The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories

by Carlos Velázquez

—I’ve come to sell you a mare at a loss for a pair of Cowboy Bible boots.

  —Not interested. Next.

  —She’s a breed. Pure blood. Look how haughty she is.

  —Yes, I see she’s a blueblood, but I’m not good with animals or plants. It’s just gonna die on me.

  —Then I offer you my soul.

  —It doesn’t interest me either.

  —Then my song royalties.

  —I’m immune to norteño music. I don’t like corridos or norteño music.

  —I’ve got nothing else. I have nothing else with which to entice you.

  —Yes, you do: your wife.

  —You’re out of your mind, man. If my wife finds out I’m trafficking with her soul, she’d kill me.

  —I’m not interested in her soul. I just wanna sleep with her one time.

  —You’re hopeless, man. You’re twisted. She’d never accept. And she’d murder me first.

  —Insist. Insist until you convince her.

  —Don’t count on it. If I even mention it, the least that will happen is that she’ll have me diagnosed as senile and put me in diapers and never let me out of her sight for the rest of our lives.

  12 The Kid’s All Twisted

  A play in one act

  Characters: The devil and Old Man Paulino

  A country road, a tree. Dusk. Paulino, sitting on the ground, is filling a tank. He’s exhausted and making a big effort, using both hands. He pauses, so tired, rests, pants, sighs. Repeats same gestures.

  Enter The Devil (the audience applauds).

  THE DEVIL: Hey. Considering you’re someone so used to liquor and pot, you should be okay, Paulino. How are you doing?

  PAULINO: Better, don’t you think?

  THE DEVIL: You look tired, mi estilos. What’s wrong, Old Man?

  PAULINO: My wife.

  THE DEVIL: Oh, Paulino. You’ve totally lost it. With those legs, your wife could make any man ache.

  PAULINO: Even you. Satan himself. The least clandestine of all massage-parlor clients.

  THE DEVIL: Even me.

  PAULINO: Shall we smoke a little weed?

  THE DEVIL: Later. To get some balance. But the weed aside, what’s bothering you, dude?

  PAULINO: My wife is being subversive. On top of not wanting to take a tumble with you, she informed me she wants to go to the Valentín Elizalde dance. I’m not gonna take her. It makes me wanna sneak her some yombina, to see if she gets hot enough so I can get my boots.

  THE DEVIL: I’ll give you an easier recipe. Let’s put on a farce: We’ll go to your house and pretend to have a poker bet. You bet your money and lose. All your assets, you lose them. In the end, you bet a roll in the hay with your wife and you lose.

  PAULINO: I don’t think she’ll go for it. She’s not a big fan of card games.

  THE DEVIL: You let her know I’m taking everything. That if she consents, I’ll reconsider the debt. If she accepts I won’t toss you out on the street.

  13

  —Where’d it happen?

  —In Mole’s bar.

  —Oh Paulino, if you’re always losing it, why’d you bet?

  —Then what, my love?

  —No, Paulino. I’m not some song lyric. You’re not gonna use me as currency with some card shark.

  —But if you don’t agree, we’ll never have another meal at El Rey del Cabrito. It’s not even one night, my love. He’s a good person.

  —Doesn’t matter how decent. You think I’m in condition to be traded like peanuts?

  —Well, the debt would be covered that way. He’d even owe me something.

  —Paulino, tell me the truth. How much did you lose?

  —Everything.

  —Even the Nativity?

  —Yes, even those plaster figurines.

  —They’re porcelain.

  —Whatever. Assholes, those damn figurines.

  —You’re sick, Paulino. I refuse to sleep with a stranger just to fix your mess. I’m outta here. I’m going to my mother’s. I wanna divorce.

  —And what will you get out of that? I don’t have a thing. Not the ranch or the rights to my songs, not even my gray hairs. But if instead you calm down and throw down with that card shark for a few, then it’s like nothing ever happened.

  —Paulino, tell me the truth. How much did you lose?

  —Everything. Even the dirt under my nails.

