The Cowboy Bible and Other Stories

by Carlos Velázquez

  As if she was getting in line to cash a pension check, The Cowgirl Bible took her place in that long queue. Just before it was her turn, the girl in front of her warned her not to go onstage. She’d only make a fool of herself. But our girl didn’t give a shit. Decided, The Cowgirl Bible climbed the backstage steps.

  —What is your name? asked the house band’s razor player.

  —The Cowgirl Bible.

  —Where have you played?

  —Around.

  —Ladies and gentlemen, The Cowgirl Bible, from around.

  The competition started. First up was the local, then the visitor. The local organized her model’s pubes into a tiny pair of angel wings. The bass and drums never stopped improvising. Then The Cowgirl Bible launched into her performance.

  She started calmly, too sweet for rock and roll. But then the performance went out of control. The Cowgirl Bible was out of this world. She was operating on a whole other beat, which, because it was new, sounded out of tune and awkward. The bass and drums interrupted the song. The model feared for her parts. The audience was disconcerted. The Cowgirl Bible hadn’t realized there was absolute silence in the room except for the hum of her instrument. Everybody was completely focused on her, and she was completely focused on playing. To make her come back, the drummer took a plate from a pile and threw it on the ground. The sound of it smashing on the floor brought The Cowgirl Bible out of her abstract pyrotechnics. The test was over. The audience started laughing and jeering, and The Cowgirl Bible came down from the platform sad and lonely, as if she’d just swallowed some matches.

  The Cowgirl Bible first heard about Crossroad in a documentary. If, as I suspect, her biographer is Latino, then her story will be titled Encrucijada. Perhaps they’ll also make a movie. It will star Karen Bach. The soundtrack will win a Grammy®. Then there’ll be a tribute by some black blues players. A street in the Bronx will be named after her and, finally, they will erect a statue of her along a path in Central Park and the inscription will read: The Cowgirl Bible Parker Iniesta Herbert Novo. The cursed poet of electric shavers.

  But I am getting ahead of myself, being too cute for words, and a little nasty. Before The Cowgirl Bible appeared on the covers of all the magazines, before she became the great mother hen, godmother to all the girls, mother of Marianne Faithfull, she suffered for a second time. She suffered from the futility of being a fledgling. And this is off the record: After her failure in the contest she thought about abandoning—definitively and without the option of Methadone, like a beautiful trauma—her love of the bush-sculpting art.

  That night after the concert, when all the bars had closed like wounds, she discovered Crossroad on TV. The documentary showed a mephitic location in the midst of a mythic nothing. It featured two paths that came together to form a cross. Or an X. Depending. On one side there was a bar attended to by a blind man, where they only served cola. Out in front, on a humble veranda, a deaf black man pretended to play guitar on a stick. They say a few meters up ahead there used to be a boot store called El Infierno, but nothing in the registers indicates such a thing. There is absolutely nothing there now.

  Everything I’ve told of so far is relevant to the story because legend has it that if you can’t figure out the signs, you won’t be able to make a deal in Crossroad. If there’s just one missing scenic element, then the journey will be harrowing, like dealing with a bureaucrat. If, by a stroke of bad luck, the bar is closed or the black guy is just meowing, then it will be necessary to return during lobster season. If by virtue of the Holy Child Jesus of Peyote, patron of PopSTock!, the requirements are met, then the devil will present himself at Crossroad at midnight, and you can make a deal. In exchange for your soul, you can even ask for press credentials.

  The documentary had testimony from people who asked for the wildest things. One guy was happy with a lifetime season ticket to see his favorite soccer team. Granted. Another wanted to play the drums in Beck’s band. But Beck wouldn’t change his Christian drummer, he was too good. Yet a soul is like a caress, it’s never unwelcome. So, in order to not squander his wish, the devil granted him a job as a percussionist. The last case was that of Old Man Paulino, the prestigious composer of El Mono de Alambre (whoever can’t dance to that can just go fuck themselves), who traded his soul for a pair of leather boots from The Cowboy Bible.

  At the end of the documentary, there were various fine-print clauses. But there was only one warning to those who might dare introduce themselves to the devil. The warning was not to do it while drunk. Contrary to popular song, Satan can’t stand drunks. Showing up intoxicated to meet him runs the risk of him putting you in charge of the municipal dog pound or making you a Green Party volunteer for some political cause.

