“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 little 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.
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.
Boston Mike
Shut up, Boston Mike. More from the Chupacabra, please! He kicks it!
La Sirena
Yeah, more Chupacabra… and more Sandy S., too. Show us your cute glasses again. I’d pay to see you in those glasses and nothing
else.;)
Donny the Man
You’d better be careful, Donny. I’m pretty sure Sandy’s spoken for.
Michelle
S
andy scrolled through the comments on her Chupacabra interview and felt a little sick.
“It’s great, isn’t it?” Angelica had sneaked up behind her like a cat. She was even wearing a leopard-print top. “We’ve received
nearly a thousand page views on that Chupacabra piece, and it’s only been up for six hours.”
“Where are they all coming from?” Sandy wondered aloud.
“Some followed links from our sister sites, and some followed links that we seeded elsewhere.”
“Oh.” Sandy hesitated, then ventured to say, “Somehow, I didn’t think the comments would be about
me
.” She was used to negative opinions from readers, of course; she’d gotten her share of crank e-mails while writing for LatinoNow.
But this anonymous commenting on Nacho Papi was a whole new ball game for her. Especially now that the readers could see her
online, in digital video.
Angelica leaned over Sandy’s shoulder for a closer look at the computer screen. “Oh, that. Yes, that happens. Just ignore
it. Don’t take it personally. Listen, can you interview this Chupacabra character again? Make him a regular feature?”
Sandy nodded and Angelica sailed off to another corner of the office, leaving her alone with the comments of twenty-odd strangers.
It was difficult
not
to take it personally, she thought. At least, she reminded herself, she wasn’t using her legal name on the site. It was small
comfort, but it helped to know that potential future employers wouldn’t be able to search for Dominga Saavedra and find out
that Boston Mike thought she was politically ignorant, or that Donny the Man wanted to see her naked.
L
ATER THAT DAY
the mysterious Philippe finally put in his appearance. He walked in with Angelica, having come directly from the airport.
He was explaining to her about a cancelled event and an issue with his living situation that had allowed him to leave California
and fly into Austin early.
The first thing Sandy noticed about him was his extreme physical attractiveness. He was model handsome, practically. Tall,
slim, and impeccably dressed. His hair was cropped very short, but, unlike George’s, it wasn’t only because he was starting
to go bald. It looked like Philippe’s curly hair was purposely cut short to show every inch of his face and the perfect shape
of his head.
Sandy couldn’t help wondering what kind of Latino he was. He was either a very light-skinned Dominican or a somewhat island-looking
South American. Or, no, he was probably mixed, she decided. Filipino with Puerto Rican? Salvadoran with Samoan? Whatever the
combination was, it had blended beautifully.
She and George were the only staff members in the office at the moment. Angelica introduced them, and Philippe shook their
hands and expressed admiration for their work. “George, I really enjoyed your piece about the Minute Men taking on Chuck Norris.
It was hilarious. Sandy, I admire your political commentary. And I
loved
your interview with the Chupacabra.”
Sandy felt herself flush with pleasure as she took Philippe’s hand. She liked this guy already.
“Yeah, it’s nice meeting you, man,” said George. “Can’t wait to work with you. Angelica, I’m out of here. I’ll talk to you
guys later.”
With that he made good on his word and left the office. Sandy looked at the clock. It was already six. Where had the time
gone?
“Well.” Philippe rubbed his hands together. “Which of you ladies wants to show me the best place around here to have a drink?”
T
WO HOURS LATER
, Sandy was sitting next to Philippe on a velvet sofa at the Grenadine Lounge, in as deep a conversation as she would have
had with Jane or Veronica, or with Daniel, if they ever had deep conversations anymore.
Angelica had joined them for one cocktail, and then left to fulfill a prior engagement. Sandy had enjoyed socializing with
her boss, but she was enjoying herself even more now that Angelica was gone and Philippe could tell his stories about her.
“So Angelica told her, ‘Leave your contact at the door, then. Because I can train you for the job, but not if you’re going
to spend all your time under my boss’s desk.’ ”
“What? No
way!
” Sandy squealed.
“Oh, yes, she did.” Philippe took a sip of his dirty martini and nodded. “You haven’t seen yet how she can be. But wait until
someone acts up.”
“Oh, I believe it. We’re all kind of scared of her already.”
Philippe laughed. “You don’t have to be
scared
. Just do your job well and you won’t have to worry. You take care of business, and Angelica will take care of you.”
“She gave me a makeover,” Sandy quietly admitted.
He nodded again. “I could tell. Your look has her signature all over it. Plus she said you were born here in Austin, but you
don’t look like it now.”
“Really?” Sandy laughed. It was true. All around them women wore flip-flops with their shorts or jeans, or, at the most formal,
cotton sundresses. Sandy almost felt overdressed in her trousers and red patent flats. No, actually, she felt professional,
like she had a career that encompassed more than the local scene. “You know, I was scared to death when she made me do it.
I was afraid…”
“That you’d end up looking like her? With the big blond hair and long sharp nails?”
