Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-1

This restaurant was loud, bustling, but standing alone in the waiting area near the hostess podium, no one paid The Spitfire any attention. The chromed-out entry was poorly lit. She kept shifting her stance from one leg to another, experiencing a familiar discomfort having stemmed from decades of wearing heels. Using her violet colored fingernails, she liberated one of their glossy, laminated menus, bringing it closer to her nose. At least it was the type of diner with pictures of the food items, because Lyndy refused to wear reading glasses, and her eyesight was shot.  

When you’re old and you’re a woman, you gradually become less and less visible. It’s like being a ghost, and worse when folks once knew you as the stunner, a head turner. Life in the west turns into your own personal Sunset Boulevard. But when no one sees you, no one thinks of you. And despite the fact it’s a bitter pill, getting older does come with certain advantages. Lyndy’s newfound ability to blend in had become something of special power.

Adjusting her purse strap she continued to clutch the stiff menu. Going onto her toes she craned her neck, scanning the restaurant for any sign of Maribel. At first nothing. Behind her someone’s mobile phone buzzed. The noise was bone jarring, like a warning from an upset rattlesnake. Whipping around she watched the man’s whole body practically vibrating with this motorized contraption in his pants. As the young man flicked open the phone, brought it glowing near his right ear, he began shouting: “Hello! Hello! I can barely hear you. I’m at the Denny’s … I’m at the Denny’s! Speak up man.” He stuck a pinky in his left ear.

Folks were turning their heads, wondering why all the ruckus, while the fellow jerked and shoved his way into a corner. Was a time, not long ago, people would’ve considered this behavior rude. It’s why the phone booth was invented, but try finding one of those nowadays; better chance at seeing a condor in the wild. Places like this made her miss The Vanishing Point. That old seventies roadhouse, with its cast of vibrant characters and cowboy code of justice, would’ve tossed a guy for being so discourteous. The Spitfire shook her head.

Then she felt a tap on the shoulder from someone much taller, and their hot breath as they spoke directly in her hear: “Mom, it’s me.”

Lyndy turned, locking eyes with her only daughter.

“I got us a table already, in the back.” She’d been moving fast, coming to get her. “It’s around the corner, where it’s harder to see.” Ironic.

Several Minutes later …

The Spitfire stabbed the lid, then dumped a creamer cup into her coffee mug, stirring it with the red straw as she crinkled up the plastic container. She preferred truck stop coffee over fancy places which started with the letter S. This coffee reminded her of it. Discretely she was eyeing the twenty-year-old across from her, a satisfying and yet surreal thing to consider: she once despised changing this beautiful person’s poopy diapers.

Her daughter was known for having a charming, talkative personality, inheriting some of her mother’s characteristics. But on this winter’s morning, Maribel Ellis was in a mood. Quiet and introspective, her gaze fixated on mundane events happening out the window in the parking lot—two men filling a pothole with gravel and hot tar. The commercial space was surrounded in leafless willow trees, indicating the area had once been a woods.

Her daughter’s earrings sparkled in the sunshine.

“I haven’t seen that outfit before,” Lyndy commented. It was a cute fitted blouse, tucked into stretchy jeans, nice enough to wear to work at a law firm. Highlighted her figure.

Maribel smiled shyly, flashing her straight teeth—a thing Lyndy was grateful she’d been able to provide for her daughter.

“Dad bought it for me.”

“Oh I figured,” Lyndy replied, drawing her purse nearer on her lap. “What’s a matter with you today?” she probed.

“You shouldn’t have ordered the Denver omelet,” replied Maribel, being subversive. “They use too much cheese here, and they’re going to smother it in gauc and sour cream.”

“You’re one to talk. I’m not the one delivering pizzas.”

Maribel had been attending community college, in addition to a part-time pizza gig.

“I talked to dad; told him I wanna quit school.”

Yikes.

Lyndy took a sip of the bitter coffee. Right about here, she was supposed to ask, what did Dad advise on the matter. Did he approve of dropping out of community college altogether, after several difficult restarts? This coming from a man who earned an advanced degree in geology from a state university. But anything to do with her ex Kyle—member of a prominent California family living in Lake Arrowhead—was a sticky matter. Let’s face it, child support monies had gotten her through some difficult transitions, and now this daughter had to feel strange being the one Ellis grandchild born from a love affair, rather than a marriage.

Lyndy raised an eyebrow. “What are you thinking you want to do?”

“Highway patrol academy?” The way she said, came framed as a question.

“Do you mean like, Arizona Highway Patrol?”

Maribel shook her head. “No way. Are you kidding?”

Her thoughts shifted again, this time to another semi-famous Californian, now retired from law enforcement and living in some rather unfortunate circumstances. She could picture Dale’s knobby-tired Bronco now, his shiny badge and his cowboy hat. The way he drove that thing like it was stolen. The way it felt when he held her in his arms, and how hard it was to watch him suffer. And unlike Kyle, Dale never had two spare nickels to rub together.