  —Well. Fine. I’ll let you twist my arm. But to be clear I’m doing it only to keep us out of the poorhouse. Things are gonna change in this house. And you tell that man there’s no guarantee I’m gonna give him my body. Make it very clear all I’ll accept is an invitation to Valentín Elizalde’s dance. Then we’ll see.

  14

  —Don’t come to me now with sob stories out of Vicente Fernández movies, Paulino. Gambling debts are matters of honor. Don’t act like a fool.

  —I’ve kept my end of the deal. The rest is up to you, pendejo.

  —Don’t be a fool.

  —I did my part. She’ll go with you to the dance. It’s up to you to get her in bed.

  —I said no, Paulino. Until your wife comes to me you’re not gonna wear Cowboy Bible boots. Those were the terms.

  —The only term and condition I value is that of the north. The norteño condition. The way all the guys who get tangled in these agreements refuse to furrow their brows. Damn devil, that’s why I liked you.

  —Oh, Paulino. You’ve lost it. Over and over. Wait a while and you’ll have your boots at dawn. And I’ll bring your woman back to you all happy happy. Content. Well taken care of.

  —Listen, pendejo. You might be the devil, but you can just fuck off. No boots, no deal. And if you tell me one more time that I’ve lost it, I’m gonna kick your ass.

  15

  —Don’t exaggerate, my love.

  —But it’s true, Paulino, you even owed your ass to that card shark.

  —Not really.

  —A saint must have intervened.

  —Don’t blaspheme, my love. When it comes to gambling, this comes with the territory.

  —Oh Paulino, you’ve lost it. He took even the shirt off your back and left us homeless, propertyless, and corridoless. And then, suddenly, without an argument, he takes off. He left without so much as a raincheck. That had to have been because of a saint’s intervention.

  —Cross yourself, my love. Cross yourself. What’s important is that you no longer have to give that card shark anything. Not him or anyone else.

  —Paulino.

  —Huh?

  —So I’m not going to the Valentín Elizalde dance anymore?

  —Well, no.

  —Paulino.

  —Huh?

  —Take me.

  —No, no way. What the hell would I do at that faggot’s dance anyway?

  —Oh Paulino. Then give me permission to go.

  —No.

  —Listen, I’m not going alone. My sister will chaperon. C’mon. Why not. Nothing’s gonna happen.

  —How do you know, my love? No. I forbid you from going to the dance. I fear for you. The devil could be anywhere.

  16

  —The Grand Marquis.

  —Which?

  —The Grand Marquis.

  —No, let’s go in the truck.

  —Why.

  —He’ll get suspicious. When he doesn’t see the gray car, he’ll know we’re headed for the dance. Better a cab.

  —Oh, sister, you’re getting like Paulino. You’re losing it. If you don’t smoke, you don’t imagine things. If we take a cab, then we’re admitting to the crime.

  —So then we walk?

  —What? You’re crazy.

  —It’s at the Terraza Riviera. It’s close by.

  —No. We’re going in the Marquis, and we’re gonna floor it.

  —I’m afraid. If your husband catches us, he’s gonna make mincemeat out of us. I can’t take the thought of going to the hospital. Not even with the money I left in Houston.

  —Don’t be so
dramatic. He’s never gonna find out. And I don’t think he’ll be that mad even if he does.

  —And what if something happens?

  —What could possibly happen? Who’s even gonna notice two little cowgirls in that multitude?

  17

  —Forgive me, Paulino.

  —Don’t get upset, my love.

  —The doctor said I didn’t have to stay in the hospital even one day. These are second-degree burns. I can heal at home.

  —Don’t get yourself all worked up. Rest.

  —Paulino. Forgive me.

  —I forgive you. But rest, rest. Don’t get worked up, my love.

  —How could I know that man with the hat from the dance had a tail of fire?

  —What did he look like?

  —Normal. Wore boots and a piteado belt with a twenty-centimeter buckle.

  —What was his name?

  —I don’t know. He didn’t tell me his name. He just approached me and asked me to dance. By the second song, my body was burning wherever he squeezed me.

  —But you went on. Why didn’t you call for help?

  —I did. I screamed at the top of my lungs. That was after I saw his feet. They weren’t human. He had a goat’s hoof and a rooster’s foot.

