Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Tip #184: If you plan on using super-glue to make any kind of household repair, chances are virtually 100-percent you will at some point get your fingers stuck together.

Folks claimed to value the freedom and openness of the desert; one reason why it’s featured in all kinds of popular music. Despite this, the public had gotten used to treating the region as a vast …well … toxic waste dump. For reasons unclear, the behavior was prevalent at all levels of society, and cast-offs weren’t confined to drink cups and wax paper food wrappers beside a highway.

Yet isn’t the dryland ecosystem as fragile as any other?

And if one wouldn’t think of trashing a pristine beach in Big Sur, how was it acceptable to discard your old janky sectional sofa or refrigerator in the Mojave?

My natural environment and my personal life is a toxic waste dump.

She was pondering this as their dinosaur-like automobile raced across open range. Even with both front windows down the dark-colored Pontiac was becoming unbearable. Stitched leather seats were adding to the misery.

Her back felt moist, sticky, with beads of sweat accumulating on her chest.

Beside her, fingers gripping the wheel at 12 o’clock, Jack raised his elbow and squinted from glare; it was reflecting off the hood scoop, causing every little bug splatter and rock ding in the windshield to glitter. He’d been quiet, appearing moody as guys often did, and she was curious what he was thinking.

On the passenger side, Lyndy tapped some ashes in the tray. She unbuckled her watch strap, concentrating on the delicate process of hand-winding, while puffing steadily.

Gesturing to the treeless Calico peaks, Jack questioned, “so when was the last time it rained out here?”

“Not sure. It’s been a awhile,” she shouted back. “But you’d better believe we get some gully washers.” Cupping the watch close to her ear, she listened for a faint tick-tock indicating it was running again. Re-attaching it to her wrist, she reached down, putting one arm under her knees and pulling her legs closer to her chest.

“Jack, I got a question for ya. You ever wish you had a close group of friends about your same age—like on TV or in the movies—with whom you share all your life adventures? I live alone, but you know what I mean, a gang of pals you meet all the time at a coffee shop, or like, a roadhouse bar? What do they call it in Hollywood? Your entourage?” She snubbed out the Newport, then dabbed her forehead with her untucked shirt. “Sometimes I try to talk to Chan, but he’s like a hundred years old and hates me.”

Jack gazed at Lyndy as though she’d lost her damn mind. Still he answered, “I have that. It’s awful.”

“What do you mean?”

“An entourage as you say. We’re all about the same age, travel together days at a time. It’s me, my twin sister Violet, her soon-to-be husband Devon, their best friend Ellison and my secretary Illyria Jameson. We do everything together.”

“You mean, for example, you hang out on weekdays all the time? Meet up for lunch and dinner. Go on lavish ski vacations to the mountains.”

“Yes,” he nodded. “All of that.”

“That sounds awesome.”

“No it isn’t. We hate each other. Last time we were at the Grand Canyon, we’re staring at a magnificent sunset near the El Tovar and out of the quiet Devon goes: I expected it to be deeper.” Jack started chuckling. “And the whole of them depend on me for their living. It’s like having room mates who don’t do any chores or contribute to the rent payment.”

Lyndy started chuckling too. “Are you serious?”

“Yes. We can’t stand each other—probably we’d admit it if pressed. This is the first time in weeks I’ve had time to myself.” Jack grinned at Lyndy. “I kind of relish it. Maybe I’m never going back,” he joked.

“But you are going back?”

He didn’t answer, instead switching topics. “So what’s with you? Why are you so chatty all of a sudden? I seem to recall you saying you didn’t want to know anything about me.”

“Oops, you’re right,” said Lyndy, cupping a hand over her mouth. “Momentary lapse.” She turned back to the view out the passenger side.

“So where are we now, tortilla flats?” asked Jack. “I’m lost.”

Her eyes fell upon the blue map and pencil marks she’d scribbled earlier. Craning her neck and shielding her eyes, she glanced in the rearview. “Oh crap. Turn this car around. I think we missed the place.”

“Really? I didn’t see any house? It’s been nothing but empty lots for the last four-and-a half miles.”

“No, there’s some stuff back there. I wouldn’t call it a house, but … stuff.”

He shrugged.

“Just don’t do a stupid J-turn,” Lyndy scolded. “A normal turn okay.”

“Of course not. Wouldn’t dare.. .” Jack smirked, then executed an unnecessarily slow and controlled three point turn.

 

Minutes later …

Grill pointing south, Lyndy was on the side closest. The new address was hard to make sense of. In contrast to Bo’s extensive development and airport-like grounds, this 5-acre plot of land was built up more akin to a Hooverville. Zero chance these people were on the grid.

