Lone Star Legend (29 page)

“Right.” It filled Sandy’s mouth with a bad taste just imagining it, but she reminded herself that she’d be helping her friend.
Besides, how could it be worse or more humiliating than everything that’d already happened to her online? It couldn’t.

“All right. Luckily, Jacob had the foresight to create the Levy Foundation last year for the Banana Nation charity event.
So we can just funnel your auction money through the foundation and create a grant for the Chupacabra, and keep it all on
the up-and-up.”

“Sure. Sounds good.” Sandy didn’t care about the technicalities at this point.

“Well, we’ll get the ball rolling, then.” Angelica stood and gave Sandy her highest-wattage smile. “Glad to have you back,
Sandy. You had me worried there for a minute, but I knew you’d come back fighting in the end. You’re like me—you’re too strong
to let a little gossip get you down.”

Sandy followed her boss out of the office, feeling like she’d just made a deal with the devil. She knew what Angelica was
hoping for: a big blow-out with George, with every last detail caught on camera and granted in perpetuity to the Levy Media
Money Machine.

No matter what, Sandy told herself, she’d go through it with her head held high. If there was any fodder for ridicule,
she
wouldn’t be the one to create it, at least.

“Sandy! I’m so glad you’re feeling better!” La Sirena caroled at her from a corner of the staff room.

Sandy returned her fake smile. “Me too!”

“Ladies, let’s go. We have a show to record,” said Angelica, leading the way out of the office and down the hall toward the
studio. “Trisha, I want you to go ahead and do the segment on Tito Jimenez’s steroid ring. Sandy, you’ll pair up with George
for the
Semana in Pictures
.”

Two hours later, Sandy sat behind the counter on the news set, primped, prepped, and well lighted. Next to her, George sat
on the other stool, forcing the prettiest intern to double-check the powder on his nose.

Show them what you’re made of
. Sandy repeated the sentence in her mind like an old woman saying the rosary. On the outside she looked serene as a saint,
her legs crossed at the ankles as she patiently waited for taping to begin. Behind them, images of starlets, pop stars, and
athletes flashed like playing cards on the big monitor.

“So, Sandy, long time no see, huh? I mean, not counting Friday, huh?” George’s chatter was as inane as always.

“Right. I haven’t seen you since you left for Buzz News,” she replied calmly.

“Yeah. Listen, about that—” he started. But that was as far as he got. The director called their cue and it was time to begin
working.

“Hey, hey, HEY,” George said to the camera. “It’s time for the
Semana in Pictures
, and this week my cohost is the lovely Sandy S.”

“Good evening, everyone,” Sandy said to the camera. Already she felt her persona falling into place. She was Sandy S., internationally
read Web writer and prime-time cable personality. Her viewers and readers were watching, and it was time to be pretty, witty,
and bright for them.

“First up,” said George, as he and Sandy swiveled to address the monitor, “we have a specimen of Amber Chavez and Husband
Number Three, Carlitos Buenaventura.” The monitor obligingly showed a photograph of the two celebrities on a beach, actress/singer/model
Amber pretending not to pose for the camera and her husband standing behind her looking pale and sickly. “Ladies first, so
I’ll let you have first crack at analysis, Sandy.”

Sandy struck a faux-thoughtful pose, then launched into the spiel she’d brainstormed an hour before. “The body language is
very interesting in this one, George. Amber’s says, ‘Look at me, but please pay no attention to the hairy mole on my back.
I’m having that removed next month.’ Meanwhile, his gestures very clearly say, ‘I need the blood of human babies to survive.’ ”

Someone behind the camera laughed. Sandy flashed a quick smile and noted that Angelica had come out to watch their segment.

