Lone Star Legend

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  She stood there alone for quite a while, thinking about everything that’d been happening to her lately. If you’d asked her a year ago, or even a month ago, what she’d be doing today, she definitely wouldn’t have said “Drinking free liquor in an expensive gown, at a party in another city.” And yet that was what she was doing.

  Her phone buzzed within the little bag strapped to her wrist, indicating that it was time to return. “Duty calls,” she told herself. Philippe would probably take them to another club or restaurant. Sandy sighed. It was tiring being fabulous for a living. But she wasn’t about to trade it for the future she would have imagined a year ago.

  31

  Post on Nacho Papi’s Web Site, Monday, April 24

  Can someone get me some coffee?

  by Philippe

  What a weekend, kittens. Your faithful servants, Lori, Sandy S., George and myself, were completely caught up in a social whirlwind. From the Miscreant Show in Dallas to the Toro Vodka bash in Atlanta to the grand opening of Cova right here in our own backyard, we covered all the important happenings so you wouldn’t have to. And, if you haven’t yet seen Lori and Sandy in eveningwear, I have to tell you that you’re missing out. Oh, wait—no you aren’t. See pictures, below.

  READER COMMENTS ON CAN SOMEONE GET ME SOME COFFEE?

  God, seeing those pictures makes me wish I had been there. I’m so jealous of all those people who got to go! I wish I could meet you guys!

  Chilly Rellena

  That Philippe is hot. When are you going to introduce me, Sandy??? You always did like to keep all the hot ones to yourself.

  V for Verguenza

  I’ve met Lori. She was in Austin one time, at Roca and my brother-in-law had VIP, and I met her there. She’s even hotter in person.

  Tobster

  They’re all in Austin, menso. They live there. And, V for Verguenza, I’m pretty sure Philippe is gay. Am I the only one who actually reads all the posts? Jeez, people.

  The Wild Juan

  I know who Sandy S. is. She was in my Physical Science lab at UT. She was always stuck-up. Her boyfriend’s a total tool.

  Darky Dark

  Sandy and her boyfriend aren’t together anymore. Not only do I read all the posts, Wild Juan, but also Sandy’s other “secret” blog. You should check it out. It’s hilarious.

  Misty

  32

  Monday afternoon, Sandy drove South on I-35, which was starting to feel like her personal pathway of self-therapy. Every time she took this drive it forced her to mull over what was happening in her life.

  This time, no matter how hard she stared out the windshield or how many times she changed the radio station, she couldn’t stop thinking about the comments on Nacho Papi.

  V for Verguenza was her friend Veronica. She knew that because Veronica had told her. But all those other commenters—she had no idea who they were.

  She’d already become immune to these strangers’ remarks about her looks, her intelligence, and her writing. Positive or negative, they no longer had much effect on her, and she could skim over them without getting very emotional. However, now that the site was gaining ever more popularity, there was a whole new level of personal remarks within the comments. People were coming out of the woodwork now, talking about meeting Sandy and her fellow staffers at events, or seeing them on the streets of Austin, or knowing them in real life.

  Sandy couldn’t imagine who this guy was who’d taken her physical science lab. It was true that she’d kept to herself in that class, but it bothered her that he’d called her stuck up. She had never been stuck up. Concentrating on the subject matter, yes. Tired from her part-time job, yes. Hungover from the night before, maybe. But never stuck up. And it bothered her to have her real-life personality construed that way.

  Sandy felt self-conscious now, everywhere she went. She was always mindful of what she did, and how it might look to others, because someone might recognize her and criticize her behavior on the site. Just the day before, for instance, a waitress at a local café had left a comment about George, saying he was a poor tipper. George had laughed it off, but Sandy had been mortified on his behalf. She promised herself to avoid that sort of situation at all costs if she could help it. She’d be on her guard. Always tip well, always drive well, be nice to everyone, and never pick your nose in public, she reminded herself every hour or so. It was as if she was constantly on camera, even with no cameras in sight.

  Not only that, she had to make sure her hair and makeup were done, too, even if she was only going to the grocery store. She never knew who might be watching, waiting to comment.

  Really, though, as she drove down the highway toward Tío Jaime’s house, all those worries only served as a distraction from what was really bothering her: Who the hell was this Misty person, and how did she know about Sandy’s blog?

  She’d called Veronica and Jane first thing, of course, and asked them if they’d told anyone about it. At first they’d both said no. But then, under pressure, Veronica had admitted to telling two or three other friends. But those friends lived in other states and didn’t know Miss TragiComic Texas was also Sandy S.

  Jane had told her boyfriend but assured Sandy that he couldn’t care less. Then Jane had pointed out that Sandy hadn’t exactly been careful about her anonymity. “Anyone who really wanted to find out who you were, could,” she’d said. “Anyone reading on a regular basis would figure out that you live in Austin, you went to UT, you had a boyfriend who was in the creative writing program.”

  Sandy didn’t want to think about it. She couldn’t imagine anyone going through that kind of trouble in order to dig up the details of her life, or what their purpose would be in doing so. Instead, she decided that this Misty person must have gotten Sandy confused with someone else. Or else she was making idle accusations, for attention. Things like that happened all the time. Sometimes their readers seemed deluded or mentally ill. Maybe Misty was just off her meds. One could always hope, Sandy thought.

