“Wait,
what?
” Sandy said. “He told his
students
about our breakup?”
“He totally did!” Amy continued. She wasn’t as careful about keeping her voice down. Out of the corner of her eye Sandy saw
one of the other customers glancing their way as Amy went on with her story. “And then when Kristy told me about your blog,
and I sent everybody the link, we were totally
dying
, it was so hilarious! And, like, he keeps assigning all these poems about breakups and evil women now, and it’s so hard to
get through class with a straight face—”
Right then, the door bells chimed. Kristy turned to greet the new customer and then, with a comically exaggerated look of
panic, said, “Oh—hi, Daniel!”
Sandy and Amy spun to see that it was, indeed, the same Daniel they’d just been discussing.
“Oh, hi, Mr. Thomas,” Amy said, more casually than Kristy had.
But it wasn’t any help. Daniel froze in an awkward stance, staring at Sandy. Then he turned and left the shop, prompting his
student to say “Awww!” Whether it was because she felt sorry for him or because she was disappointed that the drama had ended
early, Sandy couldn’t tell.
After getting Amy to make her iced mocha as quickly as possible, Sandy drove to work in an emotional debate with herself,
torn between feeling pity and absolute triumph.
It served Daniel right, being humiliated like that. It was the least he deserved after having spilled his guts to his students
about their private lives. Sandy may have mentioned a few things about it on her blog, but she’d never intended for anyone
who knew them in
real life
to read it. Daniel, on the other hand, was obviously trying to drum up sympathy from his young co-ed fan club. Sympathy,
and who knew what else? Maybe a rebound relationship or two?
Maybe she would have felt bad about the students reading her blog entries if Daniel had been any other guy. But he wasn’t.
And now he was finding out how she’d felt the whole time she was his girlfriend. Ignored. Pushed aside. Unappreciated.
Now
he
was the one being pushed aside, and
she
was the one with all the fans. It served him right, she told herself again, so there was absolutely no reason for her to
feel guilty.
And the little voice in the back of her mind that kept telling her, as she drove on, that she’d done something wrong? Sandy
told it to shut up. She was going to enjoy this reversal of fortune, at least for a little while.
S
he made it to the office at noon. Their flight back from LA had arrived a mere thirteen hours before that, so she didn’t expect
any of her fellow staffers to be slaving away at work just yet. Francisco proved her wrong, though. He was sitting at the
conference table clicking back and forth between two laptops when Sandy walked in.
“Hey, Sandy, guess what. Your friend’s T-shirt is highest-grossing this week.”
“What friend?” Sandy assumed he meant the disgusting Official Nacho Papi Nalga Inspector T-shirt George had come up with.
And it was no secret among their co-workers that she and George had been anything but best friends forever.
“You know. Your friend the Chupacabra. Everybody’s homeboy. They’re selling as fast as we can have them printed,” Francisco
said.
Sandy felt the color drain out of her face. “Really?”
“Yep. We’ve sold almost two hundred of them since yesterday.”
Sandy said nothing in reply. There was no use feeling guilty about
that
now, either, she told herself. She had made this decision and now she had to live with it.
She had almost forgotten about the whole thing amidst the excitement of Los Angeles and the news about the TV station. Could
anyone blame her? Here she was, about to make a career transition that most people only dreamed about. And then, flitting
through her brain like a mosquito, there was this petty problem with a T-shirt and a piece of paper.
Not for the first time that week she reminded herself that Tío Jaime would most likely never discover they were printing the
shirts anyway. Who would he know who would buy a joke T-shirt from a gossip Web site? Nacho Papi’s readers were people with
boring corporate jobs who surfed the ’Net all day. Or else they were students. But they definitely weren’t goat ranchers or
cactus farmers. So there was nothing to worry about, was there? And, really, if Tío Jaime had actually understood how much
this T-shirt thing was helping Sandy in her career, he probably would have gone ahead and given his permission.
That was what she told herself—again—as she set up her laptop to review Francisco’s edits on her latest video. Before long
she became engrossed in her work and the Chupacabra went back to lurking in the dark corners of her mind.
