She arrived in Juárez on a Transportes del Norte bus. She watched two movies on the trip. The Devil Wears Prada and The Day of the Beast. From Juárez she hopped over to El Paso. Texas smelled insufferably of plagiarism. When the air smells so strongly of imitation, it can only mean one thing: sulfur. The gossipy sulfur that indicates the devil‡ is once more among the people.
The Cowgirl Bible knew that establishing herself in the USA was a task for talking machines. Satan’s powers were like those of Corona beer: It was unfazed by borders. Or perhaps as potent as the services offered by UPS (which was suddenly shit too). Evil depends on express delivery. So as not to continue her avoidance, The Cowgirl Bible didn’t move; whatever happened, she would confront her rival. The power of the highest high is the power of the highest high. Here, there, over here or over there, or a little more over here, right here, right right here; there you go, right there. There it was. A perfect place for an altar.
At midnight, she entered the bar with the epic all-encompassing patience of an à la carte menu before it’s even been read. But there was no sign of the devil, not even his gleaming sandals. He was flying the colors of the Mexican All-Stars at a game against Panama in Houston. In his place, and to go on with the show, the devil had sent his top doggest of top dogdom: Steve Vai, who, in less time than it takes to fill a fried-chicken order, challenged The Cowgirl Bible to a razor duel. She knew she couldn’t turn it down. To refuse a dignified death meant, in times of Reformation, to spend all of eternity wandering the Juárez market bathrooms.
For the contest, they brought in two of the hairiest pubises in all of history: those of Tongolele and María Victoria (the one who sings really slowly… really, really slowly). The solos began. For eight minutes of strenuous improvisation, not a hair was seen on the blades. It was only when the music began to play, indicating that the participants had gone over time and it was time to go to commercial, that the competitors stopped. The jury’s decision was this:
The Cowgirl Bible’s performance is well structured, and keeps an adequate razor beat as it subscribes to an innovative meta-language. It’s a modern approach, and without skimping on its virtues, bold.
When shaving, Steve Vai connected with a stale tradition and was able to liven it up. The rich razor mix keeps his score up. There’s no need to divorce the anethaeum of the carpa.
And that, my dear friends, was the last time anyone laid eyes on The Cowgirl Bible Parker. That was just a few minutes ago, since the final duel with Steve Vai was recorded on a cellphone and uploaded to YouTube. We don’t know what happened next. The video cuts off. There’s a crazy theory that it was all a setup, that The Cowgirl Bible isn’t dead. That she faked her own death because she’d had it up to here with so much fame. Some loyal fans swear they’ve seen her buying fried chicken at several Henry’s franchises. Others are sure she’s living in India and using an English colonizer name. It doesn’t matter. We have The Cowgirl Bible on YouTube, to watch as often as we desire.
In a little while, when the battle against global warming is lost, it will only be possible to watch the real Cowgirl Bible on YouTube. The devil will only be invoked through the worldwide web. If you want to keep her life from ending, just send a donation to 1-800-YouTube. With your contribution, we can guarantee that, even if it’s just on a screen, the real Cowgirl Bible will go on and on thanks to the internet.
For more information, search for the guitar duel with Steve Vai on YouTube.
* Kevin Ayers, who was in the audience, remembers with certain incredulity: All the stars were there and I heard all the important terms, like, you know, shit, Jesus, damn, and other, worse words.
† Unfinished Ballet in Two Tableau: 1. Ritual Dance of Child-Killer. Il Nullis Petti (no commercial potential) is what freaks sound like when you turn them loose in a recording studio at one o’clock in the morning with five hundred dollars’ worth of rented percussion equipment. A bright snappy number. Hotcha!
‡ Please note that the Devil is sometimes in lower case and other times in upper case. The reason is that sometimes there isn’t enough respect to hit the upper case (a tardy infomercial from the intratranslator).
Neither Fiction nor Non-fiction
The Post-Norteño Condition
I was born norteño to the extreme.
Cuco Sánchez
1
And:
—My boots.
—Huh?
—Have you seen my lice-skin boots, my dear? You remember that pair, right?
—Yes.
—Yes, what?
—Oh, Paulino, you’ve lost it. Those were Cowboy Bible boots. You’ve never had lice-skin boots.
—Those very ones. Find them for me. I wanna strap ’em on.
—You wore them out. Don’t you remember? You wouldn’t take them off, not even to climb the mezquite tree.
—It’s just that those were real boots and not these thankless stilts that make each step such a misfortune.
—Take them off. They’re just a burden. Let your feet air out.
—Later. How else am I gonna walk out of here?
—Put on some other ones.
—Which ones?
—You’re like a woman. You have a closet full of boxes of boots but you can’t make up your mind. Don’t you have a pair that’ll go with your pants?
—Well, it’s just that all those mules are just as lame as these.
—Try some new ones. Open up a box and even if they’re a little rough at first, you can break them in.
—No, it’s better if I just buy a new pair.
—Oh no, Paulino. More boots? There’s no room for more in the closet. Where am I gonna put my shoes and dresses?
