Cuento de Mi Id

“The Sacrifice”

Oh great! The Huntsville Express.

Shut up. The most they can get you for at this point in time is hitchhiking. Just play it cool and everything will be all right.

All right? Half-ounce of sinsemilla in my knapsack and you say everything will be all right?

Of course, it will. Just don’t act suspicious.

But if the cops search my bag?

They won’t if you give them no reason to--and by the way, don’t call them cops--call them policemen.

Well, all right.

It hadn’t been a good day for Martin. The Texas sun had decided to celebrate the Fourth of July early, and that had meant blast furnace temperatures coupled with a nonexistent breeze along a highway where the nearest shade trees were on the other side of the acre-long cotton fields. Not that there was a lot of green stuff to impede his way -- all the plants Martin had seen so far were brown and wilted--but there was no way he could hope to flag down a ride from the shade and he had no intention of walking all day in this heat. Now his first ride of the day had proved to be a cop car and Martin was already envisioning himself behind bars when the driver pulled up besides him and lowered the passenger window.

“Hey there!” said a good-ol’-boy-type in the shotgun seat. “What brings you out this way on such a fine sunny day?”

“Oh, nothing, Officer,” said Martin. “I’m just waiting for a friend.”

“Your friend live around here?”

“Well, no. Not really.”

The white policeman grinned and opened the passenger door. “Why don’t you come on in and tell us all about it?”

“Uh, no, thank you,” Martin replied. “My ride will probably be coming by any second.”

“Suit yourself,” said the policeman. “I wouldn’t linger here too long if I were you. You might get picked up for hitchhiking.”

Martin thought a minute. “On second thought, maybe I can use a break from the sun right now.” He climbed into the back seat almost eagerly, and tried not to jump when he heard the door slam behind him.

Take it easy. You’re just among cops; you haven’t been charged. They still have to read you your rights so don’t worry until that happens.

“You headed down Brewster way?” the first policeman asked as he reentered the vehicle.

“No,” Martin replied. “Dallas.”

“Close enough,” said the policeman, and he signaled to his partner, a short dark Latin man.

The car took off silently and Martin thought it rather nice to be out of the sun for a change. Not only that, but the car had air conditioning too.

Then he remembered where he was and looked up at the cop riding shotgun.

The policeman smiled. “Don’t worry, son. I was young once too. I bet you thought me and Frank here were going to arrest you, didn’t you?”

“Well, the thought did cross my mind.”

“Forget it. Anyone hitchhiking nowadays has enough to worry about with all the weirdos on the road without getting hassled by the cops. Don’t you agree?”

“Well, I’m not exactly in a position to disagree with you.”

The policeman laughed. “That’s great. “ He extended his hand. “My name’s Bob Smith. This here’s my partner, Frank Gonzalez. What’s your name?”

“Martin Lucas.”

“No relation to Henry Lee, are you? No? I didn’t think so. You probably wouldn’t admit it even if you were.”

“No, I guess not.”

“So what brought you to our part of the country in the first place, Martin?”

“Well, my girlfriend and I were driving up from Austin and we had a spat. She took off with the car and left me behind at a rest stop. I’ve been on the road ever since.”

“That’s quite a shame. Don’t you have any kin here abouts that you could have called for a ride or something?”

“No, not really. Most of my folks live in Dallas and the rest live out of state.”

“That’s a real shame. I don’t suppose there’s any chance of your girlfriend coming back for you?”

“Well, if she hasn’t come back by now, I really doubt she’s going to be.”

“That’s a shame. Well, I guess you can always catch a bus from Brewster. Me and Frank are headed that way and we’d be glad to drop you off at the bus station.”

“Much obliged.”

“Oh, think nothing of it. If we can’t help each other out, who’s going to do it for us?” Bob turned and contemplated the view ahead. “Rotten weather we’re having, isn’t it?”

“Not really,” Martin said, “not if you like sun.”

“The folks around here don’t. There’s been too much of it lately--and not enough rain. This here’s farm country. A few more weeks of weather like this and half the folks around here will be ruined.”

“That’s a shame,” said Martin, trying to sound sincere.

“Yes it is. Most of these folks have their whole lives invested in these farms--but you don’t want to hear about that--do you?”

Martin shrugged.

Bob continued “Anyway, at least they’re a lot better off than the Anderson kid.”

“The Anderson kid?”

“Yeah. Virginia Anderson. Prettiest little thing you ever did see. Would have turned sixteen last May.”