  —Holy shit.

  —Men in hats pulled their guns and shot at him. But nobody saw where he went. The devil showed up just to roast me and disappear.

  —It’s okay, my love. It’s over.

  —Paulino.

  —Huh?

  —Now you can write me a corrido. I was in all the newspapers. Antes muerta que sencilla: The Devil Invited Her to Dance.

  —I’ll write it for you, my love.

  —Paulino.

  —Huh?

  —A while ago there was a nurse who came through here wearing boots like the ones you’re looking for.

  —Oh yeah. I saw them in a store window on my way to the hospital.

  —They’re selling them again?

  —Yeah. The store clerk told me they were making them again.

  —So why didn’t you buy a pair? You wanted them so much.

  —I lost it, my love. You already knew I lost it.

  ‌Juan Salazar’s Dealer

  For Pedro Rodríguez, El Viejo Cuervo

  —Dealers are only good for only one thing: breaking your heart.

  —Into a thousand pieces.

  —Oh, and composing corridos.

  Juan Salazar, the most outstanding exponent of the narcocorrido, watched the lights of the New York subway with tenderness. The wee hours had left a string of bad luck in Times Square. They scurried past like scorpions, sparkling with rats and homeless paranoids. Notwithstanding the norteño singer’s aplomb (signified by his Chesterfield coat, hat, and boots), the junkies would scrape together any little thing they could off the street for the love of smack. Heroin is always a tough love.

  —Damn him. He seemed trustworthy.

  —I warned you, Juan, said Herbert Huncke. That little dealer was all talk.

  With the tenacity that the gold bracelet and Terlenka outfit allowed him, a languid Juan Salazar shoved his partner aside, staying faithful to the whim of the tracks.

  Without a glance at the drag queens, sotol still in hand (just in case), he felt a blue centrifugal lash at the back of his knees: It was withdrawal. But he didn’t give up waiting for the dealer who would never come; he just remained indifferent, like a dove in the meadow.

  —He’s not coming, Juan. The dealer’s not coming.

  The performer of Cuatro Lágrimas felt his belt ease out of the loops on his jeans and slither like a snake in the sand. He wasn’t afraid. He already knew that all the bullfights and cockfights taking place in the station were products of his withdrawal. The addict’s own sweat would slow the passenger cars, and he would mentally transport himself to all those crazy, intrepid comings and goings with his arm around The Cowboy Bible, looking for the complete dealer.

  His regression was contaminated by theories from bar stories about San Pedroslavia. A magical land. Endless drugs. Everyone a dealer. Super cheap heroin. Dissolute and feverish, Juan Salazar would keep his promise to move to Mexico. To settle in San Pedroslavia and benefit from the open heroin traffic.

  —The dealer’s not coming, Juan. We can still make the exchange at the pharmacy. Let’s go before it gets dark.

  Huncke was also going through his own struggle with cold turkey. He said withdrawal was like chewing a flavorless gum. The junky’s waning quarter would soon become a full moon, and the station would fill with Aztec vampires just for him. But Juan Salazar remained unmoved, even after he understood how the exchange with the fraudulent pharmaceuticals worked. The only way to unload that Star .380 was to trade it to a dealer for thirty-five doses of heroin.

  He’d been trying to unarm himself for a year. He’d drunk countless beers in his attempts to get rid of the pistol. No one would take it. The gun had acquired a rep as a bad omen. He went everywhere with the Star .380, and in the process became known for carrying it in a shoebox under his arm. He couldn’t give it away, not even at a pawnshop.

  —Juan, for the tenth time. The dealer blew you off. He’s not coming.

  —Juan, for the sicketh dulleth time. The dealer’s a blow off. He’s not coming, not coming, not coming… The phrases echoed in his head like the sound of the alto sax with his norteño group.

  —It’s impossible to get rid of this thing, isn’t it?

  —And to think you traded a typewriter for it.

  Juan Salazar Pro, realizing that getting rid of the pistol was impossible in New York, decided to head to Mexico. Perhaps in San Pedroslavia it would not be so difficult to unload the gun. After all, what difference did it make if San Pedroslavia didn’t turn out to be the paradise he imagined and was instead just another ruse? I can always come back to nourish my post-norteño condition on the streets of Manhattan, he thought.

