Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-6

Lyndy Life Tip: Here’s a great way to annoy your kids. Gradually start injecting the terms “stand-by”, “roger-that” and “over-and-out” in everyday conversation. At first they might look at you funny, but over time it drives them completely nuts! (These are phrases a person on an old trucker-style CB radio might say.)

“When I was fifteen, I could do twenty chin-ups,” boasted Rita gleefully.

“Oof! Then how come you’re having so much trouble accomplishing one now,” grunted Lyndy, sounding out of breath. Hunched over and supporting Rita’s sneaker with her fingers locked, The Spitfire was grimacing. Meantime Rita was gripping onto the horizontal cross-beam, a dried out, skinny board connecting each of the upright fence posts. Lacking room to spread her hands, her arms and elbows trembled painfully.

“You know this is hell on my nails,” remarked Lyndy, though she was being facetious. Her irritation stemmed more from having to play the part of Miss Lovelace’s step ladder. “And I can smell your sweaty feet.”

“Oh geez. I’ll pay for a manicure, Lyn,” offered Rita, swinging her 35-mm camera around by the strap, moving it out of harm’s way to the middle of her back.

Yes folks, before internet auction sites existed, if you wanted to find cool muscle cars you had to sneak into tetanus-laden junkyards like this.

“See anything worthwhile yet?” grumbled Lyndy. Her pulse quickened and her mind swirled, thinking of all the unique treasures waiting behind that barrier.

“Yeah, a nicely patinaed Bel Air,” Rita answered, speaking in a hushed volume so her voice wouldn’t carry.

“Groovy, but too old,” replied Lyndy. “And not enough spare parts.”

“Oh, oh, visible gas pumps!” said Rita excitedly.

“We’re looking for a car, not stuff to decorate your front yard.”

“Then I hope he has a classic Ferrari back here.” Miss Lovelace sniffed and scrunched her nose, pretending to act snobby. “Here I go!”

Rita strained at the same time Lyndy lifted. Kicking out her heel as far as her pants and youthful flexibility would allow, Rita caught the rail. With grip faltering, Rita managed to shift her center of gravity up over the pointy apex of the fence—and not scratch up her midriff. With a whoosh she used both arms and her knees to cushion the descent, landing on her feet in a crouched position.

Skies were hazy, and somewhere a lonesome rooster crowed.

Straightening to full height for a back stretch, Lyndy twisted side-to-side to take in their surroundings. They should have phoned ahead. She felt sure the Wards didn’t mind her and Rita sneaking in their yard when they were away, but other folks like neighbors wouldn’t know. Lucky so far, there wasn’t much action in this part of town—plus being the afternoon, anyone not at work would be taking a siesta.

Aside from a row of yellow hollyhocks, not much grew. Mrs. Ward had all but given up keeping her yard presentable. The house was a drab stucco affair. In its heyday though, it would have been something to envy—their cozy three-bedroom cottage having stood since a time when railroad executives dominated life.

“You were right, this place is a gold mine,” whispered Rita between slats. “Send over my hat.”

Reaching down for the floppy straw hat with white and black ribbons, she flung it over the top rail like a Frisbee. “Wait up for me,” Lyndy exclaimed. Felt great to introduce Rita to something cool for a change.

First backtracking several yards to gain momentum, Lyndy jaunted and sprung off her toes aiming for the cross beam. This is where childhood monkey bar experience came in handy. Catching firm hold, she drew in her knees and kicked her feet, scrambling to obtain the slightest traction on the smooth verticals; whole time she was straining with her biceps. Sheer determination helped propel her over, and it paid off as she made it without damage. From the opposite side Rita reached skyward, steadying Lyndy’s plunge to earth.

In the process of scaling the tall fence Lyndy’s outfit became twisted. She paused to straighten up. While re-tying her shirt tails, smells of cracking rubber hose, brake dust and assorted engine crud flooded her nostrils. But also a whiff of chemical sweetness, fresh grease perhaps.