“Last May? What happened to her?”

“Went out on a date with the local quarterback. Her first one, oddly enough. Both of them missed curfew so their parents started calling around. Turned out the boy had been killed. Strangled to death.”

“Jesus. What happened to the girl?”

“Well, she was killed, too, but the killer took his time with her. Used her in every orifice, if you know what I mean, and left a few new ones to remember him by. Her parents had to request a closed casket.”

“Jesus,” Martin said again. “What could have made somebody do something like that?”

“There’s no telling, son. There’s a lot of strange people in this world. Like that guy ‘Zodiac’ out there in L.A. He killed all those people back in the ‘60’s to supposedly prevent an earthquake. The cops out there never did catch him Might even have been a her for all they know.”

“Well, how about this guy? The one who killed Virginia and her boyfriend. Did you catch up with him yet?”

“No, not really,” said Bob. He turned to look at Martin. “What makes you so sure it’s a him?”

“I dunno,” said Martin. “I just got that impression from your story. After all, you did hint that the girl was raped.”

“That doesn’t necessarily mean anything. Girls can rape too; they’re just more creative about it.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you’re the expert on this kind of thing. Who do you think did it?”

“Well, presently the most popular theory around the stationhouse is that some sort of wandering vagrant did it.”

Martin’s chest tightened. “What makes you say that?” he forced himself to say.

“Well, it obviously wasn’t anyone in town. That girl was so popular that only someone passing through would dare to commit a deed like that and not risk getting caught.”

“Oh, I see,” said Martin. “So you figure some sort of hobo did it?”

“Or a hitchhiker,” said Bob.

“Oh.” Martin started to think fast. It was bad enough to be flirting with a possible drug charge but if the cops suspected him of murder, they’d put him away for sure.

Take it easy. No one’s accusing you of anything yet. We’re living in the post-Miranda era, remember? He can’t force you to admit to something you didn’t do and anyway you were at Padre last May. Take it easy.

Martin tried to tell himself that his conscience was correct. He had nothing to worry about. He had a lot of things to feel guilty about but not murder. Not murder.

He began to relax.

Then Bob asked him, “Do you come up this way often?” and his chest tightened again.

“What makes you say that?” he asked in what he hoped was a casual tone.

“I don’t know,” said Bob. “It’s just the way you spoke of your girlfriend made me think you must be a frequent visitor to these parts.”

“Not me. I can’t afford it.”

“You came down this time, didn’t you?”

“Uh, that was just an one-time-only thing. Actually I’ve never been out this way before.”

Bob’s eyes hardened. “Seems to me you and your girl must have a weird relationship if this is the first time you ever visited her.”

“Well...” Nice going! “Actually she just transferred to UT this fall. Before that, she lived in Dallas.”

“Oh, I see.” The expression on Bob’s face told him he was not entirely convinced but he remained silent.

Martin turned to look at the scenery. They were coming into a different area now. There were more trees now and they came up to within a few feet of the highway. Bob suddenly pointed to something up ahead.

“There’s the spot where we found the Anderson girl,” he said. He turned toward Martin. “Would you like to see it?”

Now what? Martin wasn’t in a position to refuse.

“Okay,” he said without enthusiasm.

Frank pulled over and Bob and Martin got out. Bob let Martin go into the woods ahead of him.

Oh, great! Now Frank’s going to have the perfect opportunity to search my knapsack.

Shut up and act casual! You’ve got more important things to worry about, remember?

“It’s just a few feet ahead,” Bob said. “You can’t miss it.”

Up ahead Martin saw a clearing which looked like the spot Bob might have been talking about. He started to turn to ask Bob if that was it when he stumbled over something hidden in the leaves. A dead log, he thought--and he cursed. He started to get up, gazed at the object he had tripped over…

“What’s the matter, son?” asked Bob, coming up behind him. “Haven’t you ever seen a gen-u-wine murder site befo--Jesus!”

The object Martin had tripped over was a body--a woman’s body. The woman was blonde, apparently in her late teens or early twenties, and the stab wounds on her chest and belly were still oozing fresh blood. From her shorts and halter top, it appeared that she had been dressed for hitchhiking. If so, she apparently did not get too far.

“We better call the police,” said Martin.

Bob behind him nodded.

“Her wounds look recent. There’s probably a good chance we can catch whoever did this while he’s still in the area.”

