Jackrabbit Homesteader: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-15

Link to Part-1: Jackrabbit Homesteader Part-1

Lyndy Life Observation: Zorro puts on a tiny raccoon-style mask and the entire Spanish- California government can’t determine who he is, even though the population is 3000 people in the county. Meantime I can walk around in a bear suit and somebody would recognize me.

She felt the warmth of pure sunshine on her skin, unfiltered; a screen window left open. Amongst the comforting sounds and aromas of the desert, something was different.

Opening her eyes without stirring, the outline of a male body came in focus. He was seated on the bed’s edge in the nude. Shrapnel scars ran down his right side, contrasting with otherwise smooth skin on his back. His unshaven face and ruffled hair were reflected in a floor length mirror attached to the hall door; those green eyes his best feature. With one finger he was touching the wall calendar, tracing out days. It hadn’t been current she’d known, but now he’d changed to the correct month.

She glanced to the crowded nightstand. Her alarm clock was reading 7:15. To the right of this her black Beretta—same spot it always spent the night—next to it a man’s wallet, pack of camels and Rolex explorer, showing many wear marks on the case.

“What are you thinking about?” she whispered, her voice a bit congested from sleeping and allergies.

He exhaled sharply, ending in a frustrated laugh. “I like this place,” he replied.

She sat up, pushing higher with one hand, holding the sheets against her body; for what reason she didn’t know. “But?”

“But I think I can still make the wedding.” He looked to her with a gentle smile. “I think my family would appreciate it. I know my sister would.”

She rubbed her face with her palms, staring at the tangled bedsheet. “Okay.”

“Don’t say it like that. I’ll come back.”

“I simply don’t believe you,” she replied, throwing a shirt at him.

“Hey, you could come to Santa Barbara with me? Picture it, the symbol of California, a sandy beach, magnificent oak trees, the mountains, ocean air. We’ll stay in a fancy B&B.” He chuckled to himself. “You do not have to attend that silly wedding. That’ll be my cross to bear. You’ll be sipping sparkling wine, or whatever the expensive tequila you like is called.” He tilted his head. “On the other hand, if you want to watch a total circus, maybe you should attend the wedding.”

She grinned, picturing it all in her mind while shaking her head. “No way. I can’t.”

He gazed back at her like only a fool would turn down such an offer. She was an enigma.

Jack reached to the nightstand, wrapping fingers round the steel braceleted watch. “My father gave me this. I never liked it much. It’s a perfectly fine gentleman’s watch, just not my style.” He set the watch in her hand, closing her fingers about the weighty case. She felt the coldness of steel and her thumb rubbed across the nubs encircling the screw down back. It was the first and only time she’d held a watch costing more than a  year’s pay. “I’ll leave this item with you, to show you that I’m coming back. I keep my promises.”

He leaned in for a kiss and though hesitating, she responded.

 

Two hours later …

With nicer weather it felt like a flare skirt and knee-high stockings kind of day. But also long sleeves—a lace decorated blouse top fitting loosely, tying in front. Her arms had purple bruising, needing to be concealed. Her ribs were tender too; she felt the discomfort as she was transporting a pink doughnut box against her side. She hoped none were broken, as those bones took forever-and-a-day to heal.

She’d lost the spring in her step; it was a slow-moving day.

Entering at the front, bells jingled and the door creaking, its milky glass protected in a crisscross metal screen. Using one foot she wedged it open, meantime sliding the pink box into position atop the dusty file cabinet. Sunlight flooded the office through gaps in the blinds. The space was serene, the way she liked it. Though only 9:00, the overhead fan was whirring, with its one or two worn out bearings.

She wanted a choco-bar for herself, but settled for hot coffee with cream.

Pacing across the room she halted midway and squinted, rubbing a fingernail rapidly up and down behind her ears. She sniffed. “Hey Mr. Chan, you ever have trouble with flakey, dry skin behind your ears?”

The newspaper sprawled across his mahogany desk and Chan sat hunched over, reading. It made a rustling noise of crinkling each time he turned to a new page. Barely tilting his head, she knew he was pretending to ignore her, however his eyes were tracking her movement.

Scooting a client’s chair closer to the desk, she slipped off her shoes and put her feet up. With both arms she created a square picture frame effect around her head, still gripping the coffee cup. She glared at him. “I have an important question for you and I need you to be brutally honest.”

Uneasily he locked eyes with her, a tortured expression coming over him as though he’d just swallowed orange juice post brushing his teeth.

“Can you be honest?” she repeated.

Mr. Chan grunted something akin to yes, but might have been no as well. His vintage Hawaiian shirt was black, decorated by a pattern of clustered palm trees and variety of  fifties era wooden surfboards.

“I’m wondering if I have a normal size head for my body, meaning is it proportional, or is my head too large for the rest of my frame? It always seems like the latter, especially now with this loco hairdo.”

