Lone Star Legend Page 7

  3. New writer: Philippe Montemayor is flying in this weekend and will join us on Monday.

  4. New assignments: Lori and Francisco, you are going to San Antonio tomorrow to cover Iguana Cantina. George, you are covering the leaked Minute Men memo. Philippe, you are turning in the expose on Heather Santiago’s wedding freebies. Sandy, you are researching the Chupacabra story for angles.

  Please notify me if you are unable to complete your assignments. Thank you all. You’re doing a great job and I know you’ll do even better in the coming weeks.

  One more thing: Everyone, please do not mention local bars and restaurants more than once per month, regardless of how many free drinks they’re giving you, unless they have purchased sponsor packages from the site.

  Cordially yours,

  AVO

  20

  Blog entry from My Modern TragiComedy, Thursday, April 6

  My look, it is a-changin’

  So I had to get a makeover for my new job. Don’t hate me because I’m shallow, but I really like it. I had my doubts when my boss first suggested it. But I have to say that it feels pretty good to look pretty. Prettier. Instead of just witty and bright, you know? I’m no bombshell, but the drag worms are actually complimenting me when they panhandle now. Instead of just saying “Hey, brainy girl, got a dollar?” like they used to.

  HTGB seems to like it, too. Well, if his stunned silence was any indication. I told him I’d felt like making a change. He said “Looks like change agrees with you.”

  Hey, speaking of—disregard all that stuff I said about him last week, would you? I was just talking crazy talk. Just venting. You know how it goes. Everything’s back to normal now and we’re as happy as we can be, two lovebirds in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G, et cetera.

  Crazy Mom Report

  Not only did my mom like my makeover, but she managed to completely traumatize me while telling me so, too. She’s so good at that: turning random moments into events that make you question all your life decisions up to that point and probe at the illusion of your own freaking sanity.

  I remember that day I graduated, two years ago now. It was a bittersweet day. On the one hand, I was proud as hell of myself for having busted butt towards my bachelor’s, through a hellish Copy Center job and with minimal help from loans and my dad. All my friends were there, ready to help me celebrate.

  On the other hand, my parents were there, fresh from their divorce. My dad—smart as hell but clueless when it comes to relationships—had brought along his new girlfriend, who was much younger than my mom and who happened to work at the university. So, even if she felt awkward showing up at her boyfriend’s daughter’s graduation, at least she was in her element.

  Unlike my mom, who’d shown up alone. And way overdressed, of course.

  Maybe it was only because she was nervous, but I remember that she picked at me the whole time. “You should have worn more makeup!” and “”You should have worn higher heels!” and “Why is he with her? She isn’t even pretty!”

  And then, on the way home, she said the words that have been burned into my brain ever since: “I hope you’re not going to have a big head now, like your daddy.”

  It was supposed to be a joke, but I didn’t feel like laughing. Basically, that’s what my six years of hard work boiled down to for my mother—an excuse for me to feel superior, and a point for my dad’s side in their everlasting battle.

  Why am I bringing all this up now? I don’t know. It’s just been on my mind, I guess. Almost two years later, my dad’s still with the same girlfriend, and my mom’s still annoyed by it. I wonder if that’s why I haven’t heard from him lately—he doesn’t want to stir up any more drama.

  Almost two years later, and my mom’s still picking at me. Are my heels high enough? Is my hair done enough? Is that all she cares about? Is that still what she thinks is going to make me succeed in life?

  I love my mom, but sometimes I wish I had a slightly better female role model. Someone who knows how the real world works, you know? Someone who can understand what I’m trying to get out of life, and isn’t only concerned with lip gloss and nail polish and he-said-she-said.

  Well, there I go again, getting all deep. But you don’t mind, do you? This is a message in a bottle, landing on your shore. You don’t have to open it. And you can always throw it back to me.

  Love,

  Miss TragiComic Texas

  Reader comments:

  Miss TragiComic,

  Oh my God, I feel like you spied on my life and then turned around and wrote about it like it was your own.