Sandy laughed again but lifted her cosmopolitan to her mouth so she wouldn’t have to agree or disagree.
“That’s her own personal style, and everyone who knows her expects her to rock it to the limits. But Angelica keeps up with
the rest of the world, and if there’s anything she knows how to do, it’s build somebody’s image. You should feel lucky she’s
taking an interest in you. You gave her good material to work with.”
“Thanks.” Sandy felt herself blush again, but completely innocently. Over the course of the evening Philippe had dropped hints
that he had at least one man waiting for him in the wings and, therefore, it’d be a waste of time for Sandy to get too revved
up by his compliments. She’d had gay friends before, of course, and knew better than to fall for men who were so completely
unavailable.
Nevertheless, she was having a really good time with him. Philippe was witty and chivalrous and full of good stories. She
had the feeling, already, that they’d be friends.
“Are you getting tired of this place? It’s kind of quiet here, isn’t it?” he asked. “Let’s go somewhere else, maybe get a
bite to eat. Do you have to be up early tomorrow? Do you like to dance? Let me treat you—we’ll call it research for my upcoming
posts on Austin’s nightlife.”
“Sure.” Sandy reached for her purse just in time to hear her phone ring. It was Daniel calling. She flipped her phone open
and, after a second’s hesitation, hit the Ignore button and let him roll to voice mail.
“Do you need to take that?” Philippe asked politely.
“No.” Sandy put her phone back into her purse. “No, I can call him back later.” She stood and smiled at Philippe brightly.
“Come on. Let’s ditch this dump and go have some fun.”
They did have fun then. Sandy was embarrassed, at first, that she didn’t know any place to go other than college hangouts.
But they called Lori for suggestions and ended up at a much swankier lounge than Sandy would’ve ventured into on her own.
Then Philippe showed her a skill that she’d never learned in J school. “Can you help us out?” he asked their bartender politely.
“We write for Levy Media—it’s a national online entertainment syndicate—and we’re working on a story about the best hangouts
in all the major cities. Any suggestions?”
The bartender, a young man who looked like he was waiting to be discovered as the next
Top Pop Idol
contestant, giggled and chatted with them for a while after that before turning to another customer.
“Why’d you do that?” Sandy asked. “We can just ask Lori again if you want to go somewhere else.”
“You’ll see,” said Philippe. In the blink of an eye their bartender was back with a round of shots.
“Here, you guys,” he said. “On the house. Tell me more about your site. Are you going to cover South by Southwest? I have
a band, and…”
And so it went, from club to club. Philippe had a knack not only for scoring free drinks, but also for promoting the Nacho
Papi brand. People fell over themselves to give Philippe and Sandy their cards and suggest stories to them, and to make note
of the site’s name. “So they can check it tomorrow and see if we mention them,” Philippe explained to Sandy later. “So be
sure to give shout-outs to the people and places you really liked, and you’ll be hooked up for life.”
At one thirty they met up with Lori at her bar and had yet another free round. Then, at two, she punched out and joined them
for an after-hours breakfast at a diner on South Congress. She and Philippe got along just as well as Sandy had known they
would, and the three of them talked and laughed through many, many songs on the jukebox.
Sandy climbed the stairs to her apartment at four thirty in the morning, dead tired but elated by the instant memories of
the most exhilarating night she’d had in months. She dutifully undressed and washed her face, but was too tired to transform
her sofa into a bed and so fell asleep facedown on top of it.
On the coffee table, inside her purse, her phone kept up the weary flashing it’d repeated all night. One, two, three, four
voice mails and text messages from Daniel. But Sandy had been too busy to notice, and was now deep in neon-lit dreams.
G
irl, where in the hell have you been?”
That was Veronica, on Sandy’s cell phone. Sandy took her macchiato and a bottle of water from the drive-through clerk of a
chain coffee place before answering. She was hungover and didn’t have the strength to endure her usual coffeehouse, Calypso,
on a Saturday morning, when it would doubtless be crowded and noisy.
“I’ve been working. You know, running around looking for stories, like I always do.”
“I guess,” Veronica said, as if that didn’t quite explain it. “I just haven’t heard from you. I have to get online to find
out what’s going on. Oh, my God!” Her voice modulated up into a higher pitch here. “Sandy,
who
are these crazy people talking about you on Nacho Papi? About seeing you naked and stuff? Do you
know
them?”
Sandy winced at the shrillness of her friend’s voice, and at the memory of the comments left by Donny the Man and others.
She had pulled into the parking lot of an old-fashioned mall that no one ever visited because she couldn’t drive, talk to
Veronica,
and
drink coffee simultaneously. But she needed to drink the coffee immediately. So she sat behind the wheel of her parked car,
enormous bug-eye sunglasses shielding her from the unmerciful mid-morning sun, and double-fisted her macchiato and water while
using her shoulder to press the phone to her ear. A hundred feet away, the mall entrance sat sullen and dark. Sandy could
just make out poster-board signs attached to the glass doors. They proclaimed “Say NO to GIGA-MART” and “Keep Austin WEIRD,
DAMMIT!” It wasn’t an inspiring scene.