives. Cisneros has also writtenseveral books of poetry; a second collection of stories, Woman Hollering Creek (1991);and a novel, Caramelo(2002). "Geraldo No Last Name" is the twenty-fifth story in her1983 collection.

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,11I1!JIIIII,I!,:yoJ'.l,j!JuI'1 Fielioll 435

Gt.'raldo No Last Name

"he mct him at a dance. Pretty too, and young. Said he worked in a restau-111111,hut she can't remember which one. Geraldo. That's all. Green pants and"'ulllnlay shirt. Geraldo. That's what he told her.

\nd how was she to know she'd be the last one to see him alive. An acci-oI,'nl, don't you know. Hit and run. Marin, she goes to all those dances.I Jptown. Logan. Embassy. Palmer. Aragon. Fontana. The Manor. She likes tocI.lI1l'e.She knows how to do cumbias and salsas and rancheras even. And heIIliSjust someone she danced with. Somebody she met that night. That's right.

That's the story. That's what she said again and again. Once to the hospital!lmple and twice to the police. No address. No name. Nothing in his pockets.\in't it a shame.

Only Marin can't explain why it mattered, the hours and hours, for somebodyshe didn't even know. The hospital emergency room. Nobody but an internworking all alone. And maybe if the surgeon would've come, maybe if he hadn'tII1Stso much blood, if the surgeon had only come, they would know who to notifyIIndwhere.

But what difference does it make? He wasn't anything to her. He wasn't her 5hoyfriend or anything like that. Just another brazer who didn't speak English..Iust another wetback. You know the kind. The ones who always look ashamed.And what was she doing out at three A.M.anyway? Marin who was sent homewith her coat and some aspirin. How does she explain?

She met him at a dance. Geraldo in his shiny shirt and green pants. Geraldogoing to a dance.

What does it matter?They never saw the kitchenettes. They never knew about the two-room flats

and sleeping rooms he rented, the weekly money orders sent home, the currencyexchange. How could they?

His name was Geraldo. And his home is in another country. The ones he leftbehind are far away, will wonder, shrug, remember. Geraldo---he went north. . .we never heard from him again.

(1983)

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Questions for Discussion and Writing1. Why was only one intern working in the emergency room? Why didn't the

surgeon come? Why are these facts included?2. In the next-to-Iast paragraph, who is the "they" who never saw the kitchenettes

and never knew about Geraldo's life? What is the point of this paragraph?3. How would you describe the tone of the final paragraph? In what way does

this paragraph sum up the story's main themes?4. Write a paper in which you contrast the reactions of Marin with those of the

unnamed narrator. Can you separate the two?5. Write an essay from Geraldo's point of view. Let him speak for himself. What

does he have to say about his life and what happened to him?

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