  My mom does the exact same thing to me, and I haven’t even graduated yet. In front of her friends and our family, she says she’s proud of me. But when we’re alone, she’s always making these little comments like “I guess you think you’re smarter than the rest of us, little miss college girl.”

  I don’t know what to do about it. Like you said, she pretends she’s kidding. But it still hurts.

  Thank you so much for writing this. At least I know I’m not the only one feeling it.

  Comment left by: Anonymous

  Hey, Miss TCTX! Any chance we can get some before and after pictures of the makeover?:):):)

  Comment left by: Peaches

  21

  It’s not fair,” Sandy said into the phone as she drove down I-35 toward the middle of nowhere. “I should be the one covering the Minute Men leak, but Angelica gave it to that idiot. I know it’s because he’s always in her office, sucking up to her.”

  “But I thought she liked you, too,” said the disembodied voice of her friend Jane, through the cell phone.

  “She does. At least, I thought she did. She told me all that stuff, when we were shopping, about how I reminded her of herself when she was young. But who knows? Maybe she gives that speech to everyone.” Sandy felt glum at the thought. She took her exit on mental autopilot, eyes on the road and head full of worry. Cacti flecked the road on either side of her, almost like bread crumbs leading the way.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “I’m driving out to where they allegedly found the chupacabra tracks. Check this out—it’s right by my Aunt Linda’s house. The one who died, whose house me and my mom just went to? I can’t find anything good online yet, so I’m going out to see what I can see. And—I don’t know, talk to the neighbors or something.” Saying her plan aloud made Sandy realize just how little she had to go on with this story.

  “Wow, that sucks,” said Jane. “Well, good luck. Here’s hoping you find a chupacabra. Hey, why don’t you look for Bigfoot out there, while you’re at it?” She stifled a laugh.

  “Why, you looking for a new man?” Sandy returned in the same tone.

  “No, but I am looking for more free stuff from my famous friend. When are you going to get us VIP at Red Top again?” Jane was talking about last weekend, when Sandy had covered a show at a new club downtown and was able to invite Jane and her boyfriend along.

  “I told you,” Sandy said, rolling her eyes. “That was a one-time deal. Believe me, the next time something like that comes up, I’ll let you know. Don’t tell me you’re going to start planning your social life around my job perks.”

  “I’m trying to,” rejoined Jane. “I can keep giving you Capitol gossip, but only if you keep scoring us more free booze.”

  THE SITE OF the alleged chupacabra sighting was practically in Tío Jaime’s backyard, just as Sandy had suspected. She passed two news vans on the way to his house, across the road from each other, both taping their Latino anchors standing in front of mesquite trees. Sandy slowed to get a look and the crews spared her nothing more than weary glances. There was no chupacabra in sight.

  Sandy drove directly to Tío Jaime’s house, figuring she might as well. The old man was standing on his porch with his hat in his hand and his dog at his side, looking hot and tired, as if they’d just arrived there after a morning of hard work. There was a clump of goats in the distance, milling around slow
ly and peacefully. No monsters among them. Although Sandy was in her Malibu and not her mom’s Town Car, Tío Jaime recognized her and waved for her to proceed up his driveway.

  “How are you, m’ija? Where’s your mama?” he asked as she emerged from the car, her trusty olive corduroy hanging from her shoulder.

  “She’s at home. I came by myself.”

  “Did you need to get into your aunt’s house? Do you need the key?” he asked. Before she could answer, he said, “Do you want something to drink? I was about to get some lemonade.”

  “Thank you.” Sandy was obliged to follow him into the house. “Actually, Tío Jaime, I came out here for another reason.”

  He led the way into his kitchen. His dog waited outside the screen door like a sentry. “I’ll get you some water, too, Cano.”