But should she give Maribel that Mr. Chan style lecture? The one about, “Maybe you should do something else with your life, instead of putting yourself in danger?” Because of course the pay and benefits would be superior, if she were to become a California Highway Patrol versus in the neighboring states. Yet California was a place she hated to tread. And crime rates were much higher there.

Lyndy exhaled, placing her hands on the table, reaching for her daughter. “I think you know that I’d rather you finish school. But I mean, if this something that … you need to do. I wouldn’t stop you.”

“And you’re kind of finished with the golden state aren’t you?”

Lyndy nodded. “It’s complicated. But I need to remain here.”

Maribel waved her hand grandly, in the direction of Ash Fork and the rest of northern Arizona. “Wouldn’t wanna miss out on all this, right.” She was being facetious.

Lyndy didn’t laugh, instead placing a clenched fist near her mouth. “Sheesh. Mom. It’s okay. The program wouldn’t start for another six months.”

---

1 hour later …

Life Observation: Watching a TV commercial with two people in space suits, bombing around in a moon buggy in and out of craters, and a lawyer warning comes across the bottom of the screen: Do Not Attempt.

Piloting a 38 year old American rust bucket—hastily constructed at best—in a world full of modern SUVs and minivans, made you feel like a genuine time traveler. If she pulled some of her seventies outfits from storage, she really could look the part. This pearl white Ford Mustang, once the epitome of performance and general awesomeness, now was held together with baling wire and duct tape, literally. Some amount of prayer too. The motor, with over two-hundred thousand clicks on the odometer, was a marvel of longevity in its own right. The whole thing wobbled down the highway like a WWII duck boat. Wouldn’t pass smog in the state of California, so it operated as a vintage vehicle in the tri-states of Arizona, Nevada and Cali.

Frequently young hipsters, with a wad of money in the pockets, offered her cash to take it off her hands, claiming interest in restoring it. They called it a “barn find”. But hell, due to its rushed construction, in a year where millions were cranked out like tchotchkes, lacked any corrosion inhibitors. In present condition the thing would cost at best $100k to restore. And why? If she had $100k for a car, she’d buy a late model Porsche.

She realized she was breathing hard, clenching her fists about the steering wheel and daydreaming. Life is messy and humans are a complicated species. Mostly it seems having intelligence is a curse. But it’s twice as bad if you lack a formal education. Trust me. And there were far more ghastly things her daughter could have revealed to her on this day. What if she’d said she wanted to be in the same business as her mom? Shudder.

Lyndy checked her Casio watch, noting she was early for her next appointment. On the other hand, it was a good time for blood pressure medication. Next up on the agenda, a visit to the local one-star hotel and card club.

With one arm she uncapped the brownish plastic bottle—safety cap be damned—and flicked a white tablet onto her tongue. Then she shifted into third, squeezing at the same time to clamp the cap back on the container of like 5 dollar pills.

Cruising on old Route 66 northwest from Seligman, Arizona sun shining through gaps in the clouds, her thoughts drifted to her youth. Some people claimed to hate the seventies. Technology was neanderthal level; the answering machine was considered a trick invention. Computers were a marvel you saw in a university setting, or NASA, and “space invaders” a cutting edge video game. In The Spitfire’s mind though, and in her nightly dreams, those were the glory days.

But anyway, things weren’t all bad now. They still made Tab colas, and you could find it cold if you went to the right convenience store.

Twisting the wheel she veered into a half-gravel parking lot, a place with more motorcycles and ranch trucks than autos. Upon entering the lobby, you’d be greeted by the massive head of a twelve point elk. In one window, a vacancy sign was flashing: 30 dollars a night. But if you took that deal, you ended up in the worst of 25 rooms, one next to the utility closet with a wall mounted AC that squealed like an angry javelina all night long. What’s the sound of a javelina you ask? There’s one way to find out.

With Chan’s Bail Bonds out of operation since Bush senior’s presidency, this place was the next best thing. Miss Rhonda Thurgood, part Navajo, managed the hotel and controlled the ancillary work. A trickle of the extra work went to her, a trickle to Rochelle Bishop, and the rest to young men with basically nothing to lose. The old dogs of the business were long gone or dead.

“Why must women live so long?” she wondered.

Fisting her keyring, she rapped on the office back door. Faintly she could hear the classic Joe Diffie tune, “Pickup Man”, emanating from a clock radio in one of the nearby rooms. Her nose twitched. For some reason it smelled like a diaper back here; maybe the sewer line was backing up.

The door creaked open several inches, stopping abruptly as it reached the limit of a steel chain. From the shadows, someone peered out and she could hear them breathing.