  As she neared Tío Jaime’s house, she willed herself to forget about the commenters and concentrate on the task at hand. She was going back to interview the old man for the third time, and this time she had a surprise for him.

  Francisco had designed a Chupacabra T-shirt to sell from the site. They were already doing well with the basic “Nacho Papi’s T-shirt.” Now they were offering one that featured a picture of Tío Jaime, with Cano in the background, under the words the chupacabra is my homeboy.

  This gave Sandy a whole new set of worries. According to her boss, the release that Sandy made all her interviewees sign gave Levy Media carte blanche to use Sandy’s digital imagery as they wished—including making it into T-shirts with catchy slogans.

  But Tío Jaime hadn’t signed the release. And what, Sandy wondered now, would the old man say when he found out? Sandy imagined he’d probably laugh. He had a pretty easygoing sense of humor. But what if he didn’t laugh?

  In actuality, Sandy told herself, she could probably get away with not telling him about it. So what if there were a few hipsters walking up and down the drag wearing T-shirts with the old man’s picture on them? How would Tío Jaime even find out about it?

  But she knew that was wrong, and that she would have to tell him. That’s how she’d been raised: to be honest and to respect one’s elders. She had no choice. If Tío Jaime became upset, she’d have to deal with it, one way or another. And, either way, she’d have to get his signed release form.

  This time she’d called ahead to make sure that, one, he was home and, two, that his nephew Richard was no longer in town.

  She arrived at the old man’s house ready for work in tennis shoes and her oldest jeans. He met her at her car with a glass of minty lemonade, a tonic to prepare her for the work ahead. Sandy noticed Cano waiting on the porch behind him and, to the side of the porch, a single goat fastened to a tree with a length of rope.

  “Meh-eh-eh-eh!” the goat said to her.

  “What’s he do
ing here?” Sandy asked, her voice not nervous as much as hesitant. This wasn’t one of the goats from the petting zoos of her childhood. He was bigger than a big dog and had full-size horns on his head.

  “He’s sick,” said Tío Jaime. “He’s staying here for a while so I can give him medicine.”

  “What kind of sick?” Sandy asked.

  “They got into some trash that someone dumped on the side of the road, and this one ate some glass. So he needs to take a break until his stomach heals all the way.”

  Sandy made a wide circle around the goat, wanting to steer clear of a creature that could eat glass and still stand there meh-ing. She was struck by the sudden thought that, if goats could eat glass and chupacabras could eat goats, then chupacabras weren’t something you wanted to mess with.

  Sandy spent an hour and a half helping Tío Jaime weed his vegetable patch, strengthen fence posts, and give the sick goat his medicine. The goat’s green eyes, with their minus-sign-shaped pupils, widened with fear and unnerved the hell out of her. But then Tío Jaime showed her how to pet the goat, scratching around his horns where the animal couldn’t reach. The poor thing calmed down and closed his eyes halfway, which made him look more like a contented cartoon character and less like a crazed beast associated with Satanic rituals. Sandy and Tío Jaime petted it until it lay down at the base of the tree, and then they retired to the house to wash their hands and fortify themselves with more lemonade.

  In the kitchen, Sandy opened her bag and brought out the bag of croissants she’d picked up from Calypso that morning.

  “What’s this?” asked Tío Jaime. “Bread?”

  She tore open one of the croissants, showing him the cinnamon and almond filling. Then she showed him one of the others, which was filled with chocolate. He said something in Spanish—obviously an expression of pleasant surprise—and took the cinnamon croissant.

  After they were settled on the porch, Sandy opened her bag again. “I have another surprise for you.” Without further introduction, she pulled out the Chupacabra T-shirt.

  It seemed to take Tío Jaime a while to realize that the man pictured on the shirt was him. When he did, however, he laughed. “What an ugly mug,” he said.

  “Do you like it?” Sandy asked, nervousness evident in her voice this time.

  “What is it?” he asked. He read, “ ‘The Chupacabra is my homeboy,’ ” then asked, “Whose homeboy?”

  “Whoever’s wearing the shirt,” Sandy said.

  “But who would want to wear it?” He was genuinely puzzled, as if Sandy had just shown him some piece of advanced technology, or something in another language.

  “Your fans. You have a lot of fans.” Sandy let that sink in, then said, “Everyone who reads our Web site loves your videos and the advice you give. They e-mailed about a hundred more questions for me to ask you. They call you the Chupacabra, and one of our readers said he wished you were his homeboy. And then all the others started saying it, too, so we made this T-shirt for your fans to buy.”

  The old man shook his head. “No. You’re playing a joke on me.”

  “I’m not. Here”—Sandy opened her bag and pulled out her laptop this time—“let me show you….”

  “No.” He waved away the laptop and turned his head as if he were going to refuse even to look at it. “Don’t tell me. Whatever it is, I’m okay not knowing.”

  Sandy frowned. “But I just wanted to show you a screen shot of comments written by your fans.”