  Sandy stood quietly for a moment, wondering how to explain what she was doing. Tío Jaime didn’t seem overly curious. He filled a glass with tap water and carried it out to the dog’s water bowl. When he came back into the kitchen, he washed his hands methodically before taking two glasses from a cupboard and setting them on the table. Then, still silent, as if waiting for her answer but not in a big hurry to hear it, he went to the old, yellowed Frigidaire in the corner of the kitchen and removed a glass pitcher that had been draped with a piece of plastic wrap. It was filled with pale yellow lemonade and slices of lemon. It looked tantalizingly cold. Sandy realized she was thirsty and sat down gratefully, setting her bag on the chair beside her.

  The old man poured them lemonade and then went back to the refrigerator for another glass, this one full of plant stems and water. “It’s mint,” he explained as he pulled leaves from the stems and put them in Sandy’s glass. “It makes it taste better. Linda taught me that.”

  “Thank you.” Sandy took her glass and sipped. Her great-aunt had been right—it did taste good with the mint. “Do you…” She glanced at Tío Jaime, who was now seated and sipping his own drink, looking out the front door at his dog or maybe just looking into the distance at nothing. “Do you miss her?” she ventured.

  “Every day,” he said with a smile. And that was all.

  Sandy absorbed the gravity of his words. He had loved her great-aunt. It was obvious. And the way he’d said it, it sounded like the most natural thing and not subject to prying questions. She reminded herself that she was supposed to be on assignment. “The reason I came out here was that I work for a news Web site. I’m sort of a reporter.”

  “You’re a writer,” he said.

  “Right. And there’s been a report about a chupacabra in this neighborhood.” Tío Jaime snorted at that. Sandy went on, feeling foolish. “And I have to do a story about it. That’s my job. And I thought I’d ask you, since you live out here. Maybe you’ve seen… maybe you knew something about—”

  The old man laughed aloud then. “Maybe I’ve seen a chupacabra? M’ija, I’ve seen a lot of things out here, but a chupacabra ain’t one of them. I’m more likely to have seen a rabid dog eating one of my goats. Or some drunk running off the road and hitting one of them. Or a bunch of fraternity boys coming out here in the middle of the night and doing God knows what with each other in their underwear, and one of my poor goats getting caught up in the crossfire.”

  Sandy set down her glass and opened her bag, scrambling for her notebook. She knew good quotes when she heard them. But her hand landed on her camera first, giving her a better idea. “Really? Have you seen those things?” His answer almost didn’t matter. His words created good visuals.

  “I’ve seen that and worse in my years. All kinds of crazy things.”

  Sandy pulled her camera out of her bag. “Tío Jaime, would you mind if I interviewed you, and recorded it? With this?” She held up her tiny digital camera, wondering if he’d ever seen one.

  He glanced at it, bemused. “Sure, m’ija. Do whatever you need to do.”

  Sandy set up as quickly as she could, not wanting to lose the mood. She decided against holding the camera and, instead, quickly propped it on her bag on the kitchen table, using the view finder to make sure that it kept Tío Jaime’s face in frame. Once it was recording, she returned to their subject.

  “So you’re saying that it probably isn’t really a chupacabra killing goats around here—that it’s more likely a rabid dog or a drunken frat boy?”

  Tío Jaime laughed again. He didn’t look at the camera at all, but he did seem aware of it as he looked at Sandy. His voice picked up and there was an extra sparkle in his eye. “Hell, there’s no chupacabras around here. If there’s any chupacabra in this town, it might as well be me.” When he said this, his dog barked. Sandy quickly turned the camera to capture Cano watching them through the screen door, tail wagging and a dog smile on his face as if he were listening and enjoying his master’s remarks. She panned back to Tío Jaime’s face as he expounded, “No one pays me any mind out here. I could work all day, or I could keel over and die, for all anybody cared. I don’t ask anyone for anything and nobody offers. But if I were to skip paying my property taxes one time, then the government would scream bloody murder, as if I was a monster stealing their goats in the middle of the night.” He laughed grimly at his own idea and paused to take a sip of his lemonade. “They found a goat half eaten, half a mile away. Nobody knew whose it was or where it came from. Then someone said it must have been a chupacabra, and now we have the news out here. Well, I’ll tell you… last time a goat came up missing, it belonged to one of the white ranchers out here, and the first person he suspected was me. I was the damned chupacabra that time, and the news came out here looking to do stories about illegal aliens hiding out in the sticks. I was the big monster—the evil mojado.”