As The Spitfire got her bearings, she could see Miss Lovelace bounding off through the narrow paths, showing little regard for the existence of threats such as snakes and junkyard dogs. Charging out ahead, never waiting to assess a situation was one of Rita’s traits that got on her nerves. But it didn’t matter cause Rita would never change. Chasing after, Lyndy gathered the lower half of her hair in a scrunchie, then pressed on her sunhat to secure the rest in place.

Junk encroached on all sides, the visual overwhelming, more than Lyndy remembered from her last visit. Tire-smoking hotrods and muscle cars were known to be Darrel’s specialties, but also cool cars like Cadillacs meant for cruising, convertibles and even some exotics. If you couldn’t find something here to suit your fancy, you simply weren’t trying hard enough.

Many vehicles, a 53 Studebaker for example, exhibited rich patina from baking in the Mojave sun. The twenties gas pump beside it still had a clear cylinder and bubble-like glass globe—the thing Rita called a visible pump—with a logo too long faded to recognize. Teenage troublemakers used to steal those for target practice. Nearby sat an old wringer-style washer, having been transformed into a storage container for junky crankshafts.

Anxious to catch up with Rita, Lyndy raced down the gravel access path—only reason it stayed clear was so Darrel could get a new clunker in or out—and even this was a losing battle. A handful of cars like the Studebaker, were well beyond saving. But Lyndy knew a useful trick to ID-ing premium ones. These were the models stored under tarps, oil stained drop cloths and occasionally, cotton bedsheet covers.

Lyndy halted suddenly, reversing her tracks. Something hidden, a subtle clue, caught her eye: the ridges on the quarter panel and body. Pinching the corner of a tarp, she raised it twelve inches above the hood to confirm.

The crummy tarp had seen better days. Pinholes in the weave created a dazzling array of spots on the ground. These shafts of light highlighted floating dust particles, making her nose itch, causing her to sneeze. Still Lyndy crouched, running fingers across the chrome grill, mostly intact and un-pitted. She could feel three capital letters embossed in the mesh of the air intake, knowing what they must be without seeing yet. Slanting her head, she confirmed: G-T-O. People used to pry off and steal those badges. The legendary tri-power, with three two-barrel carbs, sleeping peacefully.

Her ears could imagine the sound that car made. But the color was a lacquer black, not exactly her favorite, less certain that Rita would like it. She let the tarp fall back in place.

Mind wandering, Lyndy inspected a heap of 4-speed transmissions directly adjacent the Pontiac. She was thinking maybe a drop top convertible would be nice to have, especially on a trip to Vegas. But then she felt a poke to the rib cage. She jumped, though she knew Rita had returned. Her partner in crime—the only girl she knew who shared the same passion for transportation—sporting a devilish ear-to-ear grin. It was the look an elementary schooler had with a fistful of change, waiting on an ice-cream truck.

Rita stuck her thumb out sideways, urging Lyndy to follow. “Come quick. I found a sexy one,” she pleaded. “But I’m not quite sure what we should offer.”

Before Rita could pull her away, Lyndy spotted something else worth investigating. Beneath a stack of scrap carpets, a different breed of sixties muscle car displaying a curious hint of faded turquoise green. “Hey, what came in that old-man color?”

Rita held up her palms and shrugged. “This is your department, Lyn.”

The exposed body panels, including the hood, were sandblasted to a dull finish. Feeling around with both hands, she managed to snag the hood release. Squeezing hard it clicked free. “What do we have here?” Lyndy wondered aloud. Next moment she raised the hood, its bone dry hinges creaking more than she would have liked. But for the first time possibly in years, daylight fell upon the Cleveland V-8. With the autolite carb it was an M-code. “Not bad. We can work with this. As long as it runs.”

Rita brushed off the chrome badging. “It’s a Cougar?” Her tone was in the form of a question.

“It’s a cousin of the Mustang, just not near as pretty.”

“Oddly, I kinda dig this color,” Rita mused, squeezing herself between a stack of tires—tilting like the Tower of Pisa—and the driver’s side door.

“Really?” sighed The Spitfire. “I dunno, maybe it’ll grow on me.”