  Tío Jaime shook his head again with a grimace. Sandy couldn’t figure it out. He wasn’t angry, obviously. It was almost like he was fearful. Or… disgusted?

  “What’s wrong? Are you upset? Do you wish we hadn’t done the videos?”

  “No,” he said. “It’s not that. I just don’t want to see these people who call themselves my fans. They don’t know me. And it’s not good for a man to walk around with his head all swelled up. Like a false idol.”

  His words made no sense to Sandy. She couldn’t understand what he meant, or why he wouldn’t be happy to have fans hanging on his every word. None of the Nacho Papi readers had requested T-shirts with Sandy’s picture, or with pictures of any of the other staff writers. Tío Jaime—the Chupacabra—had managed to win more fans than any of them, and he didn’t even have to write a thing.

  “Well…” Sandy knew the probable answer to her next question but had to ask it anyway. “So, is it okay with you if we sell the T-shirts on the site? I could… We’d give you a cut of the profits.” That wasn’t true. Angelica had strictly forbidden her staff to offer any kind of payment to their interviewees. That was what the release forms were for—to make sure no one would ask Nacho Papi or Levy Media for money. But Sandy made the offer, figuring she could pay Tío Jaime out of her own salary if that was what it took.

  “No.” He shook his head even harder than before. “I don’t want any money. Listen, m’ija, I didn’t mind doing the interviews or the questions or whatever. That part’s okay. If people like it, and they get to read it for free on your Web site, that’s fine with me. But I don’t want to be selling stuff with my picture on it like I’m some kind of movie star. I’m not. I’m just a regular man, and I want to keep it that way.”

  Sandy didn’t know what else to say. The reporter in her wanted to push for the story, the info, the lead—whether or not it made her source dislike her. But the human being in her wanted to respect this other human being, her friend. He was more than a source or an interview to her now. He was a real-life friend, wasn’t he?

  She decided to compromise. “Okay. We won’t sell the T-shirts. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s okay,” he said, already looking calm again. “I’m not uncomfortable. I just don’t want to do it.” He turned and looked her in the eye, then. “That paper you wanted me to sign—does it say that I give your bosses permission to sell T-shirts?”

  Sandy nodded sheepishly. “That, and other things, yes.”

  “Then I won’t sign it. Sorry, m’ija.”

  “No, don’t be sorry. That’s fine. I… I respect your choice.” Sandy thought fast, trying to come up with a way to salvage what she could from the situation. “But, Tío Jaime, can we keep doing the advice column? Recording you answering the questions?”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” he said.

  As quickly as possible, Sandy pulled out her camera and her notes, hoping the previous conversation hadn’t soured the mood enough to ruin the advice segment she needed to record for her weekly quota. She glanced at Tío Jaime. He had reached for a chocolate croissant and was regarding it meditatively. The first thing she’d have to do when she got back to the office, she realized, was get Angelica to draft a new release form. One that gave permission for the interviews but nothing else. Explicitly stated, and easy for Tío Jaime to understand. Because she wanted him to be able to understand and feel comfortable with what they were doing. Not only because she needed the interviews to generate page views for her salary, but because he was her friend now, and she didn’t want him to be unhappy.

  She would fix everything. Everything would be fine. But first Sandy needed to get her story.

  “Okay. First question is from Junior Senior. He asks, ‘Chupacabra, please tell me once and for all what women want.’ ”

  Tío Jaime turned and looked at Sandy in surprise and undisguised annoyance—so much so that Sandy was almost afraid. “What?” he said. “Somebody asked that? You’re telling me I have a lot of fans on your Web site, but then they ask me stupid questions like that? These people don’t need to be reading Web sites. They need to go back home to their mamas’ houses and do some more growing.”

  Sandy stifled a giggle, then prompted the Chupacabra to continue. “What would Junior ask if he were grown?”

  “Nothing, because he’d realize that there’s no ‘women.’ There’s only the woman you want to be with, and I can’t tell you what she wants because I don’t know her. If he wants to know what a c
ertain woman wants, the best thing to do is ask that woman herself. But if he’s thinking all women are the same—that they all want the same thing out of life—then he needs to go back to school and pull on little girls’ pigtails until one of them hauls off and smacks some sense into him.”

  He scoffed in disbelief and took a bite of his croissant. Sandy zoomed in on the goat tied to the tree, who gratified her with a well-timed “Meh!”

  “Next question,” the Chupacabra commanded. And Sandy obeyed.

  33

  Time: Thursday, May 4, 12:47 PM

  To: Nacho Papi Team

  From: Angelica Villanueva O’Sullivan

  Subject: MEMORANDUM

  As discussed in our last meeting, George’s sudden resignation means that each of us needs to take up his slack with two additional posts per day. I’m holding interviews for his replacement starting next week. Please continue to refer your friends as appropriate.

  Per yesterday’s meeting, the new salary structure goes into effect today. That means page views matter more than ever. Francisco, you were lowest last week—spice it up a little. No more posts about G-Phone apps. Readers are tired of those, and Zoom Phones just purchased an Elite Sponsor Package.