Juan Fernando Villagómez’s “El Gallo de Oro” was selected for second place by our judge of this year’s Winter Short Story Award. Read the excerpt and then check out this interview in which Villagómez discusses sonic profiles, counterbalance, and what makes a story timeless.
In his introduction to your story, Bret Anthony Johnston writes that it feels “both timely and timeless.” I think the story certainly resists placing it in a specific moment in time. Was this something you were thinking about as you wrote the story?
I was never trying to make it timeless. “El Gallo de Oro” is part of a much larger project I’m working on, and even though this narrative doesn’t specify it, the events take place during the summer of 1999 in Magnolia Park, a mostly immigrant neighborhood in Houston’s East End where I grew up. The descriptions of the community are impressions of how I remember the place and people back then. I think it’s that kind of specificity, stated or unstated, that can make something feel timeless. Certainly, the longing Juan Antonio feels and his need for love and affection can be universal across different contexts.
The timely quality maybe has to do with the current assault on immigrant communities. But I wrote this piece a few years ago, and in that regard, it would have been just as relevant then as it is today or would’ve been twenty years ago, because while the political rhetoric is more inflammatory and law enforcement tactics are new and shocking, the results have always been similar. The epidemic of family separation across borders has existed for a long time under both dominant US political parties. But I wasn’t necessarily thinking about the political as I was working on the story. I just tried to imagine what it would be like to be a man whose daily life was based on maintaining a family that he could hardly be a part of.
I’m curious about the songs on the jukebox—what Juan Antonio is looking for, what he selects, and what actually plays. There are layers in this, in what he’s looking for and in the effect the song has on Juan Antonio, the feeling that the song is “speaking right at him.” Almost destined, like no matter what he selected on the jukebox, this was the song that was going to play. I guess my question is, was this Bronco song on your mind from the start, or did the right song for the moment come later?
The Bronco song has been on my mind as long as the character of Juan Antonio has existed in my mind. I will often accumulate sonic profiles for my characters—the songs and other media that inform their lives. Bronco is a band that a man of Juan Antonio’s age would likely listen to—as is Grupo Bryndis and Los Bukis. But my partner and I attended a Bronco performance at a casino in the California desert a few years ago, and while “Que No Quede Huella” is a song I’ve known since childhood, I understood it differently after seeing it live. One thing the band does very well is write beautiful, rhythmic norteño songs with strong pop hooks, but lyrically, they’re often sad. And you find yourself dancing to a cumbia, mouthing lamentations as you spin your partner around the dance floor. That struck me as an interesting metaphor for Mexican culture—the grit and perseverance. Like if the pain can make you more alive somehow. When I was writing that scene, I felt that was the song Juan Antonio needed to hear, even if he didn’t know it.
Although this story is very much about Juan Antonio’s feeling like he needs to say goodbye to Manuela, most of the action in the piece revolves around Linda’s presence in the bar and the reveal that she’s there to confirm her suspicions about what her husband’s been up to. It’s a nice counterbalance to Juan Antonio’s story, like he’s seeing play out one possibility if he were to not give up Manuela. Do you think he still would’ve followed through on saying goodbye if he hadn’t seen Linda’s breakdown? And a bonus question, I guess: Was Manuela the woman with Linda’s husband?
The counterbalance is something that I strive for in all my work. For me, a story doesn’t feel successful if some strange element doesn’t try to pull the narrative off its most obvious course. This phrase might only be legible to me, but it’s something I repeat to myself often when I’m revising: “A story can’t be too much about the thing that it’s about.” The way to my own heart might be sideways—when I can’t tell you’re aiming for it.
Regarding Juan Antonio’s goodbye—I think he would have followed through with it eventually. He wants to be a good husband and father. After being separated from his wife and son so long though, he forgot how. And yeah, Manuela was the lady with Linda’s husband.
A final reveal comes when Manuela tells Juan Antonio that she’d be quitting as soon as her man gets out of prison—he hadn’t even considered the possibility that she was in a relationship outside of the bar. It’s like, how much do we ever really know about someone, right? Have you thought about writing more about these characters? Could Manuela or el Míster pop up in another story?
I’m constantly reminding myself that people are much more than what they present. That mystery is an important thing to keep in mind when writing. It allows characters to surprise you and themselves.
I mentioned earlier that “El Gallo de Oro” is part of a much larger project I’m working on. By that, I mean a novel. El Míster is actually a primary character in that book, as is Juan Antonio. In fact, you can find another story titled “El Míster” in The Cincinatti Review, issue 19.1—that deals with Juan Antonio’s family’s journey across the border with el Míster. You can read another Juan Antonio piece titled “So Much Here is Green” in Desperate Literature’s Eleven Stories 2025 anthology. As far as Manuela, she plays a minor role toward the end of the novel.
I’m curious about your writing habits—what does your process look like?
I try to be up early. Ideally, I’ll be walking my dog while it’s still dark out. No music or podcasts in my ears. I’ll come back home and try to write a couple hours while my mind’s still processing things more dreamily. I find that yields the most interesting results. Often the writing doesn’t make sense—but making sense of it is a task for the more-awake version of myself later in the day.
What are you working on now?
Right now, I’m working with my agent to revise my novel. The revision process feels very different from the drafting phase. It’s a daily grind getting up to fill in plot holes, to bridge a temporal gap between chapters, to cut extraneous scenes and identify points of confusion for the reader. It’s tough, but it’s rewarding because I feel the novel tightening up with every change. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, and there’s still work to do, but I’m at a place with it that I couldn’t really have imagined a few years ago when the whole task felt nearly impossible.
Interviewed by Cole Meyer