Lone Star Legend

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  She’d rushed home in order to delete her blog in its entirety. Or at least to password-protect the stupid thing. All the way there she’d cursed herself for having been dumb enough to post her personal problems on the Internet in the first place.

  But when she got home and started seeing all those words—all those words written by strangers, about her—she’d found herself unable to go through with it.

  She refreshed the page and found yet another comment. She read it. She hit Refresh again. Over and over.

  In another browser window, she read comments on George’s stupid, hateful article. It was the same story there: some readers bashed her, and some bashed George or Daniel. Some readers hated her, and some readers loved her.

  Sandy flicked back and forth between the two pages, obsessively reading every comment that appeared. It was like watching a building blow up. Like watching a starlet fall down onstage. It was a veritable train wreck. But all about her. Sandy was mesmerized. She couldn’t stop reading.

  SHE WOKE UP at 10:22 A.M. on Saturday, eyes sticky and hungover from the night spent staring at electronic eight-point font. She felt vaguely nauseated. Nervous, even. She sat up from where she’d crashed on the couch, not even bothering to turn it into the bed first, and looked around the room. Something was tickling at the back of her mind. Something to do with something she’d left in this room.

  Her eyes fell on a peach-colored rectangle facedown on the coffee table. The invitation for her father’s wedding, which she’d completely forgotten.

  AT 11:08 A.M., she was sitting in her car in the parking lot of a nondescript, nondenominational church, wearing a crumpled skirt and blouse and too much dry shampoo. Eight minutes late to her own father’s wedding. She wondered if she should even go in.

  The parking lot was filled with other cars, none of which she recognized. No, she recognized one. A gold Lincoln Town Car, its driver sitting at the wheel, staring through sunglasses at nothing. Holding a cigarette, which Sandy could almost smell from this distance, even though it’d been years and years since she’d smelled that brand burning in her mother’s fingers.

  As if by some familial telepathy, Mrs. Saavedra turned and looked right at Sandy. Then, moving mechanically yet quickly, she unlocked, got out, and locked her car. Click-clicked over to Sandy’s Malibu, which Sandy hurried to unlock so her mother could slide into the pas-senger seat, silent as if on some assignation. Were they there to spy or to assassinate? Sandy wondered. Bad joke.

  There was a long, long silence as the two of them sat in the glare, sheltered in their private thoughts. Sandy let her mother crack the window to smoke, knowing better than to complain about the scent messing up her car. She knew that her mother must have been very—sad, angry, something—to be smoking again, but especially to be quiet for so long. She felt sympathy, but also relief. She wasn’t in the mood for conversation.

  Then, finally, her mother did speak, and it was with a more sober, serious voice than Sandy had heard from her since the divorce, three years before.

  “He didn’t leave me, you know. He always said he would, but in the end it was me that left him.”

  That wasn’t what Sandy had expected her to say. Her mother went on.

  “He always thought I was such a dummy. That was his joke—that I was so dumb he didn’t know what he was doing with me. Then everybody else joked about it too. And I just laughed it off. But then I started to see that it really did bug him, and I think I started acting dumber, just to bug him some more.” She took a long, remorseful drag, looking like she already regretted this lapse into weakness. She flicked the ash hard out the window. “I would say, ‘You’re right, you should’ve married a college girl. Why don’t you go find one?’ But he wouldn’t go. I think he liked telling everybody what a dummy his wife was. That was his excuse for when his own life went wrong. It was all her fault—his dummy of a wife.”

  Sandy couldn’t do anything but listen. Never had her mother spoken about herself like this. Sandy was used to her talking about others, or spinning long fantasies for her daughter’s future. She never would have imagined her mother observing anything so keenly, least of all anything that included herself.

  “My mom—your grandma Petra—used to say ‘There’s two sides to every story.’ I know my side, and I know his side. But now I see that there’s more than just that.” She turned to face Sandy. The sun shone through her darkened lenses, revealing puffy red eyes. “You’ve been seeing your own side of it this whole time. You think I ran your daddy away—forced him to rush out the door and leave you with your dumb old mama.”