Later that day, however, she couldn’t avoid it any longer. It was time for another edition of “Ask the Chupacabra.” Sandy
packed up her equipment and started the long drive out to Tío Jaime’s house. She had to face him as if she hadn’t done anything
wrong.
She
hadn’t
, she reminded herself as she sped down the highway. He
had
given her his permission to use his image, right from the beginning. How was she supposed to know, back then, that he would
later change his mind and get picky about
how
she’d use his image?
Besides, he would never find out anyway. He would never find out, she told herself, over and over again like a yoga student
chanting. How could he ever find out?
She drove south faster, wanting to get it all over with.
Eventually she reached the gold-green fields of cactus and mesquite. Chupacabra Country, she named it in her mind. She slowed
her Malibu and began the sequence of twisty turns that led to the old man’s house.
At the second turn she rounded the corner and almost ran smack into a turquoise VW Bug that had stopped in the middle of the
road. Sandy slammed on her brakes, then pulled over to one side to see what was going on.
Two young men stood in front of the Bug examining a sheet of paper. Sandy could tell by their skinny jeans and kooky hats
that they were hipsters—maybe UT dropouts. Their Bug’s bumper stickers, including the inevitable
KEEP AUSTIN WEIRD
, confirmed her impression.
What were guys like that doing out here? she wondered.
They turned to see who had driven up behind them. Their facial expressions practically shouted “We’re lost!”
Then Sandy noticed their shirts. Specifically their brand-new
THE CHUPACABRA IS MY HOMEBOY
T-shirts re-creating Tío Jaime’s smiling face in double vision.
Oh, no.
There was only one reason they could be all the way out here, in the middle of nowhere, wearing those shirts. They were fans.
As in short for
fanatics
.
She had to drive away before they recognized her. She put her car back into gear, but it was too late.
“Hey!” one of the hipsters called. “Sandy S.!”
They ran over to the front of her car, keeping her from being able to drive away. One of them put his hands on her hood. “Hey,
Sandy S.! Don’t leave! Help us!”
Sandy held her foot on the brake wondering what to do. Her heart was pounding all of a sudden. She was a little afraid. More
than a little, actually. What were these guys doing out here? She was alone and they knew who she was. What would they do
to her if she didn’t drive away right now?
“Sandy!” They ran up to her window and motioned for her to roll it down. She did, but only an inch.
“Don’t leave! Help us, please! We came out here to meet the Chupacabra. We want to interview him for our site! It’s an arts
organization! Can you introduce us? Please?”
The shorter one in the trucker hat did all the talking, and the taller one in the fedora nodded his head furiously in support.
After examining their faces for insanity and their hands for weapons, Sandy put her car back into Park. Their jeans were too
tight to conceal guns or knives. She opened her door, thinking fast all the while.
“Listen, guys,” she said as she emerged from the car and then leaned against it as casually as she could. “I’m sorry, but
I can’t help you.”
“What? Aw, man. Come on, Sandy S.! We’re not trying to steal your gig. We want to ask the Chupacabra about his politics. And,
like, about living off the grid and stuff,” the shorter one said.
“No, I get you,” Sandy said, making her voice as placating as possible. “I feel that. What I’m trying to tell you, though,
is that the Chupacabra doesn’t actually live out here.”
“What?” said both guys.
“Right. He lives in Austin. We just come out here to film his segments.” Sandy saw their faces fall in disappointment and
felt a little bad about lying to them, but not bad enough to quit. “In fact, you just missed him. He just left the set and
drove back to his apartment, off Riverside.”
“Wha-a-at?” they said again, slower and with more sad disillusionment.
“Yeah. We film the interviews at this house out here—it’s my brother’s friend’s house. And the Chupacabra—Well, I shouldn’t
be telling you this, but the man we call the Chupacabra is actually an actor.”
“Aw, man,” the shorter one said. The taller one just stood there looking downcast.
