Lone Star Legend (14 page)

“Where are the others?” he asked.

“Uh, I don’t know.” Sandy didn’t feel like explaining what was going on in the other room.

“Hmm.” He took another drink of his beer, and then walked away just as abruptly as he’d shown up.

Sandy looked around for Jeremy, but he’d melted away into the crowd.

“Put your hands up in the air
again!
” the DJ shouted into his microphone. He was starting to give Sandy a headache. She moved away from the crowd, toward the
wall that didn’t have the hidden room, opposite the entrance, thinking that the deck had to be in that direction. She passed
shot girls counting their tips and janitors scooping empty cups into trash bags, and did eventually find a glass door leading
to a second-story deck. There was a uniformed security guard waiting right outside the door. “No drinks outside,” he told
her gruffly. She showed him her empty hands and he nodded. She walked out among benches and tables made of the same wood as
the deck, some occupied by couples in conversation. The rail that edged this overgrown balcony was surrounded by the tallest
magnolia trees Sandy had ever seen. The wind was starting to cool, but it felt good after the stuffiness of the club. She
leaned against the railing and looked out. Below her, the street was peppered with people who’d recently left the nearby bars
and hotels. Above her were the stars that’d been strong enough to shine through the dusty, lamp-lit air.

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.

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

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.

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

M
onday 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 doing 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.