  Shock hit Sandy like cold water over the head. It dawned on her then. Her mother wasn’t this upset about the wedding. She had read Sandy’s blog. Like a bad TV show rewinding too fast, she re-saw all the words she’d written about her parents. “Mom, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” Mrs. Saavedra chuckled dryly and took another drag. “You were right. Everything you said was right.” She looked out the window, as if at everything in her past.

  “Mom.” Sandy reached for her mother, for the first time in recent memory. “No. I’m sorry. I was wrong.”

  Her mother shook her head. “No, you weren’t. I read the whole thing. All of it. You were whiny, and you were spoiled. But you weren’t wrong.”

  Another car pulled into the lot, peeling around the corner way faster than was appropriate for the occasion. A thin, balding man in a tuxedo practically ran out of its driver door, only to stop short of the church for a panicked search through all his suit pockets.

  “It’s Dad!” Sandy whispered, having recognized him only when he turned almost to face them. As one, she and her mother ducked down, eye level with the dash. What was he doing? Sandy wondered. Looking for the ring?

  He finally found the right pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes. After fumbling to light one, he smoked and paced jerkily back and forth like a video-game character. “What’s wrong with him?” Sandy whispered as if he might hear them.

  Her mother chuckled again, this time in what sounded like real amusement. She sounded kind of witchy, Sandy couldn’t help but think. “He’s nervous. He’s worried he’s making a mistake.”

  Sandy frowned, thinking this was a little uncharitable to be listening to on her father’s wedding day. But her mother was right—he was incredibly nervous. Why?

  “She’s a dummy,” her mother said. “She’s a real dummy. She went to college, and she has a big-shot job, but she’s dumber than hell. Dumber than me.”

  Sandy looked at her mother in surprise as the older woman began to shake with giggles. “He finally got what he deserved, and I think he’s finally realized it.”

  Eventually her father went in to his fate.

  “You’d better go in, too. You’re going to miss it.” Her mother seemed completely recovered now. “Go in there so you can tell me later what everybody’s wearing.”

  Sandy shook her head. “I don’t feel like it.” She turned to face her mother directly. “You know, all that stuff I said on my blog, about you running Dad off and keeping him away from me, that was wrong. I know that now. It wasn’t you, it was Dad himself. He never calls me. He barely even told me he was getting married.” She sighed. “And… it hurt my feelings. And I guess it was just easier to believe that it was all happening because of you.”

  “Well,” said her mother. There was a pause. “I was probably to blame a little, too. You were only telling it like you saw it.” Sandy didn’t say anything. Her mother changed the subject. “I’m sorry your dad’s being this way, baby. And I’m sorry I didn’t realize what a jerk that Danny was. I shouldn’t have nagged you so much about him.”

  “It’s okay.” Sandy looked at the church one last time, feeling like its doors had closed on a chapter in her life. “Hey, how about we go get coffee?”

  “At your fancy coffee place? Or you want to just go through a drive-through somewhere?”

  Sandy thought about it for a moment. She couldn’t
go to Calypso. She was afraid she’d be recognized. “We’ll go to a different fancy coffee place,” she said. “I know lots of them.”

  Her mother threw the last of her cigarette out the window and reached for her seat belt. “All right, then. Let’s roll.”

  55

  Time: Wednesday, June 7, 12:34 PM

  To: SandyS@nachopapiswebsite.com

  From: vforverguenza@razamail.net

  Subject: Don’t forget this Friday!

  Hey girl. You’re still coming on Friday, right? I set everything up in case you want to bring a camera crew with you, and I’m attaching my bio and some other information in case you want to mention it ahead of time, maybe on Nacho Papi.;)

  Can’t wait to see you there!

  Oh and I saw that mess that happened with Daniel online. Hope you’re not letting that get you down too much.

  Veronica

  56

  Post on Nacho Papi’s Web Site, Friday, June 9

  Sorry if my personal problems are interrupting your attention whoring, but

  by Sandy S.