  “Did they do a story about you? Are you an illegal alien?” Sandy asked.

  “Nope. I got amnesty way back, twenty, thirty years ago. I took it when they offered it and became a U.S. citizen. I figured it was the least they could do for me, after all the years I worked here for less than minimum wage. I thought of it as a bonus, you know? A Christmas bonus for thirty years of faithful service. They came out here to find the evil goat-stealing chupacabra, but I had shifted my shape, and all they found was a harmless old man with his papers all in order.”

  Cano barked again and Sandy turned the camera again, wishing she could catch him in the act. Tío Jaime sipped his drink and fell into silence. Sandy prompted him, “Was it worth it, then?”

  He took a moment to consider. “I guess so. In the end, it was. I have my land. I have my place here, whether people think I deserve it or not. I have a couple of spoiled nephews and nieces who live in the suburbs and play video games all day and wouldn’t know hard work if it bit them on their soft behinds. I guess it’s worth it, then, huh? That’s the American dream they keep telling us about, right?” He looked right at the camera then, as if remembering it was there, and laughed. Sandy had to laugh along with him.

  AN HOUR LATER, after Sandy had turned off her camera, she remembered her duty and pulled a fresh, blank release form from her bag.

  “Tío Jaime, would you mind signing this?”

  He took the piece of paper from her and held it at arm’s length, squinting as if farsighted. “What is it?”

  “A release form,” Sandy said. “It’s a document that you sign, showing that you give permission for me to use this film of you on our Web site.” She reached into her bag again for a pen. The old man peered at the form and Sandy wondered if she should go over its clauses with him one by one. She didn’t want to insult him by assuming that he couldn’t read and understand them for himself. But before she could risk doing that, he handed the paper back to her.

  “It’s okay. You have my permission.”

  Sandy smiled. “Thank you. But, if you could just sign…”

  Tío Jaime shook his head. “I don’t need to sign. I trust you. You’re going to put this stuff on your Web site. I don’t know who’d want to look at it, but you can go ahead.”

  “But Tío Jaime, it’s a l
ittle more than that. The form has a few details about you granting us the rights to use your image, and I need you to sign it before I can turn in my footage.” Sandy handed it back to him hopefully.

  The old man took it but, instead of signing, folded it in half and tucked it under his lemonade glass. “Well, I’ll look at it, then. It’s kind of hard for me to read it right now. If I decide to sign it, I can give it to you next time you visit.”

  Sandy sat back, deciding not to push it. She didn’t blame him for wanting to read it carefully—a lot of people did—but got the impression that he was too proud to admit to her that his eyesight was poor. Maybe he preferred to wait for her to leave before pulling out his reading glasses, she thought. “Okay. I’ll get it from you next time. If it’s all right with you, though, I’d like to go ahead and turn in this interview to my editor when I get back to town. Is that okay?”

  “Sure, m’ija, sure,” he said. “I already told you—I trust you.”

  Relieved, Sandy smiled and took a sip of her lemonade. Now she could enjoy herself for a few moments before driving back to the office.

  And, when she did drive back, she would turn in what she’d discovered about the chupacabra. And, she hoped, Angelica would love it.

  22

  Reader comments on Nacho Papi’s Web Site, Friday, April 7

  Who is this Chupacabra guy? He cracks me up!

  JB

  Word up, Chupacabra. Nobody gives a shit about Latinos until it’s time to find somebody to do some hard work, or somebody to blame. Tell it like it is, hombre!

  The Wild Juan

  Who is this old man whining about getting free citizenship? He should be greatful. This is exactly the kind of crap post I’ve come to expect from politically ignorant Sandy S.