I’ve lived in San Antonio, Texas for a decade. When I moved here I began keeping a highly unreliable blog wherein my daily activities were heightened, made more exciting. This started out as a playful literary ritual, a low-stakes exercise to limber me up before writing on projects I considered of greater importance.
Over the years these short semi-autobiographical fictions took on more prominence. Some morphed into short films, podcasts, performance art pieces, even a full length stage play where I portrayed the narrator (a smarter and sexier version myself). I must admit, there are times when I have difficulty distinguishing what has actually happened in my life, and what I fabricated. However, I remain grounded enough to realize that the appearances of the occasional flying saucers and the interlude with the giant telepathic spider are indeed total invention.
The full run of these bogus blogs, vignettes, stories, or whatever they are, I’ve collectively titled, Tales of Lost Southtown. Southtown is the San Antonio neighborhood I’ve called home these last ten years. The current run of 50 short pieces have been arranged into a novel, presented as a series of journal entries. As I’ve been polishing the manuscript, I periodically send some of the entries out, slightly modified to stand alone as short stories, in hopes that they might find publication.
“The Goat Massacre” is one of these stories. It’s not so whimsically embellished as some of the other pieces. In fact, it fairly well resembles a particular day I spent shooting a documentary of a local artist of no small notoriety. I have changed his name, which seems wise. The character of Annette is a composite of two women with me on that day. There were indeed goats which died, disreputable house boys, and a meal of fast-food which was elegantly served on banana leaves. Even the flashback into the narrator’s past bears a fair resemblance to an incident from my more youthful days.
My portrait? It is below. And please trust me when I explain that “Salvador’s” svelte likeness of me is as fanciful and unreliable as is my own written depiction of that day’s events.