—Don’t you worry, my love. We’ll make sure there’s a secret drawer so you can stow away all your footwear and costumes. We’ll make it just like on those pot-smuggling trucks.
2
In the meantime, Old Man Paulino, free of his lady’s demands, showed up all tired and tanned at the small Botas Roca shop. Since the Old Man was a distinguished citizen of San Pedrosburgo, he was attended to by a clerk who was a walking encyclopedia on norteño style boots.
—Don Paulino, what brings you here?
—Oh, why are you so simple? I came to get some boots, dummy.
—I just received a shipment of contraband. All new, Don Paulino, all new.
—Bring them all out. I wanna see them all, even the exotic ones.
—Look how beautiful this is: blue-whale loin, and certified authentic. Let me know what caliber you want. Or these, just look at this authentic Nosferatu zeal. Try them on. I also have some Komodo dragon ones. See how gorgeous they are.
—You’re silly, boy. Those look like wrestler boots.
—I’m gonna show you the river dolphin ones.
—Stop, stop. I’m looking for a pair of Cowboy Bible boots.
—Oh, Don Paulino. You’ve lost it, you’re off-key. They don’t make those anymore. They’re off the market because they hurt the ozone layer.
3
—I told you, Paulino. But you just keep forgetting. There are no Cowboy Bible-skin boots left in this world.
—You’re so right, my love. These two stones were meant for the same bird: I could neither get the boots I wanted nor find any that would bring me comfort.
—Paulino, don’t be so stoic. Use any of the boots in the closet. That’s what they’re there for.
—No, my love. Those shall remain unworn.
—Then why did you buy them?
—Oh, my dear wife. The value of certain boots is precisely in keeping them intact, just like that. As soon as I put them on, I would take away all their charm.
—Hey, Paulino, if they don’t make those boots in factories anymore, what about having them handmade?
—That’s exactly what I was asking about, a homemade version. The problem is the leather. It’s very scarce. They say The Cowboy Bible is in danger of extinction.
—What if you
ordered them from McAllen?
—They don’t have it in Texas either. It’s a very tough leather. I’m fucked.
—Don’t cry. Just give up, Paulino.
—Give up? Not me. I’m a meaner cabrón than I am good-looking. I’m gonna get my Cowboy Bible boots even if I have to sell my soul to the devil.
—Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. Again? How many times have you sold your soul to the devil?
—I know. But it doesn’t count drunk. This time I’m gonna make the offer sober. Those other times don’t count, they don’t.
4
Such coveted boots, they finally showed up. But on somebody’s else’s feet.
It was spread all over San Pedro, the federal capital, by word of mouth. It’s rumored a foreign man was seen wearing boots that, if not Cowboy Bible boots, sure looked like them.
It was only then that Old Man Paulino, ready to deal, stepped unsteadily up to the guy and told him the boots had inspired a corrido.
—Indulge me, buddy, and tell me something. The leather on those boots—is it original Cowboy Bible?
—Yeah, they’re no fakes.
—Original original?
—ISO quality.
—Where’d you pick them up?
—El Infierno.
—Where?
—El Infierno shoe store.
—What size are those?
—Seven and three eighths.
—Look, I’m a seven and then some. Let me ride ’em?
—What the hell, Don Paulino. Absolutely.
—Oh my.
—What, Don Paulino?
—I’m stuck, I can’t get them on. What screw did you tighten, boy? They just need to be a pinch bigger to fit me to a T.
—I see. They’re just not new new. They’ve molded to my feet.
—That can be undone. A little swim and they’ll sweeten to mine.
—Ah, Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. You know Cowboy Bible boots: If they’re not custom-made, they’ll crack. They only do what they’re made to do. They don’t get tempted by other feet, even the sun’s.
5
—My love.
—Yes, Paulino.
—I’m going on a trip.
—So soon? Oh, Paulino. Don’t drive yourself mad with this.
—My love, my affinity for those boots cannot be ignored.
—Did you have lunch already?
—No.
—I’ll make you some of your favorite tacos for the road.
—I don’t have time for that. My horses and men are waiting to devote themselves to the task.
—Oh, Paulino. You’ve lost it. It’s bad not to have even one bean dancing in those two kilometers of intestine when you go shopping.
—Oh my love, those are women’s concerns. I’m just going out for a pair of boots.
—Get a grip, Paulino. There are risks. They’ve said cold front number eight is headed this way. You have to bear that in mind.
—Don’t make assumptions, my love. People who are supposed to be so smart about the weather always make false prophecies. They’re like those boastful bettors. They always pick the wrong cock.
—Let’s hope so. Let’s hope you don’t catch a chill and get sick from all that cold.
—Don’t even say it, my love. I won’t lose it. I’ll present myself completely whole and uninjured. Just remember that with a kilo of tequila, a double poncho, and sarape, you can scare away any chill.
6
—I’m not lying Don Paulino. You’ve lost it. I’ve already explained that according to everything the foreigner said, El Infierno shoe store should be right here.