Looking as if he were engaged in a poker tournament, he dipped fingers casually into a carton of vanilla wafers. Gripping a stack of three, he crammed these into his mouth all at once and began chewing, numerous crumbs tumbling on his shirt. Chan swallowed hard, sighed, tilting back in his swivel chair—accompanied by a loud creak.

She leaned back too, mocking his behaviors, calmly observing him still.

“Are you done being irritating?” he asked at last.

“Affirmative. Got it outta the system,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “Weirdo!”

“I would estimate you have normal girl-sized head. It is hair making seem too large.” He rubbed his hands flat against one another, warming them. “So Melinda, how are we feeling today? Well?”

“Uhh, sure, ” she slanted her head by thirty degrees, counting on her fingers. “Young, fit, prime of my life really … sexy. … hopeful for a brighter tomorrow.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh.” He grinned, tapping at a news headline with his index finger, rapping on the desktop. “Cause there was a bad-ugly fistfight at the Desert Oasis rest stop—what a shithole—reads like an episode of Kung Fu. Couple white supremacist dudes ended up in the infirmary.”

She resisted an urge to smile. Pointing to his outfit she declared, “You’re looking trim. Is that a medium fit Hawaiian shirt?”

Cracks in his façade of displeasure were forming, but Chan continued raising his voice, “And then late last night I working on balancing the books, going through the pile of carbon copy sanctions …”

“Really helps distracts from your bald spot,” interrupted Lyndy.

“.. and I find this new one I not remember approving.” Holding it up, he shook the one she’d penciled in for Jack Decklin, a manhunt, sums $1000 plus $4000 plainly visible from a distance in bold print.

“Memory loss,” alleged Lyndy.

“Five big ones eh?”

Gazing at the floor she remained silent.

“Shall I snip this one into squares, put it by the toilet in case we run out of TP.”

Sheepishly she nodded and exhaled, mimicking a sad pirate accent: “Aye.”

Chan shot up—hiking his khaki pants and tightening his belt—aiming for a rendezvous with the fresh doughnuts. But unexpectedly he pivoted, paused, resting both meaty palms on her bony shoulders. “How would you like a nice relaxing back massage?”

“What? Ewww, ewww, no thank you pervert,” she replied

“You sure? You used to love massages.”

“Yeah, before I knew how creepy you were,” slapping his hands away. “Stop talking.”

“Huh. Huh. Huh. Why so jumpy Melinda?”

“Dude, got any real work for me or not? Otherwise I’m escaping to Tammy Ward’s house to watch daytime talk shows and possibly help Darrel work on my car.”

“We have two witness location jobs. I’d previously set them aside for Rochelle, but she’s off doing some stuff with Andy this week.”

“How much do they pay?”

“One-hundred per day, each. Gotta find the witnesses first.”

“Oh sheesh, I’ll take it.” She shook a Newport from the pack, sinking deeper in the chair. Squinting, she held the tip of the cigarette above the apex of the flame.

Biting a choco-bar topped with nuts which he cradled in a napkin, Chan stared out the window at morning traffic. “This young man place you in danger.”

“No he didn’t. It wasn’t his fault those bikers cornered me. It was coincidence.”

“A coincidence which could not have happened, if this man hadn’t put you in that place at that time.”

Chan was a hard one to argue with.

“Is he good looking or something?”

She exhaled. “Aye. A hunk.”

Chan chuckled, a genuine one this time. “Melinda Martinez, I have Hawaiian shirts in my closet older than you. No one offer big cash unless job is unsafe. The thing you’ll have to learn to balance is this: It’s better to have a steady, reliable client who feeds you dull work, than it is to have a hot shot who promises the world.”

 

Lyndy Life Observation: Popular rock-n-roll song lyrics go: “Mama why, why do I always fall for the crazy ones?” and as I listen to the radio I’m thinking, “It’s all on you dummy. Your personality must be the very thing attracting them.”

He ditched the flashy Trans Am under the First Avenue bridge—sum of his current worldly possessions stashed in the trunk—in a shaded area out of view. He continued to the depot complex on foot, but carrying his badge and ID should anyone ask. The thunder of a passing train and shriek of halting brakes filled the air.

He had his gun holstered, but wouldn’t be needing it.

Jack was seeking a certain acquaintance, one he’d noticed at the Vanishing Point; having been there with Lyndy it wasn’t the right time to speak up. But he knew the tall mechanic to be outspoken, and oftentimes opinionated.

It was a gamble coming here, as he didn’t know the young man’s schedule. Perhaps unluckily, it was his day off; on the other hand these guys loved to rack up overtime.