“Come on in,” said Rhonda, as she unhooked the chain. In her other hand she was holding a pistol, which she quickly set down on a stack of carbon copies and pre-printed room receipts. Her cramped office had stacks of loose paper everywhere, a half-dozen mis-matched file cabinets and barely any place left to sit. Resting on the carpet she had an electric space heater, as the office lacked central air. Being near that thing made you feel like you were being breathed on by a dragon. Atop her desk, a stack of twenty dollar bills two inches tall. She’d been counting money under a yellow desk lamp.

Lyndy sidled her way in, as Rhonda deliberately locked the door.

“Ah Miss Martinez. Just who I was hoping to meet,” she said, her voice soft and speech surprisingly deliberate. “The legendary Mr. Chan spoke so highly of you.”

Really? Could that be true? More likely he’d offered something like: “Melinda will be a thorn in your side in every conceivable way, and just as you are about to cut her loose, somehow ensnare a fugitive worth keeping her on another month or two.”

Lyndy rubbed her palms across her face,  bracing an elbow against a small bit of exposed wood paneling. She was hiding a smirk, thinking of all the ways she’d made Mr. Chan miserable.

Rhonda Thurgood was quiet, finishing up some calculations and scribbling notes on a ledger.

The Spitfire cleared her throat, wanting to break the ice. “Ya know I used to clean rooms at a place like this, when my daughter was little. Did that for like a year.” She shook her head, faking a chuckle, a little out of embarrassment. “I think I planned to turn my life around somehow. But it didn’t work.” Kept getting sucked back in.

“So did I,” replied Rhonda. “Started when I was thirteen and didn’t finish until I was twenty-three. It was one of my three jobs.”

Right. Probably shouldn’t belittle my employer’s business.

Rhonda slapped a fax bulletin onto the only empty surface, the dusty corner of the desk. “Inmate escaped from a medium security camp. Training to be a firefighter. Reward is $10k.”

Lyndy didn’t respond, so Rhonda moved on.

“This casino is having trouble catching a rogue employee who made off with $15K in poker chips. Need help.”

Always felt a little sickly, turning down any kinda work. But of course, there would be no point if you got offed by organized crime.

Rhonda nodded, knowing Lyndy’s lack of words meant she was declining the offers. “Okay.” The next item she presented was just a tiny white calling card. It had a phone number, Nevada area code, and a one word name: Aloyan. “This person offering thirty thousand dollars, but will not tell me what the job is.”

Lyndy picked up the card by the edge.

“She tells me she was referred here, by a lady named Rita Lovelace.”

“Who?” Lyndy echoed, unsure she’d heard correctly.

“I was about to ask you the same exact question. Who is Rita Lovelace?” Rhonda demanded to know, maybe hoping this person could give more referrals.

A wide grin formed on Lyndy’s face. Just hearing the name spoken aloud conjured up a spirit of adventure.

“That name does mean something special to you,” reasoned Miss Thurgood.

“Yeah,” Lyndy sniffed, flipping the card over. “In my day, pretty much everybody knew that name.”

Rhonda folded her arms, pausing her activities. “I mean, thirty thousand dollars, that’s like a kidnapping or something, right? You have to help locate a person who is being held against their will?”

Lyndy was still grinning at the card. “Do you know when I was your age Rhonda, I used to buy a bag of frosted animal crackers and eat the whole dang thing for breakfast. Wash it down with roadhouse coffee. Drive for two hours to a job. Somehow I stayed skinny too.”

Rhonda snickered. “You aren’t actually going to call this lady?”

---

Later that evening …

The sun was sinking behind the hills, temperature falling as the night winds took hold. Though a quarter mile distant and out of view, one could hear semi-trucks on the interstate, Jake-braking as they descended the grade from Williams. That thump-thump-thumping sound penetrating the atmosphere for miles.

Using a green plastic scooper—like one from a grocery store pinto bean barrel—Lyndy transferred feed pellets to a trough for the anxiously waiting goats. Yeah. It had come down to this, feeding and guarding her landlord’s goats to earn a discount on the rent.

Know what’s cool about goats? Absolutely nothing.

Her rundown airstream sat smack dab in the middle of a weedy pasture, allowing her nightly presence to keep coyotes at bay, or during the day a golden eagle from air-lifting a goat baby. On rare occasions, there were even human poachers. Why would somebody poach a goat? Hunger maybe? Honestly she never knew.

With a garden hose she topped off their water, contained in a kiddie-pool sized plastic tub which they managed to foul pretty much every three days.

In the midst of this act, thinking she might need a flashlight, she noticed the white headlights, angling from the paved road. Her driveway being a half-mile long, had become rutted and gravely. Cars made a lot of noise as they approached, but this vehicle glided as if hovering on a cushion of air. As it came closer she could tell it was a sleek black Range Rover. Rhonda Thurgood had given the contact directions. And if this deal went through, Rhonda would keep 10 grand.