Lone Star Legend (7 page)

They climbed out of his car and started up the sloped walk to his lopsided little house, which, run-down as it was, was worth
three houses in any other neighborhood.

“Look,” she said, finally, “let’s not get into it, okay? I haven’t seen you all week and I was really looking forward to it.”

“Yeah. Me, too. Okay.” He gave her a quick half-smile of truce and then unlocked the door. Pausing in the low-ceilinged living
room only long enough to drop his briefcase on the coffee table, he went straight to the kitchen to get them more Shiner.

Sandy kicked off her shoes and sat on the squishy plaid sofa, facing the television set that was already running on mute.
Daniel’s housemate wasn’t home, but they always left the TV on. She focused on the screen and didn’t bother to take stock
of the surroundings. One, because she already knew what was there, in Daniel’s living room. There wasn’t much, and it never
changed. Two, she didn’t like any of his furniture or decorations. His parents had chosen them, from among apparent cast-offs
in their own collection. The resulting effect was that of a shabby 1990s hotel room, everything done up in slate blue, hunter
green, and glossy burgundy chintz. Her garage apartment may not have been a wonder of modern design, but everything in it
she’d picked out herself from the Swedish discount warehouse.

It was time for a change of subject, Sandy decided. “So, did you see the posts I sent you?”

“What’s that?” he called from the refrigerator.

“Nacho Papi’s first week of posts. Did you read mine?”

“Um…” He emerged with two beer bottles and joined her on the sofa. “Yeah.”

“You read them? What’d you think?”

“They were good,” he said. “Better than I expected.”

A thrill ran through her. “Really? Which ones did you like? Which was the best?”

“Um. The first one. The intro.” He took a sip of his beer and gazed at the television set.

“The intro? Really? I thought that was kind of stiff.” Sandy leaned forward, eager to get his professional feedback. “I didn’t
really start hitting my stride until the end of the second day, I thought. What’d you like about the intro?”

“Um… I liked what you said about holding the media accountable. And representing Hispanics in politics. That was good. It
was a strong mission statement.”

Suspicion filled Sandy like a gust of hot air. “You didn’t read the other posts, did you?”

Daniel’s reaction was a mixture of indignation, impatience, and guilt. “Yes, I did.”

Sandy said nothing. But her arms crossed against her chest as she waited for further explanation.

“I scrolled through them. Through yours. But I didn’t have time to read in depth, no, because I’ve been so busy this week.
I
told
you that.” His voice became plaintive. He flipped back his bangs and appealed to her with his eyes. “Sandy, I bookmarked
them all for later. I’m going to read them as soon as I can. I wanted to wait to give you my opinion until I’d had time to
read them all in-depth. I was planning to take notes and e-mail them to you.”

If Sandy had had feathers, she would have felt them ruffle and then un-ruffle and then re-ruffle again, back and forth, over
and over. So he hadn’t had time to read her work. On the one hand it stung a little, especially knowing as she did that he
hadn’t been impressed by her new gig to begin with.

Then again, how could she complain? He
had
told her all week how busy he was. Maybe she should have printed her posts and pushed them in front of him at the Fat Man
tonight, the same way he always forced his work on her.

In the next moment, she conceived of a new suspicion. What if he
had
read all her posts but hadn’t thought they were any good at all? What if he was just stalling for time until he could think
of something constructive to say?

Sandy squeezed herself hard with her folded arms and then let herself go. “Okay. Well, hurry and take your notes, then. I
really was looking forward to hearing your opinion.”

“I will. I promise.” He extended an arm over her for a quick half-hug. “Come on. Let’s go to my room. Matt’s going to be here
any minute now.”

Matt was Daniel’s housemate. Although the house technically belonged to Daniel, it had belonged to his parents first. It had
been their rental property and Daniel had agreed to allow them to continue renting out one of the rooms.

Daniel stood and turned up the sound on the TV, then led Sandy to his bedroom, where he turned up the radio on his nightstand
just as loud.