The property lacked in fencing and yet it was still protected. Near the road were eight  to ten foot high mounds of earth and gravel, scrap plywood, bricks, old discarded roofing materials and some railroad ties. Smoke trees, boulders and a succulent garden secured the areas between. It wouldn’t be possible to drive straight in with any normal civilian car.

Adjacent the road stood a mailbox, or well, something imitating one. Fashioned in a minimalist tubular style, an unskilled sculptor of the metal arts had booger-welded two fat water pipes together, with the larger one serving to hold the mail and having numbers finger-painted on the side. 6-1-2.

Hard to spot, at the nexus of the improvements were a pair of single-wide mobile homes disguised in brown camo netting and oriented 90 degrees to one another. No surprise they’d missed this dwelling the first time. The nets extended diagonally from the rooflines, making forty-five degree angles where they had been staked to the ground. Circus tent style.

A crop of baby Joshua trees were also dotting the lot. The way junk had accumulated it would prevent removing or even re-positioning the trailers.

A narrow footpath stemming from the roadside mailbox meandered to where the single wides were. Beside it, a spray painted sign on plywood warned: “Keep Out! Bobbi Traps!” Whomever created the sign badly misspelled booby traps.

Jack switched off the engine; it knocked, running on a half-dozen cycles but eventually went silent. Adjusting his position he started pinching at his shirt to aid in airflow. As he did, Jack looked forward and back along the property line. “Well my balls are swimming in perspiration. And unfortunately, I do not see a vehicle parked here.”

“Nor I,” Lyndy replied, squeezing on her doorlatch. “Maybe we can see better from one of those dirt mounds. I think Dr. Seuss did their landscaping.”

The wind was howling yet again, a steady five to ten miles an hour.

Jack didn’t laugh. But she could tell he’d noticed the plywood sign. He grabbed and squeezed her arm. “I bet a veteran lives here,” he remarked.

“What makes you say that?” she wondered, staring down at his hand; it was the first time he’d touched her intentionally.

“Booby traps,” Jack said ominously. “I hate those.”

“It’s probably a guy growing pot or something.”

Gradually his grip on her arm relaxed. “Do you think anyone actually sleeps and eats in those trailers?”

“Of course Jack. These are called poor people,” she spoke facetiously, gesturing and displaying her palms as though introducing a foreign concept to a child.

Flicking open his green notepad, Jack continued, “Gentleman’s name is Edward Brennik. Occupation is listed as scrap metal dealer.”

“That I can believe.”

Lyndy pushed open her door, brazenly kicking it wider and slinging her purse over her shoulder. Picking her way across the graded embankment with one arm securing the strap, she stumbled ten yards up the path, pausing once to roll an old tire out of the way. Above them, the skies were becoming increasingly hazy. Compared to earlier, not a trace of blue remained. The air was unhealthy.

Still, at least it was good to be out of the stuffy car.

She turned back to find Jack wasn’t following. He remained seated with the door open an inch, gazing straight ahead, focusing on the distant highway.

Returning to the car, this time circling to driver’s door, she put her hands on the roof, drumming them. Then she leaned in, inserting her face in Jack’s personal space. “Hey weirdo, what are you afraid of?” she demanded. “You’re a tough dude and I’m not here for my health.”

He didn’t answer.

“Jack, how did you end up with that purple heart?” she probed, more forcefully this time.

He looked at the glovebox door, answering solemnly, “know what a bouncing betty is?”

“It’s like a flying grenade.”

“Correct.” He started to untuck his shirt. “Son of a bitch got me all up the backside and leg. Absolutely shredded the guy next to me.”

“You almost died?”

Jack bowed his forehead. “But afterwards, they finally sent me back. There’s that.”

“We’re not in a warzone—not yet. This is California.” She pointed to the sign. “And I feel okay about it since neither of us is named Bobbi.”

“You ever go through a period in life, where you ended up somewhere and you realize you’ve made a giant mistake. You’re trapped and you can’t think your way out.”

Bunch of times. Mentally, she was picturing Pine Gate.

“Wait. Hush, something’s moving,” whispered Lyndy, crouching below the roofline and peering through the car itself.

Some thirty yards nearer to the camo nets, a tiny creature was sneaking along the top of a mound, moving parallel to the road. It was a greyish tabby cat, tiptoeing among discarded boards and bundles of wire. Then, as it began a descent to the north, a human hand—child sized—shot up. Curling under the cat’s midsection, the arm hooked the cat at the belly and pulled it down out of view.

She inhaled quickly. “Did you see what I saw?” They both knew it was intentional.

“Yes,” Jack confirmed, unlatching his door.

“At least we know somebody’s home,” she whispered.

“I hope there aren’t trenches here.” He raised one hand and pointed, then shut his door as quietly as possible. “I’ll go around the back, if there is a back way.”