  —Huncke, let’s go.

  —And the dealer, Juan?

  —I’m going to Mexico. To San Pedroslavia.

  —And the dealer? We’re not waiting for him anymore, Juan.

  —Huncke. Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. Let’s get out of here, because that dealer’s not coming.

  The Definitive Dealer

  Written on a wall in an unorthodox script with El Oso shoe polish was, The only way to get drugs is to be the drug. Pedro Rodríguez, an expert on norteño music, was sleeping in his attic room on Coahuila Street. An occasional session musician who imitated Chet Baker’s norteño-ness, he had begun to shoot up heroin. His musical instrument was The Cowboy Bible.

  The phrase on the wall had been pirated from a little book of poems by Jack Kerouac, Heroin is for Pain. There was a Juan Salazar LP on the record player. With that voice that always seems on the verge of breaking, the Nuevo León native was singing Lights of New York. Pedro Rodríguez had resisted becoming his dealer. But his credit was worthless in San Pedroslavia. The only way to surround himself with drugs was to sell them.

  When the needle on the record player changed positions, it cut the drug’s sweet effect off from Pedro Rodríguez’s body. He immediately fell into a state of cold turkey. He opened his eyes and a pack of dogs like a roving mob showed up next to his bed. The vertigo he’d experience trying to get off the mattress made him much more anxious than the pain in his joints. The certainty that the dogs would tear him apart kept him clinging to the wall by his fingernails.

  Terrified, he brought his face over to the edge of the bed. He ascertained that the dogs were running around. Rabid dogs. More than a hundred of them. With fear in his eyes, and his eyes on the very rim of the mattress, Pedro Rodríguez emitted an extraordinary shriek, and then, one by one, the one-hundred-seventeen dogs jumped into his chest with all the contractions that foreshadowed a spasm. When he swallowed the last animal, it was nighttime and the Juan Salazar LP was playing over and over.

  Juan Salucita Salazar settled on Orizaba Street, #210-8, in San Pedroslavi
a. Huncke, who was an old hand at extraditions and had burglary charges pending, had decided to stay with Bill Garver and rejected outright the move to Mexico. Juan Salucita arrived accompanied by another Juan, John Vollmer, a beat poet. And a junky too. Metrohomosexual. The singer’s lover.

  It was no secret Vollmer was a fag. Ross Russell had revealed it in the unauthorized biography of the singer, Salucita Lives: The High Life and Hard Times of Juan (an implosition) Salazar (Charterhouse, New York, 19—). It’s a common quality assigned to mythic characters. His legend has a place in eternity. There shouldn’t be any other readings of Juan Salazar’s genius, just those that reflect his revolutionary contributions to the world of music. Reputable critics such as Charles Delaunay, Ted Gioia, Joachim Berendt, and Leonard Feather have defended his sexual preference by citing the creativity of his norteño improvisations. The fascination with Juan Salazar, aside from his being a jazzman committed to amarillo, is the allegory that produces his art. The pride of the post-norteño condition is its violent, sexist, and senseless character, almost like hip hop’s. The allegory lies in the fact that, in a macho society, a fag would, under his lice-egg leather boots, wear pink polish on his toenails and still be the object of so much masculine admiration. Juan Salazar is a bebop norteño transgressor.

  San Pedroslavia coincided with the epistemology of bar stories. The healthy atmosphere surrounding the daily routine of heating up spoonfuls of drugs helped Juan form a new quintet with local musicians. The problem of the pistol remained—struck by a case of nerves, Juan Salazar couldn’t say farewell to it—but he had a possible buyer: Pedro Rodríguez, a dealer famous for wearing a piteado belt with a steel buckle. He’d heard he could find him at the Laguna Coliseum, the old Sports Palace, a wrestling arena.

  To get the drug, Pedro Rodríguez had to give up his Cowboy Bible. He traded it at a flea market. They tossed it into a corner with an accordion and a bajo sexto. He invested the money in heroin, which he hid in Nescafé jars between the dogs and the bed.