Rita shaded her eyes to peer inside. “Seats look good and clean.”

Lyndy hooked the dipstick with her ring finger, lightly dunking it up and down several times, then drawing it out completely. The skinny blade of steel flexed under its own weight like a willow branch, and Lyndy supported the center with her free hand. Bringing it close to her nose, she sniffed.

“Smells alright,” Lyndy declared, glancing to Rita. “We need to ask about this one.”

“Okay, but you gotta see this other I found before we make a decision.” With that, Rita jerked her hips and elbow sideways, managing to snag the hood support. Rita was unharmed, but the heavy hood came slamming down with a thunderous crash. Anybody, even a person down the block at the tire shop would have heard it.

In the aftermath, the two stared at one another, Rita frozen in place and looking very guilty. “Sorry,” she muttered, shoulders slumping.

Lyndy’s gaze shifted, searching for an escape route, or higher ground. But they’d have to scramble over the top of cars if they wanted a fast exit. “Hey, do you hear that sound?”

“What now?” Rita replied.

“Like a diesel motor? Someone pulling into the driveway?”

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Lyndy Life Observation: Ode to the one time I lit off a “Piccolo Pete” under the bleachers during middle school assembly and later got hit with detention—but somehow worth it.

Minutes later they found themselves seated in the Ward’s cramped kitchen, window fan on high, with peach color cabinets and an original kit-kat-clock on the wall; those creepy cat eyes clicking side-to-side incessantly.

Negotiations were off to somewhat of a rocky beginning.

The table was circular, and with Rita positioned with her back to a window, sunshine pouring through was making her outsize diamond earrings sparkle. Next to her feet, Darrel’s rottweiler lay panting, splotchy pink and black tongue dangling like a floppy trout on land. He’d sunk into this position almost immediately upon entering from outside.

On this day Mr. Ward, gnome-like with a white beard, oozed irritability.

Lyndy brushed her hair and watched as Rita changed a roll of film, while her hat and conspicuous ruby-red pocketbook rested on the Formica counter. “Well I just want to say again, we honestly didn’t know where you were and …”, voice sounding chipper as her eyes set upon Lyndy, “and it was all my idea to hop the fence to preview your inventory. Please don’t fault Lyn.”

Darrel cleared his throat. “It’s called work. That’s where I was,” he answered dryly. “You two ladies really ought to try it sometime.”

Using a fist, Lyndy disguised an ill-timed chuckle.

Actually Darrel was wrong, because we both had jobs. I worked for Chan’s and Rita owned an art gallery.

Darrel, in his forties, with scraggly 4-inch beard hiding the lower half of his face, looked like the kind of guy who could watch a whole Carol Burnett Show and not laugh once. Impatience showed in his weary eyes. Attempting to butter Mr. Ward up with chummy car guy talk, like some wishful buyers did, never seemed to help. In fact most of those he ran off. Flirting, no matter how overt, had no noticeable impact either. But clearly he exhibited a soft spot for Miss Lovelace, Lyndy too. So at the very least they had that going.

Rita rested her hands atop her checkbook, thumbing it like a flipbook.

Eyes locked on her, Darrel took a sip from a mason jar of iced tea, then leaned back with his arms folded. “So whaddaya all want?” he questioned.

Reaching beneath the table, Lyndy patted the rottweiler atop its head and scratched the fur between his ears. “Say, where’s Tammy today,” she inquired, while the dog soaked up the attention.

“Working the taco stand.” Looking Lyndy’s way he tapped on his watch. “It’s summer hours. Tons of folks headed to the stateline.”

“Oh right,” said Lyndy. “We knew her Buick wasn’t here but figured she might be with you.”

“Well?” Darrel asked again, demanding an answer to his earlier question.

“Mr Ward, we were hoping to score keys to a classic car today,” Rita announced. “We’re not looky-loos either; I brought money.” She held up the checkbook, fanning it in front of her face. “Needs to be running and driving of course. Got a long day ahead of us.”