  If, as Santi Carrillo proposes, music journalism is just a bourgeois extravagance, then we can understand the reviews that followed The Cowgirl Bible’s first presentation, what we might call a comeback, with her new trio: The Midnight Angel of Oil for Cars:

  The lewdness The Cowgirl Bible Parker deploys so directly reflects the nearly endless pubis she’s had available during almost the entire tour of England she’s just completed. It’s part of one of the rhythmic patterns that have become her trademark during that time. During the intro and the verse we can hear the drums, the blade, and the bass playing in unison through an upbeat 7/4. The emphatic gestures come before and after the beat in a way that’s totally innovative for heavy metal, especially when the band emphasizes the bass-drum pattern. At other times, it’s more conventional, as in the razor solo, which is nonetheless very effective. The Cowgirl Bible’s solo is like a high spiritual scream and evolves to a sonorous seduction, intensified by the use of the Octavia and its shameless adornments. It’s one of The Cowgirl Bible’s most inventive interludes, complete with phrases that she builds on as if she were talking to herself.

  Portinarismos aside, and no longer the amateur who’d been invited to perform only at informal gatherings and cocktail parties, The Cowgirl Bible turned out to be a real virtuoso on the wah-wah pedal. As with Jesus’s life, a part of The Cowgirl Bible’s life runs perpendicular to this narrative, without our knowing her whereabouts. There’s a hole in the story. If indeed INRI went into seclusion in the desert to talk with YHWH, in an anti-apocryphal version of Vicente Fernández’s song, Hoy platiqué con mi gallo, The Cowgirl Bible Parker, on the B-side, also decided to seclude herself in the desert, according to certain non-canonical gospels, to make a deal with the State’s unholy lover, Satan. This happened between her visit to Crossroad and her triumphant comeback. It was about a three-year period. What was The Cowgirl Bible’s address during this time? Could it be true she was abducted by Egyptian extraterrestrial telenovela addicts? Was this foretold in Jaime Pausán’s prophecies? Remain in your seats. After the talk we’ll open up for questions.

  Jesus fled to the desert so he wouldn’t be seduced by evil’s gourmet desserts: flan, egg custard, rice pudding, pastries, cookies, sodacerveza sodacerveza, gorditas, chicharrón picadillo gorditas in mole, lonches lonches lonches, and masks masks masks bring your masks we’ve got a Místico el Huracán Ramírez Damián 666 mask, send your boy send your gal we’ll give you three packs of caguama for six caramel apples, tamales tamales we have hot tamales, yes you heard right for just forty pesos we’re gonna let you have two pairs of socks four swim suits and a shawl today only and before eight p.m. c’mon up close, for your mother-in-law the plague spider fly cockroach bring your roach powder bring it bring it, a watermelon fat watermelon Chinese watermelon sweet five for ten pesos, red melon red melon red, a little something for the love of God ma’am I’m just trying to get enough for fare to Juárez I’m gonna cross the border to join up with my carnal who’s in Elay I’ll sweep your street wash your car mow your lawn in the name of the little virgin of Guadalupop even if it’s just a taco ma’am may God repay you with many children and may God keep you in his Holy Glory amen, etc.

  The Cowgirl Bible didn’t have to go anywhere. She wa
s already in the desert. So she went to meet the Boss of Bosses. Respected at every level. Old and wise: Satan.

  This is how it happened:

  But first, a problem that all systole narratives face: how to represent the devil. Is it true or false that he appears as a mantelpiece, or as the folkloric figure in the Mexican lottery? Chalupa y buenas. To try and solve the problem, we can humangenomemap it in three ways:

  A Appealing to the common denominator. That is, like Ned Flanders;

  B Like a culiche boxer before he steps into the ring. With Los Huracanes del Norte’s song, Lincoln negro, like an idiosyncratic headline;

  C Refuting the theory that God is black, and sponsoring evil as such from November 2nd, 19**. A chocolate devil.

  This would explain a whole shitload of stuff. First, that the dubbing of this equation would be double-spaced, that the devil would be well endowed, and, lastly, that The Cowgirl Bible would adopt blues and soul roots as her musical model, without giving up the best licks and tricks used by white blues and psychedelic axers. Satan told her: Jaimito Hendrics always played black material. With the following exceptions: Cream, a little Dylan, The Beatles, and The Troggs’ Wild Thing.