—You sure?
—Absolutely. This is where the store should be.
—We have to investigate.
—We’ve already looked and looked all over the place. It’s not there.
—Are you sure those are the right coordinates?
—Yes, boss. Look: To be sure, there’s the crossroad, the railroad tracks, and the little joint where they sell cured meat. El Infierno should be right across there.
—And what did the bartender say?
—That there’s no latitude for what we’re looking for. That he’s already told the herd. That a wasteland isn’t the place for a shoe store. That El Infierno was never here. Not even temporarily.
—Maybe we’re too scattered? Maybe it’s over the hill?
—No, Don Paulino. We’re in the right place. There’s the black guy. Remember what the foreigner said. At the crossroad, where you see the black guy playing guitar on a stick, that’s where El Infierno should be.
7
—You’ve lost it, Paulino. From all that trotting. I saw you from a distance and knew it was you.
—We never found the shoe store, my love.
—And how did you expect to find it if you didn’t take anything with you? You left without a scapular, without lunch or a map.
—We had a compass. But it broke at the crossroad. It couldn’t be coaxed to signal south at south or north at north.
—Oh Paulino, I’ve told you, to orient yourself use the sun’s rays, the position of the stars, or the wind’s caress on a finger swathed in spit.
8
—I’ve done everything in this life: collected horses, boots, and fine roosters. But I’ve never been a quitter.
—Enough, Paulino. Forget about the boots.
—No, my love. I can’t give up.
—Oh Paulino. Come on. You’ve lost it. What about when you promised to compose a corrido for the rustler they ambushed in Buenos Aires, Coahuila?
—I was using my head. Anyway, I’m in a better place to inspire songs than to come up with one.
—Stop, Paulino. They’ve discontinued Cowboy Bible boots. They took them off the market because you were the only one buying them.
—I’ll disappear before that happens, my love.
—Believe me.
—No. I’ve decided. I have to sell my soul to the devil.
—You, you’re crazy.
—I’m gonna sell my soul to the devil. I’m gonna sell it like they sell trucks: whole or in parts.
—Are you serious, Paulino?
—Yes, my love.
—And you believe that?
—Believe what?
—That Satan is gonna come running like Chabelo to offer you a gift in exchange for your soul?
—Why not? Everybody has their thing. There’s Cojo Martínez’s valseada, who spent twenty years in a wheelchair and, after just one little chat with the devil, was busy showing off the two dancing legs she got for her engagement ring.
—Oh Paulino. You’ve lost it. You’ve got brain freeze. That’s material for corridos. That only happens in corridos. Paulino, corridos are not the same as real life.
9
—For two nights, I stood and screamed and screamed but the devil didn’t show.
—By yourself, Don Paulino?
—By my lonesome. And I went through four packs of cigarettes.
—And tequila?
—Two kilos of help. It’s goddamn chilly trying to conjure up the devil out there in the open. Actually, pour me another. A double. What do you mean which one, dummy—the same one Pedro Infante drinks! Tradicional.
—Ah, I see, Don Paulino. You’ve completely lost it. Everybody knows the devil sidles up a street in Cerro de la Cruz at midnight. You just make yourself known and, if there’s a line, don’t get in it. You present your credentials—Old Man Palvino, corridos composer—and state your case.
—Imagine. And here I’ve been warming up.
—Is it true you’re gonna sell your soul to the devil?
—Of course not, dummy. If I did, then where would my corridos come from?
—So what are you gonna offer him?
—A pedicure for his rooster foot and a horseshoe for his goat’s foot.
—Ah, sure, Don Paulino, always kidding around.
—Don’t doubt me, güey. I’m gonna make him swallow som
ething that’s not gonna come back up. My sorrel horse. The most beautiful of all my mares. His eyes are gonna pop out. He’s gonna accept the deal. He’s gonna accept because no one—not even the devil—has ever had such a beautiful mare.
10
—Who goes there?
—Me.
—Ah, you. Don Paulino. How are you?
—As good as when I killed the deceased.
—So you’re over your drunkenness?
—Come now, it’s not like it’s contagious.
—What brings you around these parts?
—I’ve come to sell you my soul.
—No, no, no, not in your condition. You’re wasted.
—Well, I’ve been partying, buddy.
—Yes, I see, but I don’t make deals like that. Wait till it passes and when you’ve got your senses, then come back.
—No, just this once. While I’m stoked. Whatever’s gonna happen, let it happen. Why make me come and go senselessly?
—Paulino, you don’t understand, you’ve lost it. How many times have you offered me your soul? And each time, you’re drunk as a skunk. Go home. Sleep it off, like you always do. Come back sober. You know I won’t bargain otherwise. No deal.
—What a fag of a devil you are. Just once. I won’t regret it. Don’t they always say kids and drunks always tell the truth. Goddamn grouchy old man.
11
—Next.
—Good evening.
—Ah, it’s you, Paulino. How are you doing?
—Fresh. Sober. Bathed.
—Now then. What’s your business?
The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories Page 6