She knew he wanted her to come from the front—creating a distraction.

Paying more attention to her surroundings, she stepped back to the walking path, the one warning visitors to stay out. Taking a slow breath, she hiked her purse strap higher up on her shoulder. She was aiming for the trailers and the camo nets.

At every fifth step she paused, checking her environs, listening. But she heard nothing except wind rustling. The only other movement, a black throated sparrow hopping between branches in a smoke tree.

The trail had been trodden many times by persons wearing army boots, but in most spots was smooth, the path itself curving up and down to cross the berms. Each ten foot high mound must have been excavated with power equipment, as there were too many to do with a hand shovel.

Cresting the final bank, a distance of forty yards from the car, she heard a FWOOSH. The next instant she felt a bang against her ankle, like being knocked in the shin by a springy branch. Briefly her eyes fell upon the object, a wooden arrow shaft embedded in her leather boot; there was no time to check for injury. Instead she reached for the Beretta, intent on studying the horizon. Her pulse quickened.

“Holy smokes,” she thought.

First she crouched, then flattened herself fully on the ground, contacting hot soil with her stomach. The sand and rocks felt sharp against her skin, like shards of glass. Keeping the pistol level and straight, she frantically searched the scene for any attacker. This person must have intentionally aimed at her foot, avoiding a deadly shot. She took that as a positive.

“Hold your fire!” she exclaimed to no one in particular. “We’re here in peace! But if you try that move again I’m tempted to change my mind”

Sensing motion, she noticed Jack sprinting, followed soon by a muffled cry.

By feeling with her left hand, never averting her attention, she yanked out the arrow. Its tip had made it all the way through, nicking the skin on her ankle. She cursed.

“You can come out. I got him.” It was a comfort to hear Jack’s voice. “I got sliced on some barbed wire, but I think I’m okay.”

She scrambled to cover the remaining distance, heels sinking deep now and then. Near to where a camo net was nailed to earth, she found them. Jack had locked his arms around the person’s arms and chest, restraining them. Jack’s shirt was cut and had drops of blood showing from small incisions on his forearms. He was breathing heavy.

Coming to an abrupt standstill, Lyndy lowered her weapon. “It was a child?”

A quiver’s worth of arrows and homemade bow lay beside the two on the ground.

Their small assailant had ceased squirming, overpowered by the strength of an adult like Jack. The boy had tan skin, no shirt on, but was wearing army style cargo pants—way too big for his waist—and a black nylon strap serving as a belt. His hair was brown, a short home-done haircut. With piercing eyes he affected a roguish expression unusual for so young a person.

Sometimes it could be hard to tell, but she judged the little man to be in the range of eight or nine years old. He was handsome, in certain ways reminding her of a mini-Jack.

Still, she was fuming. She approached him, tightly clutching the Beretta. In anger she ruffled his hair, wanting to smack him. But slapping another person’s kid was anything but kosher these days.

“You shot me with an arrow you little brat!” she scolded.

The boy said nothing.

“You alright Jack?” she asked.

“I’m fine. Terrific actually. What a lovely day.”

She pushed the gun in her purse. Feeling something rubbing against her legs, fuzzy and soft, her eyes went wide. Tilting her chin down, she beheld the tabby cat mewing as it passed between her ankles. Reaching to pet it, she touched the cat along its spine with a few short strokes.  It purred, making another pass toward her, soaking up attention.

“Is this your cat?” Lyndy asked.

The boy nodded.

“Let him go,” she declared. Jack loosened his grip.

Kneeling, she continued to pet the cat, her hand coming in contact with its belly. Another surprised look came across her face. “Your cat is totally pregnant!”

She jumped up, dusting off her jeans and getting in the kid’s face. “Did you know your cat was pregnant?”

The boy rocked his head again.

“Hey, do you speak English kid?” demanded Jack. Then he released him. Neither feared the boy running off and hiding.

Gazing at Lyndy, the boy mumbled the words, “La Fierabrosa.”

“What did you just call me?”

In the meantime Jack was banging a fist against a blue plastic jug, half filled with liquid. He untwisted the mayonnaise jar-sized cap. Then sniffing the contents, he checked whether it was water or gasoline, but keeping his attention on the kid, interested to hear the answer.

“I heard some Mexicans talking about you. You’re called The Spitfire,” the kid spoke faintly, with scarcely any movement to his lips. “Senorita Martinez.”

Jack smiled knowingly, amused at the turn of events. By swinging the jug he began splashing his arms with water.

The boy looked briefly to Jack and Lyndy, then started collecting his bow and arrows; some had spilled out of the quiver and were littering the ground.

“What’s your name?” Lyndy asked.

“Hartley,” said the boy