The road tar was so warm it stuck to his shoes, sun’s rays already catching up to him—sapping energy—and all he wanted was to be indoors. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. Transiting an unlocked gate he hurried toward a red brick warehouse, a 50 year-old building housing the machine shops. Bold signs at the doors warned of furnaces and heavy equipment in use, public not allowed. Yet the door had been propped open with a two-by-four scrap of wood.

Attempting to avoid confrontation he watched the scene unfold from the doorway. But with his eyes he traced the room, littered with train equipment and a half-dozen men.

The worker he’d spotted at the billiard tables was there, hunching over a metal workbench; he sported a leather apron having seen years of hard use. Like a true brakeman his clothes were discolored by layers of soot, some grease and a sprinkle of metal shavings. Corresponding smudges showed on his face, even from a distance.

Before him, an iron vice the size of a cannonball clamping a two foot shaft of steel in its jaws. The fellow was passing a blow torch side to side over it, methodically. In the span of one minute the metal transitioned through a dozen shades of orange, settling to a rich tone of red. The act of working the glowing metal was mesmerizing, slowing time. For this reason Jack continued to wait patiently in a moment of zen.

Finally satisfied with the even temperature of the piece, the worker set down the torch. Now in his right hand he picked up an old hammer, its wedge shaped head specialized for metal work. Lifting the hammer above his head he brought it down on the steel in a massive thud; it echoed throughout the room. He repeated the action again and again until two large rivets separated from the piece, popping out and clinking on the floor. The worker jumped back, fearing hot rivets landing in his boots, but both rolled harmlessly out of view.

Now that it was quieter the fellow perceived he was being watched, turning to the door.

“Mr. Decklin sir!” he exclaimed, a welcoming in his voice. “Been awhile since we’ve had the pleasure.” He removed his thick gloves, setting them aside on the workbench. Grabbing a shop towel only a slim margin cleaner than his gloves, he rubbed across his face and beard.

Jack stepped forward into the room.

“Curious what it’s like to do actual blue collar work are we?” the fellow teased loudly.

“I know what it’s like to do blue collar work,” Jack responded, with enough candidness and positivity to indicate he was in no way offended. “I’ve had all sorts of jobs with this company, including the inglorious.”

Other men were staring, having paused their efforts, wondering what a high-up rail inspector would be doing here. He felt he was interrupting the routine.

Shaking both hands in greeting Jack was surprised to see the man he thought was much younger, up close must be comparable in age. He had forehead lines, graying hairs in front.

“Dylan,” he replied. “What can I do for you?”

Jack nodded toward the rest of the depot buildings. “Is there a place we can get a bite to eat?”

 

Minutes later …

They were seated at the breakfast counter in the employees cafeteria, an area more refined than a typical business commissary, as it once served hungry travelers in the heyday of passenger service. As such, ornate wood paneling reminiscent of Victorian times inset with etched glass mirrors decorated the back of the serving counter.

Dylan seemed pleased to be having brunch on the house, and with an executive no less. He spread butter and jam across a thick bagel, as a young woman topped off their mugs with coffee. Some of the jam was getting caught up in his curly beard.

Aside him Jack spooned fresh strawberries onto a short stack of pancakes and drizzled maple syrup. One could hear a clanking of silverware and plates coming from the kitchen.

Dylan chuckled to himself. “We had some of these management types come down here, tour our shops, try out the jobs. Got this guy with slick hair, glitzy suit and smarmy look about him. Went to an ivy league out east and he’s dying for me to ask about it. Instead he tests out my job for no more than ten minutes, declares it’s fun to be a blacksmith, made a speech how lucky we are to be here, gettin to work with our hands all day. But I wanted to ask him how he would like it facing thirty-five years shoveling coal in a blistering firebox, makes your skin stretch like rawhide, crossing the desert night and day with only steam, clearing rockslides outta their path by hand to get across the mountains on time and on schedule, helping to bury his friends with the same damn shovel, like my granddad did.”

Jack nodded, exchanging a look of solidarity, then turning back to his plate. “Imagine that, a locomotive chugging uphill, powered on corporate mottos about teamwork, positivity and diesel fuel. There’s no such.”

“Damn train runs on the sacrifices of decent men … women too.”

“So may I ask a question? Don’t take offense, but why were you guys mad-dogging me at The Vanishing Point?”

“We saw you hanging with the half-Mexican chick.”

“And …,” coaxed Jack.

“She isn’t called The Spitfire for nothing.” He paused,  dissolving sugar cubes into coffee with a teaspoon. “Ever see one of those dudes on TV who stick their hand in the open mouth of a live alligator?”

Smiling uneasily, Jack adjusted his position on the seat. “No, but I can imagine.”

Dylan continued, “He performs this roadside stunt for the thrill, a small crowd and a few bucks pay. Then one day, after he does his cheesy act a hundred times without incident, the alligator chomps down and he loses an arm.”