  If you’re someone who’s only been talking to me in public lately… who never calls me, personally, to see how I’m doing, but who always has time to drop a comment letting everyone else on earth know that you’re my very best friend… then I can’t make it to your event. And I can’t bring a camera crew with me, either. Sorry.

  I’m sure you’ll find a way to talk about it where everyone can see. Break a leg.

  READER COMMENTS ON SORRY IF MY PERSONAL PROBLEMS…

  Whoa. I don’t know who you’re talking about, but it’s cracking me up.

  Miss Da Meaner

  I think I know. Does her name start with V?:):)

  Carless in Detroit

  Hello, how is this news? What is this, the Sandy S show now? If the posts have to be about her, can we at least get more details on what she does in bed?

  Born Again Atheist

  Who is this so called attention whore friend? Tell us more! We want to know!

  Peachy

  Sandy, I’m sorry to hear some of your friends aren’t being supportive and only want to use you to get famous. You know who you can always call……

  The Wild Juan

  57

  Sandy regretted her post about Veronica’s show within hours of seeing it on the screen. But, then again, she didn’t, really. Veronica hadn’t called or written to her since it went up. Best of all, she’d stopped posting those ridiculous comments to Nacho Papi under the name V for Verguenza.

  Just to be sure all bases were covered, however, Sandy decided to call and explain it to their mutual friend Jane. She stood from her seat at the staff table, where she’d stopped at one of the open laptops to check page views and reader comments before filming the day’s segment. There was only one intern in the main office at the moment, hard at work on another computer. Sandy walked into one of the mostly emptied side offices, one that still contained a desk and chair. Closing the door behind her, she pulled out her phone and dialed Jane’s work number.

  “What’s up?”

  Jane’s short answer made Sandy wonder if she’d called at a bad time. “Hey, are you busy?”

  “Of course. But I have a few minutes. What’s going on?” Jane talked quickly and quietly. Sandy imagined her at the little desk outside her representative’s office, pretending she was on a work-related call.

  “Nothing.” Sandy sat back in her chair. “Well, it’s Veronica. You know her show’s tonight.”

  “Right. And I know you’re not going, because you’re pissed at her for all those stupid comments.”

  “You saw my post?”

  “Yeah.” Jane said.

  “Has Veronica seen it?” Sandy’s emotional pendulum swung back to regret, and she wished again that she hadn’t put those words online.

  Jane sighed. “I don’t know. Why don’t you call and ask her?”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then why’d you write it? Obviously, you’re hoping she will see it, aren’t you?”

  Sandy frowned. “Well… yeah, kind of. But you know why I wrote it, right? Have you seen the stuff she’s been pulling?”

  “No, but I can imagine. I know how she can get.” Jane sighed again. “Look, Sandy, I don’t want to get in the middle of this. You know she’s going to freak out, and I’m not going to try to explain it to her. You need to call her yourself. Or take that post down.”

  “I can’t. It has too many page views. It’s already paid for my lunches this week.”

  “Well.” Jane paused. “Whatever. I don’t know. I have to go, okay? I’ll call you back later.”

  Sandy hung up, feeling even more regretful. And alone.

  She had run out of people to confide in. Veronica was acting like a flake, and Jane was being a hard-ass. Normally, at a time like this, she would have opened up her laptop and typed a nice, long entry to everyone else in the world. Then someone would have commented, saying she knew just how Sandy felt. And then Sandy would feel better about the whole thing.

  But that was no longer an option. She’d been cheated out of it by George, and by Daniel.

  The night before, Sandy had called Tony O., the Chilean writers’ group leader, thinking he might want to get that coffee with her sometime this weekend. He hadn’t picked up. He hadn’t responded to the text she’d sent him the day before that, either. Sandy didn’t know if it was because of George’s article. Really, she didn’t want to know. She deleted Tony’s phone number and thanked God no one knew he’d ever given it to her. At least, she thought, she had learned her lesson as far as talking about romantic prospects online. Never again. Too bad the damage was already done, though. Would anyone with an Internet connection ever want to date her again? Maybe she could change her name.