“Oh fantastic,” thought Lyndy. “Already broke the first two rules of car buying; revealed we intend to close the deal and showed we have plenty of dough.” Lyndy cleared her throat loudly to gain Darrel’s attention. “And also, my Ford needs looking at. Something funky is going with the carburetor.”

“Leave it here and I’ll check it over the weekend,” sighed Darrel, pushing his bifocals further up on his scrawny nose.

Rita pointed eagerly to the backyard. “I believe I spotted a silky-black Corvette …” but before she could speak another word, literally a split second, she was interrupted.

“No!” said Darrel. “No way. No way. No way.” He rested his thumbs in his suspenders, a further signal of his unwillingness to make a deal.

Rita’s mouth was open, but no words came out.

“We mean the 63 black split window model, Darrel. Does it run?” asked Lyndy.

“I know which one you mean. Runs like a Swiss watch. Answer is still no.”

“I haven’t even given you a price,” Rita complained.

“Woman, how is it you barge into a place you’ve never seen before and immediately fall in love with the most valuable piece of merchandise in the joint?”

Rita couldn’t help cracking a smile.

“It’s a talent of Rita’s,” Lyndy jested.

Darrel frowned, then took another sip of his tea.

“I typically get what I want,” said Rita firmly. “So why in the world are you holding onto it?” She extended a hand, as though searching for an explanation, something she could pick apart to make the sale happen. “Sentimental reasons?”

Darrel shook his head. “Not on this.”

“I’ll give you thirty-five hundred. That’s almost what it cost new.”

Lyndy had to admit, the car Rita wanted was sexy. She fancied it too. New tires. No obvious rock dings in the windshield. Plus the fiberglass body was in perfect shape, with so many layers of lacquer paint it was like touching marble.

“I promised that one to Hal Needham,” explained Darrel. “We had an agreement.”

Lyndy pounded her open palm against the table, in a chopping motion. “Wait, that Hal Needham? The guy from Hollywood?”

Darrel nodded.

“Mr Ward, we are here now and we have dough,” Rita argued.

“Sorry, but that doesn’t change a thing.”

She noticed his thumbs were no longer trapped in his suspenders—mellowing out.

“Aaarrrg,” grumbled Rita.

With the way things were trending, Lyndy knew they were just as likely to insult Darrel as make a deal, and it wasn’t her intention to leave here empty handed.

Standing up, pushing in her kitchen chair, Lyndy shot Rita a glance. Squeezing between the counter and Mr. Ward, Lyndy placed her fingers on his bony shoulders, then started gently giving him a neck massage. At first he tried to jerk away, but it only took a moment or two until he relented and gave in.

“Alrighty Darrel, you’ve obviously had a tough day at work,” voiced Lyndy. She could feel tension releasing in his neck. “Let’s all just pause and think.”

“Oh, quit sweet talking me Lyndy,” scolded Darrel. But he rotated both his shoulders and slanted his head side to side. “You know, actually that does feel pretty good.”

“Okay, I saw you had a blue and white Trans Am back there in the south corner,” said Lyndy. “Hasn’t been sitting very long. Has the 455 motor. How bout we give you 1800 for it?”

She let the offer hang in the air like an unfinished thought. Taking a step back, giving Darrel some space, Lyndy braced her palms on the counter. She cupped her fingers on the edge while casually admiring the baby blue linoleum floors. The slobbery dog looked up at Lyndy, then his owner, as if taking part in the negotiations.

“Oh, I missed that one,” said Rita, perking up. “But sounds splendid.”

“Sorry, can’t have that one neither,” said Darrel.

“Why not?” Lyndy asked.

“Yeah, does it belong to Burt Reynolds or something,” quipped Rita.

Lyndy flung her head back, clearing the hair from her face and smoothing it under her hat again. “Fine, I also saw a green mercury. Does it run?”

Darrel tilted his chin down; she could almost hear the cogs turning in his head. Giving him time to think, she pinched the front of her blouse, shaking it to get some air flowing.

“Give ya sixteen-hundred for it assuming it does,” said Rita, with a smile out-classing the Cheshire Cat.