“What makes you think we didn’t catch him already?” asked Bob.

Martin turned. “This is no time to joke. A girl has been kil--” His voice froze. Officer Bob had drawn his gun and was aiming it straight at him.

“What is this?” he said.

“Looks to me like we caught us a killer.” Bob grinned.

“You’re crazy. I’ve been with you guys all this time.”

Bob chuckled. “Oh, come now. The wounds aren’t that recent. How do I know you didn’t do this before we picked you up?”

“Are you kidding? You picked me up miles away from here.”

Bob shrugged. “You could have walked.”

“Through miles of open country? Why would I establish a stupid alibi like that? Anyone could have seen me. Even you guys--” Martin broke off. A horrifying thought just came to him.

Bob kept grinning, his gun still on Martin. “Come to think of it, you were nervous about something when we picked you up.”

Martin panicked. “That’s because I was carrying drugs in my bag. Would I admit something like that to you if I was really a murderer?”

“You might,” said Bob, and then Martin knew it was hopeless.

“All right,” he said, raising his hands. “I give up.”

Bob smiled. With his gun still on Martin, he took something from beneath his jacket and dropped it on the ground. “Pick it up!”

Martin’s blood turned cold. “You gotta be kidding!”

“Pick it up,” said Bob, and he fingered the trigger. “Don’t make me do this.”

Martin looked down at the object Officer Bob had thrown at his feet -- a butcher knife sealed in a plastic bag, its blade covered with blood. He looked at Officer Bob again and then ran.

If I make it to the woods, he thought, I can beat him. I don’t care if these woods go all the way to Texarkana, I can still outrun him. He can’t stop me. I haven’t touched the knife. There’s no way he can get away with this. No way in Hell--

Just a few feet behind him, Officer Bob cocked his gun and fired….

************************************************************

Frank was still waiting in the driver‘s seat when Bob returned from the woods. “How did it go?” he asked.

Bob smiled. “Better than I thought it would. Not only did he confess to the murders, but he admitted to being a dope fiend, too.”

He got in and Frank started the engine. “Any problems?” Frank asked.

“No, not really.” Bob turned to look at Frank. “You don’t sound too happy.”

Frank shrugged as he pulled onto the highway. “I just can’t help thinking about what’s going to happen if there’s an investigation.”

“Fuck the investigation. We had one last time and they never found out anything. Why should they find out anything this time?”

“Well, suppose they did?” asked Frank.

“Why should they? We’ll probably be public heroes. Who’s going to want to mess with a rep like that?”

Frank frowned. “I just can’t help thinking nothing good’s going to come of all this.”

Bob chuckled and looked up at the sky. “Well,” he said, pointing upwards, “something good’s already happening.”

As the patrol car disappeared down the highway, a parade of clouds began to appear in the sunny sky. Soon they began to darken. As the first raindrops fell, a clap of thunder could be heard echoing across the landscape like celestial applause. There was no lightning to accompany it.

Trailer of the Week: Buffy the Vampire Slayer

The movie that most Buffy fans -- including myself -- like to forget.

Literary Quote I Like

The fat old correspondent was running out of indignation and energy. “I broadcast for four years from Berlin, McMahon,” he grated. “Goebbels himself never dared to tamper with my scripts like this. Not once! The British administration of Singapore does dare. How is that?”

“My dear fellow, the Germans only talk about being the master race,” Elsa McMahon’s husband said drily. “You’re on in ten minutes.”
--Herman Wouk, War and Remembrance

One Girl in All the World: Brian De Palma's The Fury

Poor Amy Irving. She finally got a chance to play both Sue Snell and Carrie White in the same movie and she got stuck with a role that required her to do stuff that even a young Meryl Streep would have had difficulty with.

Then again it says something about the 1978 movie The Fury that Amy Irving wasn't exactly listed at the top of the cast list even though she was one of the two main characters. That honor went to actor Kirk Douglas who played CIA agent Peter Sandza. The late John Cassavetes played Ben Childress, the villainous former co-worker of Peter who arranged a phony terrorist incident in an effort to both get rid of Peter and to provide cover for the kidnapping of Peter's son Robin (played by Andrew Stevens).

The whole plot pretended to be about psychic powers but actually it was just an excuse for various scenes of bloody mayhem. Granted, the movie seemed a little tame by modern standards. There was one episode of really bloody violence in which an unfortunate woman was turned into a human fire sprinkler but for the most part, most of the violent scenes are surprisingly conventional. Then again, the movie ended with what at the time must have seemed like the bloodiest display of FX that one was likely to see outside of a Romero film.