“You want to…?” He turned off the ceiling light and lit his nightstand lamp, then picked up a T-shirt from the floor and carefully
adjusted it over the plain white shade to dim the bulb. Then he pulled his two burgundy-encased pillows from beneath the lumpy
blue-and-green-plaid comforter, plumping them a little before putting them back against the pine headboard carved with scrolls
that matched those on the nightstand and the dresser.

He looked back at her with a questioning smile.

“I guess,” she said.

She watched as he began to remove his clothing, starting with his shoes and then moving from head to toe, shirt to socks,
laying each piece carefully across the chair near the foot of the bed.

Sandy stifled a smile or a sigh, she didn’t know which. She had already removed her glasses and set them on his dresser. Next
she would remove her own clothing and lay it alongside his.

She might have wanted to laugh at his predictability, or to feel embarrassed at her own. But there he was, and there she was.
She figured she may as well go through the motions.

Blog entry from My Modern TragiComedy, Saturday, March 25

Dear GeekBoy,

You’re doing it again. Once again, you’re taking me for granted.

I remember when I first met you. I thought that you were beautiful. Not just the best-looking TA I’d ever seen, but just as
much a work of art as the poetry you loved. That was back before I knew just how long you spent working at those long, lean
muscles you pretend not to work at… searching for those vintage shirts and close-cut trousers that make you so casually anti-establishment…
sitting in the chair while Rolando dishevels your shiny black hair so it’ll fall into your green eyes just perfectly, for
$55 a session.

I used to feel so incredibly lucky that you wanted someone like me. Wanted to talk to me and to listen to me, or at least
to my opinion of your work. Back then, it didn’t matter to me that I was the one doing all the listening. I was happy to do
it. You had so much to teach me, and I was more than willing to learn.

Now that I’m starting to find my own success, you don’t seem as interested in me. Why? Because nothing I ever do will be good
enough for you to notice? Or is it maybe because you’re not interested in being with an equal? Maybe you can only be happy
with someone who looks up to you. Looks way, way up to you, I mean.

How long do you expect this to last, HeartThrob GeekBoy? How long do you give it before I get tired of being one of your admiring
fans? Maybe you’re tired of it, too, but you can only say so in your poetry. You show it to me and don’t think I’m clever
enough to read between the lines. But I am, and I do.

Here’s a poem for
you
, Mr. Poet, in response to the last one you showed me, written in your very own style:

He Walks on My Nerves

Call it metaphor, simile, grad-school-grade allegory

Your shady language can’t/can not change the fact

That the other night, long after you went to sleep.

I rolled over to finish the job

You can’t ever seem to complete.

That was fun. Maybe
I
should be the one getting a Ph.D. in poetry. Look out, HeartThrob GeekBoy. I’m catching up to you with my own career. Before
you know it, I may have fans of my own.

Love,

Miss TragiComic Texas

S
andy Saavedra? Never heard of you.”

The hulking monster of a security guard handed Sandy and George their newly minted press passes and pointed to the sign above
the convention center door. It said austin lowrider show: $15 admission.

“This is so embarrassing,” Sandy muttered after they’d paid and made their way through the throng at the door.

“No biggie,” said George. “Just save your receipt and Angelica will reimburse us.”

“It’s not that.” Sandy removed her camera from her work bag and surveyed the scene. As far as the eye could see, there were
cars. Bright, glittery, bouncy cars, flanked by the men who loved them. And by adoring fans with cameras and fried foods in
paper bags. And by women in bikinis and high heels. “Why are we even here? And on a Sunday?” She’d hurried back from Dallas
early that morning, skipping breakfast with her friend Veronica, to drive her hungover self back to this.

“I know why
I’m
here.” George made a beeline for the nearest bikini model. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder. “I’m interviewing her
first!”

*  *  *

B
ACK AT THE
office on Monday, Angelica reviewed their footage with a critical eye. Sandy watched, too. It was her first time seeing herself
on video. She wondered if she looked as nervous as she’d felt while interviewing her subjects. It was hard to tell because
George had done so many close-ups on the models and the cars that there wasn’t much of Sandy in the frames.