  “Sandy? Are you here?” Angelica’s spike-heeled shadow filled the doorway.

  “I’m here.”

  “We have space for an extra segment this week. You haven’t done any extras in a while and I was thinking we could use the Chupacabra piece you just turned in. Francisco can intro it for you. I think the viewers would really enjoy it. What do you think?”

  Sandy sighed. She didn’t care anymore, honestly. “Sure. Fine.”

  As quickly as she’d walked in, Angelica swept away again.

  Sandy heaved a quiet sigh. She couldn’t wait until the stink from George’s article blew over and she could go back to some semblance of a normal life.

  58

  June 17, 2008

  LEVY MEDIA, INC.

  c/o ANGELICA VILLANUEVA O’SULLIVAN

  SENT VIA: COURIER

  RE: UNAUTHORIZED USE OF JAIME ESCOBAR’S IMAGE

  I write as attorney for Jaime Escobar.

  We have recently learned that you have posted various digital images and footage of Mr. Escobar on your site at www.nachopapiswebsite.com, and have used his image on articles of clothing sold on said site. In addition, you have used footage of Mr. Escobar on the Nacho Papi television program. In all these instances, you have used Mr. Escobar’s image without his permission.

  Based upon the foregoing, we hereby demand that you confirm to us in writing within ten days of receipt of this letter that: 1) you have removed all infringing materials from your site, and 2) you will refrain from posting any similar infringing material on the Internet, on television, or any other medium in the future.

  Sincerely,

  Richard Tallamantez

  59

  Oh, no,” Sandy said after reading the letter Angelica had handed her. “This is terrible. It’s from his nephew. He’s a lawyer.”

  “No, it’s fine,” said Angelica. “We’re completely covered. That release form the old man signed is iron clad. He doesn’t have anything on us. Oh, that reminds me, Sandy. I need you to send a copy of his release to Legal. They need it for their files.”

  Sandy mumbled a response that Angelica could take to mean yes. Angelica gave Sandy one of her too-hard pats on the shoulder and
swept away to oversee the day’s taping.

  This was it, Sandy told herself. She was going to get Levy Media sued, and then she was going to get fired. This was the beginning of the end.

  She trekked to the studio on mental autopilot.

  The moment she walked in Angelica had passed her the letter as if she were passing on a piece of fan mail, or a cookie. As if it was no big deal. Sandy supposed Nacho Papi’s new television studio was too chaotic a place for its residents to take anything but the show seriously. Either that, or Angelica really didn’t think the cease-and-desist letter was an issue. Sandy sighed. In Angelica’s world there really was no such thing as bad publicity.

  Co-workers rushed past Sandy like shoppers on Black Friday, leaving her standing there like a traffic island, clutching her letter. As quickly as she’d left, Angelica returned to Sandy with the new girl, Trisha “La Sirena” MacLeod, who was leading two very young women through the studio. One of them kept staring at Sandy, although she was obviously trying to be unobtrusive about it.

  “Sandy,” said Angelica, “this is your last chance. Are you sure you don’t want to do this interview?”

  “I’m positive.” Sandy folded her arms across her chest and couldn’t resist reaching to adjust her glasses again. Nor could she look into La Sirena’s eyes or the faces of the girls with her. Angelica’s latest idea was downright scandalous, and it involved Sandy, but that didn’t mean that Sandy had to get involved.

  “No, you’re right, it’s better this way,” Angelica muttered. Then she turned back to La Sirena’s guests. “Did you girls sign your release forms? We can’t put you on the show without release forms.”

  They both nodded and smiled like twin dolls, and then La Sirena led them away. Sandy went to the editing room to watch, not trusting herself to stay quiet on set. On the monitors she watched La Sirena and her two guests settle themselves into the multi-loveseated interview set. The crew made last-minute adjustments to lighting and positioning. An older woman fluttered around La Sirena, powdering all the skin showing around her low-cut halter top. When the young director gave the word, La Sirena faced the camera and started.