“I agree completely, Sandy. And now—I know you hate it when I do this—but I have to make note of Amber’s famous nalgas. She’s
not filling out that white bikini quite as well as she could be in the back. In fact”—the monitor switched to a Nacho Papi–made
graphic, progressive views of Amber’s backside over several years. Above the images were logos of brands for which Amber had
served as spokeswoman. George continued, “I have to point out that, when she first modeled for Thuggin’ jeans, Amber looked
a lot healthier. Then, as you can see from our time-lapse photography, she lost a little weight for Solamente Amber perfume,
then a little more for Vida water. And now that she’s modeling for Prosecco bags, she’s lost way too much.” He turned to address
the camera directly. “Amber, get back into your mamma’s kitchen, girl. Eat you some arroz y frijoles!”

More chuckles from behind the camera. Sandy waited a beat and then did her bit. “Normally, George, I’d call you a disgusting
sexist pig for pointing that out, but I have to say, instead, that the research shows Amber’s only hurting herself.” The monitor
switched to another silly graphic, charting record sales along the curve of a woman’s butt. “Nacho Papi has found that there’s
a direct, inverse correlation between Amber’s butt size and her record sales. So, Amber, please—if you can’t bear to eat the
beans and rice anymore, at least have a little more caviar.”

Sandy didn’t get as many laughs as George, but she never expected to. She was the serious one on this show. She did the dry
humor. She classed it up a little, if that were at all possible.

It was time for their next celebrity hazing. The monitor showed a photograph of actor Jared Rider holding up a cell phone
and smirking in a crowded nightclub.

George said, “A sex video of Sabrina Lopez and Joe Villarreal mysteriously turned up on the Internet this week. The video
was linked to Jared Ryder, another of Sabrina’s exes. He denies responsibility, but it’s pretty obvious that he had
something
to do with it. What do you make of it, Sandy?” He indicated the man on the monitor. “Is Jared trying to get revenge for Sabrina
dumping him, or is it all a publicity stunt?”

Sandy turned to face George. She opened her mouth to say the lines they’d planned. But then, instead, she thought of something
funnier. “I don’t know, George. Isn’t that
your
department? Selling the details of a woman’s romantic life just to get a little attention?”

This time, everyone behind the camera cracked up. There was a “Whoa!” and even Angelica laughed. Sandy held her “thoughtful”
pose throughout the hoots and guffaws. George waited, too, for the laughter to subside, nodding his head and looking, finally,
a little embarrassed.

“Touché, Sandy. Touché,” he said. And then the control room put up the next celebrity target.

After the taping was done, George turned to Sandy with a rueful smile. “That was cold, Sand. I guess I deserved it, though.”

“You did,” she replied with a sweet smile of her own.

“You know, for the record, I have to point out to you that that article did us both a lot of good. It increased our page views
by, like, a thousand percent. I’m sure you got hundreds of new fans who wouldn’t have known about your writing before.”

“Right. And hundreds of new anti-fans, too.” Sandy kept her voice mild, but she wasn’t going to let him off the hook so easily.

George shrugged. “Well, that’s the price we pay, isn’t it? If we want to be famous?”

“Great job, you two.” Angelica walked over, beaming like a headlight. “I’m pairing you up again tomorrow.”

Post on Nacho Papi’s Web Site, Wednesday, June 28

by Sandy S.

As you’ve read below, Nacho Papi is hosting its First Annual Staff Date Charity Auction, and I’m one of the staff members
you can bid on a date with, for better or worse. But, before the bidding starts, I wanted to tell you what your money will
be spent on if you win the date with me.

Our beloved Chupacabra, Wise Goat Man and Viejo at Large, has suffered a health-related setback that’s been distracting him
from advice-giving and his outlaw life. The Chupacabra got his foot caught in the trap called diabetes, and he’s been in a
cast for a week now. Worse than that, he’s having trouble with The Man and The System, and that’s making it hard to pay his
bills.

So I’m pimping myself out, so to speak, not for a non-profit full of anonymous faces, but to benefit our own Chupacabra, who’s
been like a grandfather or uncle to me these past few months.