  The Cowgirl Bible’s success, like gears on a car, rested on four foundational perspectives. First, second, third, and fourth: the historic appearances she made at the London bar Bag O’Nails before the stars of British razordom.*

  That’s why, when The Cowgirl Bible returned to her homeland, PopSTock! of the drunken crazies, the audience got used to the syntax of her instrument as easily as an IMSS nurse learns to ignore patients. That’s how intoxicating The Cowgirl Bible’s sound became for the neo-public. Neglected compatriots who come to in the sanatorium, here’s your meal your bed your nurse, who hit you buddy. Rock it. Especially if it’s your first record. The polar bear robs robs robs me, gets a rating of ten from the untamable critics. The next step is to get billed as the warm-up act on a Coca-Cola sponsored tour. And from there it’s gravy.

  That is, until the day the following warning popped up on The Cowgirl Bible’s computer:

  BRONTOK.A [10]

  —Hentikan kebobrokan di negeri ini —

  1. Penjarakan Koruptor, Penyelundup, Tukang Suap & Bandar NARKOBA

  (Send to NUSAKAMBANGAN)

  2. Stop Free Sex, Aborsi & Prostitusi

  (Go To HELL)

  3. Stop pencemaran lingkungan, pembakaran hutan & perburuan liar

  4. SAY NO TO DRUGS!!!

  — KIAMAT SUDAH DEKAT —

  Terinspirasi oleh:

  Elang Brontok (Spizaetus Cirrhatus) yang hampir punah

  [By HVM3l]

  —JowoBot #VM Community —

  !!! Akan Kubuat Mereka (VM lokal yg cengeng & bodoh) Terkapar!!!

  OMG. Is that hot enough? The previous warning doesn’t mean what it means. Anita, sit next to Billy ain’t the same as sit on the billy. In fact, the warning said the devil needed The Cowgirl Bible’s soul. It was time. To pay up. If you should see that warning on your screen, be very very careful, it’s a sign you’re pretty much done for. It’d be best to seek refuge, just in case the Hacienda, Quinta, and Rancho all come down on you.

  Hey, Devil, no worries, I’m gonna pay up, just hold the carnitas, let me keep the tamales. That’s what The Cowgirl Bible wanted to say, but she didn’t get a chance. The evil one had arrived. And time, dear spectator, time is pop. The Devil is pop. Love is pop. And pop is a whore. From that moment on, The Cowgirl Bible had no choice but to avoid at all costs the disgraceful signs of pop. Like, for example, playing the lottery. And since she was a wrestling addict, she avoided all matches that featured the Evil team, such as Satánico or the DEA’s Arcángel. She fed her paranoia to such an extent that she stopped consuming vampiros, with their salsa verde, refrain of refried beans, hot tortillas, and icy Victoria beers. How she’d loved them. Too bad. But no tears.

  Before any more of this blah blah blah, prepared by Lexus and based on a plan boosted by HarperCollins, we’re gonna pay attention to the regression hypnosis that will reveal, via The Cowgirl Bible’s own words, the strategy that should be used by anyone interested in selling their soul to the Devil:

  The crossroads are at El Cerro de la Cruz. Famous for its cholos and male prostitutes and, oh, for the quality of the coke sold there. Don Devil himself begins the auditions after midnight and a toke. According to some folks, he could start earlier but he never misses the five o’clock telenovela and at around eight he takes off for the gym. He dines at ten and then, yeah, the proceedings begin. I’d been told the lines could get as long as a bank’s, or like those at soccer stadium box offices. But I was pretty much by my lonesome. Maybe because it was Sunday and everybody was still hungover. There were just four of us. There was a man in front and, oh, how he loved to argue. It was Old Man Paulino, a corridos composer determined to show Satan that spiders are oviparous. I’d also been told Don Chamuco liked a little pussy. But it wasn’t true. The truth is that when it was my turn, he treated me with cool efficiency. I was told to go to window number four for a stamp, then to number twelve for various signatures, and then at the register I finally signed the contract for one soul. I waited fifteen days for my new aptitudes to arrive via DHL.

  When I count to three and clap my hands, The Cowgirl Bible will wake up and not remember any of this. So, one two three, and you’re back, said the very portrait of the salon’s teenage cowboybiblish hypnotist. Now, let’s dismiss the doctor. Thank you for your help. Please pick up your honorarium. Thank you.