“I’m sorry, guys,” Sandy said, feeling relieved that her story was obviously working. “How’d you find our set, anyway?”
They looked down at the piece of paper they’d been studying, which Sandy now saw was a printout from a mapping site. “We have
this friend,” the shorter guy began. “We showed him your site—your interviews with the Chupacabra. He, um, recognized the
area. Because, um, he, um… used to do stuff out here. Sometimes. So, um, he told us where it was. The general area, I mean.
And so, um, we came out here to look.”
Sandy nodded sympathetically. “Well, that was pretty smart of you. You guys are pretty good reporters.”
They muttered thanks but were obviously completely broken-hearted.
“I’ll tell you what,” Sandy said, suddenly thinking up the perfect way to end it. “Do you have a card? For your Web site?”
“What? Uh.” They searched their tight pockets without luck. Then the taller one ran to their Bug and retrieved something from
the backseat. He brought it to Sandy and she saw that it was a flier for an event, printed on red construction paper. The
hipster folded it so that the blank side showed, and then they began searching their pockets again. Intuitively, Sandy opened
her own car door to get a pen from her bag.
After asking them to write their Web address and contact information on the backside of the flier, Sandy promised she’d contact
them about doing a segment for Nacho Papi. They thanked her again, much more cheerfully now. They turned back to their Bug,
but Sandy stopped them. “Guys, everything I just told you, about the Chupacabra being an actor? And about his house being
my brother’s big weight-lifting jock friend’s house? I need you guys to keep that secret, okay? I need you guys not to blow
my cover. Reporter to reporter. You know what I’m saying?”
They nodded and said they knew what she was saying. “Don’t worry, Sandy S. We’ll say that we found his house and he pulled
out a shotgun.”
“Good. That’s good. All right. I’ll be contacting you guys about the interview for your organization, then.”
And with that, they left. Sandy stood watching and waving until they were gone. And then she stood there for a while longer,
congratulating herself for handling the situation so well.
She got into her car, turned it around, and drove back north. She couldn’t do any more work today, she decided. Because, all
of a sudden, she felt sick to her stomach.
Post on Nacho Papi’s Web Site, Thursday, May 11
by Sandy S.
For Part 32 in the eternal saga that is their breakup, Lawrence Villalobos is now claiming that he was the one to break up
with Sara Milan, and that he did so because of her drug use and “reckless behavior.”
Come on, Laurencito. We all loved you in that movie about Cesar Chavez, but you’re eroding that goodwill faster than you snorted
those lines on DJ Kabuki-O’s yacht. We all know what happened between you and Sara, and the best you can do now is accept
it, haul yourself through rehab, and then call your agent and try to get booked for another tear-jerker.
Speaking from recent personal experience, there’s nothing more pathetic than a man who can’t take a breakup like a man.
Time: Thursday, May 11, 4:02 PM
To: Dominga Saavedra
From: Daniel Thomas
Subject: your words
Sandy,
I have to say that I’m disappointed, to say the least, in your decision to discuss our breakup in a public forum.
I understand that bitterness may be eclipsing your better judgment. But I would ask that you endeavor to take the high road,
as I have.
Sincerely,
Daniel Thomas, Ph.D.
Time: Monday, May 15, 10:54 PM
To: Dominga Saavedra
From:
[email protected]
Subject: Hi from your dad
Dear Sandy,
How’ve you been? Sorry I haven’t written much lately. Things have been busy at work. And with other things…
I’ve been trying to read your website when I get the chance. It’s kind of confusing but I did see some of your articles and
thought they were good. You have a biting wit that I envy. Wish I could write as well as you.
Hope to see you soon. Hope you’re doing well. And your mother.
Love,
Dad
I
t’d been another long working weekend. Now that Toro vodka was officially an Elite Sponsor, Sandy was obliged to attend their
functions and be videotaped, wearing a different borrowed dress and coming up with creative, not-obviously-sponsored posts
to write each time. She’d figured out that the best method was to drink one Pure NRG water for every two Toro vodkas and to
befriend the Toro girls, who gave her the best story leads.