See the video below, and see if you can bring yourself to bid on a date in order to help out our friend.

Aw, man, that sucks. I’d bid, but I’m just a poor grad student and it’s already up to more than I can afford.

Toasty Toes

Somebody recap the video for me, please! I’m at work and can’t watch it!

The Girl Formerly Known as Maria

Maria: It’s Sandy S, trying to interview the Chupacabra. But all he says is “Turn that damned camera off! I’m not begging
for any damned hand-outs!” He has a cast on his foot. And Cano’s in the background, barking. Even when he’s doing bad, that
old man kills me.

Boston Mike

Sandy, can we send donations outside of the auction? I want to help out, but no offense, you’re not my type.

Julietta

Oh man, this is like my wish come true! Not that the Chupacabra has diabetes, but that I might finally get to go on a date
with Sandy S.! I’m breaking my piggy banks now!

The Wild Juan

W
ithin a few days of the announcement, Sandy had collected, in addition to her auction bids, several hundred dollars in separate
donations for Tío Jaime’s cause, as well as hundreds of cards and gifts delivered to him in care of Nacho Papi’s offices.
She drove to his house that weekend to give him the tribute from his fans.

“That’s funny,” he said, examining a stuffed chupacabra toy that someone had hand-crocheted for him. “I wouldn’t think all
these strangers would care about some old guy they never even met.”

“Well, they’ve read and listened to your words for a while now. I guess that makes them feel like they do know you. Or like
you know and care about them.” Sandy stacked his get-well cards in a neat pile on the little patio table. She’d already presented
him with a check from the Levy Foundation totaling all the readers’ donations to date. Angelica had insisted they do it that
way, for tax purposes and to protect the old man’s identity. He hadn’t wanted to take it at first, but she’d reminded him
that this was payment, in essence, for the work he’d done for the site.

“Hmm,” Tío Jaime said. “I guess that’s why you do it, then, huh? To make strangers feel good about themselves?”

Sandy considered the question. She’d never thought of it that way before. “Well, not really, honestly. I started writing for
Nacho Papi because they bought my old company, then to get better known as a writer. And I started writing my blog to make
myself
feel better. But I have noticed that the blog helps other people sometimes. When I talk about stuff they’ve gone through,
it makes them feel less alone.” After she’d said all that, Sandy realized the irony of the situation. “It’s too bad I’m not
getting paid to write the things that help people.”

Sandy offered to drive him to the bank to deposit his check, but Tío Jaime refused, saying it’d give Richard something to
do later. So, after helping the old man put away his gifts and exacting his promise to deposit the check that afternoon, Sandy
drove back into town. It was a beautiful day and she didn’t want to hole up in her apartment anymore. She needed to run some
errands and get her nails done, but before that, she had a caffeine habit that needed maintaining. She drove past Calypso,
her old favorite coffee shop, and peered in the window. Not too crowded.

It was safer, of course, to go to the corporate coffee drive-through and then trek out to a suburban nail place where the
day time clientele skewed a little older than Nacho Papi’s fan base. But she missed her old hangouts. Was she really going
to spend the rest of her life avoiding them, she asked herself, because of the slight possibility that some jerk might call
her a name or give her a dirty look?

She parked the car and strode in bravely, silently daring anyone to say anything. The barista, a young man she’d never seen
before, greeted her like any other customer. A couple of the patrons turned their heads and glanced at her as she passed,
but that was it. No snickers or whispers. It was almost anti-climactic.

Half an hour later, Sandy sat at the corner table with a chocolate almond iced latte, checking her e-mail and feeling like
her old self. She opened an e-mail from an editor at the
Los Angeles Chronicle
, knowing that it was most likely a freelance opportunity. She’d received countless offers and calls for submissions from
other organizations since Nacho Papi had begun, but was forced to turn them all down because of her contract’s non-compete
clause. She was already mentally composing a polite declination when she opened the e-mail.