  And now let’s return to the story.

  The words quoted above, directly from The Cowgirl Bible, are excerpted from the book Black Magic: Real or Mental Cumbia?, authored by Dr. RHA. During various periods, more or less from cool to post-cool, The Cowgirl Bible thought that by going to therapy she could rid herself of her belief in Satan, and that way she’d be free of her deal and it’d be impossible to take her soul. But no way, you can’t play crooked on the king of crooks, lord and master of smuggling, software piracy, and made-in-China Virgins of Guadalupe. Time takes its toll, and it wasn’t long (a space of about five centimeters that’s found between the fingers when spread out as if the hand were a kite) before The Cowgirl Bible felt the twenty-three grams of her soul being seized.

  It was a year, then two, that the Devil hadn’t shown his face at PopSTock!. He was very busy, with Jorge Reinoso, representing malice in Almada films. Around that time, The Cowgirl Bible’s third record debuted at the peak of the Top 40 lists, right at number one. Her single, Subscribe to Marie Claire, was nominated for song of the year by Esténcil Miusic Aguords because of its use of pastiche, le collage, and cats-up with the electric razor.

  And then it happened: She was invited to take part in the recording of Celso Piña’s DVD, Cumbia Power. Celebrating his twenty-five years of playing vallenato, the DVD would capture a live concert of Celso’s hits accompanied by various invited guests. This was, both superficially and at the deepest level, a helluva privilege: to play alongside PopSTock!’s favorite son. Only a very select group of artists would play with Celso onstage, which seemed to indicate that The Cowgirl Bible’s career had been forged by fire and would come roaring out of the flames. Could she—drunk and drugged—dance naked to The Return of the Son of Monster Magnet† and keep her rep unscathed? She, had, in fact, already done it at some party. In time, that would become one of The Cowgirl Bible’s very few appearances on film.

  The Cowgirl Bible could barely remember Hungry Daddy Freaky Satan when, out of the blue, another messenger appeared to muddy the waters. Be careful, warrior girl, because the feds are looking for you, they warned her. At a personal level, this kind of threat can be used to rationalize a farewell tour, featuring the corresponding DVD and the enjoyment of many accompanying honors. How many celebrities, late in life, at the time of their death, would take care of their business on Earth so that they could leave in peace? Not a one. The Cowgirl Bible didn’t either, so she didn’t worry about inquiring
, or arranging with her label for the remastering of her work, or leaving as a final request that she be cremated and that her ashes be scattered in the desert by the Estación Marte. She spent her time just sanfernanding, that is, spending some time on her feet, then doing some pacing, all in wait of the biggest villain in el cine de ficheras: the devil.

  The omens played out exactly like the saying The pig with the thickest lips will get the best ear of corn. First, there was a scarcity of pot in the state. It was a tragedy of Dostoyevskian proportions because, with their soothing weed gone, the potheads had turned into dangerous creatures of unclassifiable sorts. They were stuck seeking work as mini-golf caddies, pizza-delivery persons, fried-chicken peddlers. Second, the local team fell into a ten-game losing streak. The city was a neurotic chaos, and in each home we saw unchained scenes of unnecessary violence. Third, the idiots working for the city forgot to spray for dengue and the mosquitos went on an epidemiological spree.

  As the omens got more intense, the devil’s presence seemed more palpable. But still Satan didn’t appear. And he won’t appear, somebody said. For these kind of gigs, he counted on proxies, gangster lawyers, licensed trinketeers, magicians, flatterers, politicians, conspirators, scribners, tramps, black-market runners, umpires, arbiters, referees, beatniks, pencil pushers, tunicked eunuchs, hippies, etc. As soon as the soul was taken, the devil entrusted the act to a minion. He hated his clients, he bitched that they were all whiners, always asking for postponements. Just like concertgoers, they wanted more, an encore, one more, one more, one more. The Cowgirl Bible just didn’t know. She didn’t realize the agent she’d hired to contract her for a show on the El Paso highway was actually at the service of the Axis of Evil International Company. She had accepted. I’ve had it up to here with hiding from this cabrón, she said. He’s supposed to be the hottest tamale in the world, but he always winds up mocked in Hollywood-style rom-coms. A little show on the border with minimum backup is gonna help me get over so much delirium.