This week we’re pleased to publish “Gringa,” new fiction from Carmen Adamucci. Below, Carmen shares with us the story’s inception and some of his own experiences in the peach orchards.

I’ve met some really cool migrant workers in my life.

On our farm in southern New Jersey they arrive each spring, in compact cars and pickup trucks, in mini vans, cargo vans, retired school buses–FARM LABOR TRANSPORT stenciled on the side. Picking peaches is tough, even when compared to other types of farm work, and it’s not uncommon for a greenhorn to leave after his first day in the orchard, maybe before his first lunch break: there’s the picking-bag strapped to his chest, the ladder, the pressure from anxious farmers, squeezing peaches every ten minutes, hollering every five, worried they might lose the block because a stubborn heat wave has slowed the crew down while ramping the maturating process up.

And of course, there’s also the fuzz.

Seriously. I’ve seen some tough-ass men annoyed into submission by peach fuzz, trudging out of the orchard cursing the stuff, scratching the back of their necks so hard you’d expect trickles of blood. And I never blamed these deserters either (well almost never), for minimum wage is minimum wage, whether you’re walking behind a lawnmower or lugging an eight-foot ladder through the field.

There is no television in the orchard. No radio allowed. It’s a good day if your cell phone rings let alone allows you to check e-mail.

But you can tell stories, especially to the boss—as long as your hands don’t stop putting fruit into the bag. “Gringa” is nothing more than my version of a story I heard one summer a few years ago. There was no arrow in the original, just a droopy-eyed John in his forties or fifties made to walk home without his wallet after some nut jumped out of the trunk.

But these guys are always getting the shaft from somebody, I think.

There’s really not much more to say.