The one thing that kept the movie watchable for me was Amy Irving. The poor girl fared far better when asked to play an ordinary girl than when she had to play a super-psychic teenager who had an unfortunate gift for making the people she touched bleed. In the beginning of the movie, we saw Ms. Irving in a surprisingly skimpy leopard bikini walking with her gal pal La Rue and discussing homework.Later on, we saw her in ordinary clothes -- though there seemed to be times when Ms. Irving's character (Gillian Bellaver) spent more time in a white nightgown than in anything else.

It was interesting to note that though Gillian was one of the main characters, far more attention was paid to Robin and Peter. Moreover, the movie had a scene in which another girl implied that Gillian and La Rue were lesbians. Interesting enough, though Peter and his son indulge in their share of physical horseplay, the movie never once had anyone imply that either character was anything but heterosexual. Indeed, Robin was even provided with an older female companion who made no bones about the fact that she and Robin were sleeping together.

Yet, despite it all, I could not help wondering what happened to Gillian after the movie was over. Did she go home? Do she go to prison? I'd like to think for her sake that she did okay and went on to lead an uneventful life. But that might just be wishful thinking on my part.

Quote of the Week

I do not want to find Toni Morrison in the “African American” section of the bookstore. I want to find her in the Great Author section of the bookstore. Our stories, all of us, are important and mainstream. In a nation where Texas and California no longer have “white” majorities, our experiences ARE the mainstream. The media has yet to figure that out. Interestingly, the mainstream American media is more likely to place foreign-born authors in the mainstream category than they are to place homegrown “minority” authors there. Think about this.
--Alisa Valdes-Rodriguez, “Misunderstood…again,” La Queen Sucia, July 5, 2007

Trailer of the Week: Jojo Rabbit

It's Drop Dead Fred meets -- ahem -- Nazis? Seriously? Granted, it is supposed to be satire but still...

Then again the dark part of me that recently invented the idea of a Nazi vengeance demon in one of my humble attempts to write fan fiction can't help but be interested in this movie. My inner non-Aryan, on the other hand, has another opinion...

Plus we get a special cameo appearance in this trailer from Herr Flick so maybe... just maybe... this might prove more watchable than Iron Sky.

Quote of the Week

Also, and finally, I realized that I too was not immortal. Any day I could be snatched off the landscape; and if I were, I would disappear without ever having lived my own life. What I wanted to do was write. Very well then, that was what I would do, even if -- as then seemed probably -- I would never again be published.
--Alison Lurie, Words and Worlds: From Autobiography to Zippers

Cuento de Mi Id

"Dawn at Dusk"

Dawn was still standing by the kitchen sink as she cleaned the gasoline off of her hands when Kennedy came into the house from the back yard.

"Dawn," she asked, "have you seen Spike today? It's almost time for our nightly training exercises and I don't see him anywhere."

"I don't think Spike is going to participate in any more training exercises," said Dawn. "He and my sister had a big fight yesterday and I believe that he's decided to move on."

"A fight?" asked Kennedy. "Was that what all the shouting was about yesterday?"

"Probably," said Dawn with a shrug.

"So that explains all the bruises on her arm," said Kennedy. "He didn't try to -- "

"Well, he tried, but he didn't succeed," said Dawn. "Once again my sister was too strong for him, which is just as well since he'll never be doing that again."

"What do you mean, 'again'?" asked Kennedy. "And how do you know that he'll never be doing it again?"

"Oh, just a hunch," said Dawn. "Buffy is not the only one in this household who has visions. By the way, there's a notebook on the table full of phrases in Cantonese that I found on the Internet. I figured that as long as Chao-Ahn is staying with us, we might as well find some way to communicate with her."

"Why, thank you, Dawn," said Kennedy. "That's so thoughtful of you. But why didn't you let Giles or Willow do that?"

"Because there are some certain things that need to be done that Giles or Willow -- or even Buffy -- can't -- or won't -- be bothered to do," said Dawn. "And apparently that is my job now -- to do the things that need to be done that others seem unwilling to do. Now if you'll excuse me, Kennedy, I need to go clean up the basement."

"Yes, I suppose you'd better," said Kennedy. "It smells like somebody's been burning trash down there."

"Yes, that's one way to put it," said Dawn with an enigmatic expression on her face.