She knew, at any rate, that she’d done a better job than George. Not only was her camera work better, but she’d come up with
better questions for their subjects. All George had done, basically, was hit on the models. He’d even offered to make a couple
of them famous.

“Good job, you two,” said Angelica, causing George to preen. “Next time, though, I’ll send Francisco along with you to run
the camera. Also, next time, George, try getting a little more information from your subjects. Instead of just asking if the
girls are single, ask if they slept with anyone to get the job. And don’t promise them anything on camera, got it?”

George nodded dutifully and Angelica dismissed him. Then she turned to Sandy. “Have a moment? In my office?”

Sandy swallowed hard and followed her boss.

The office most certainly was Angelica’s now. She’d removed every trace of evidence that Oscar had ever worked there. The
walls had been painted pale taupe and matted watercolor abstracts took the place of Oscar’s old maps and prints. The old plywood
desk had disappeared and been replaced by a wide ebony wood table that now cradled Angelica’s pearly white notebook computer
and python bag.

Instead of going around the table to the sueded swivel chair, Angelica took one of the plum-colored visitor’s seats and indicated
that Sandy should take the other.

Sandy waited for Angelica to speak. She couldn’t imagine what was on her boss’s mind, but was certain she wasn’t about to
get fired.
Pretty
certain, at any rate.

“Sandy, you did a really good job with the interviews. You were poised, you improvised good questions, and your subjects trusted
you. I especially liked the bit where the young man told you about getting his degree in jail. Really good work.”

“Thank you.” Sandy flashed a polite smile but felt nervous. She felt a “but” coming up.

“How did you feel about it?” Angelica asked. “Did you enjoy it? Were you comfortable?”

“Um… Yeah. I guess so.” Sandy gave the question some thought. “At first I was nervous, but then I kind of got into it.”

“That’s the way it often happens.” Angelica smiled. “Now, I’m about to give you my one critique, but I want you to understand
that it’s meant professionally, to help you be more successful, and not as a personal criticism.”

Sandy felt even more nervous now, but also very curious. “Okay.”

“I noticed that you looked most uncomfortable when you were on camera with the models in bikinis. And I can’t blame you for
that. However, your understandable discomfort, combined with your outfit, your hairstyle, and your general image made those
segments read a little bitter. Do you know what I mean?”

Sandy’s hand went up to her ponytail—the same type of ponytail she’d been wearing in the video. She willed herself to pull
her hand down again, and to refrain from looking down at herself to see what Angelica was seeing at that moment. She forced
herself to look the older woman in the eye with as much dignity as she could fake. “I’m not sure I do know what you mean,
no.”

Angelica smiled again. “You’re an attractive young woman, Sandy. Anyone can see that, even with you in those clothes, wearing
those glasses, and without any makeup.”

Sandy’s hand flew up to her rimless, glare-blocking, nearsighted-correction lenses.

Angelica went on. “When you appear in public like this, you’re sending a message. That message is, ‘Judge me by my brains,
not by my looks.’ And that’s completely valid, but when you interview women who get paid to be judged on looks, it can give
the impression that you’re standing in opposition to them, so to speak. To some of our less enlightened audience members,
it could read as ‘angry feminist’ or ‘bitter, jealous frump,’ or some other ridiculous thing. Even though you and I know that
nothing is further from the truth. I don’t think it’s fair that you and I, as women, have to worry about our image in this
way, but the reality is—”

Sandy got the message. She decided to cut to the chase and save Angelica more explanation. “What you’re saying is, you want
me to be prettier. Like Lori.”

“Not at all.” Angelica shook her head. “How pretty you are makes no difference to me. What I want you to be”—here she leaned
forward conspiratorially, and Sandy couldn’t help but lean forward too—“is more polished, and more
confident
. I want you to look like a woman who can hold her own with anyone. You already are that woman, and I want to make that fact
more obvious to our audience.”