Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-8

Lyndy Life Observation: Thinking about the classic 1980s remake movie The Fly. How come his DNA merged with the fly, not the billions of bacteria—your microbiome as they call it—which live inside and on the human body? Or whatever mold is floating in the air of Jeff Goldblum’s crappy NY loft style apartment? Why do you have to be naked to use teleportation? Can you imagine if on Star Trek, they had to get naked to use the transporter?

The lights were out and being an unfamiliar space, she had no clue where the switch might be. A sharp whiff of something citrusy, grandma-style discount store potpourri, and muted tones of a new age music lent the space a dreamy feel. Or was it simply a result of her intoxicated state, a ringing in the ears?

Digging in her purse, Lyndy recovered a battery-operated penlight. Flicking it on, she shone it at the walls. One big room was all there was apparent, ruby red curtains dangling most places, but other sections pasted with a funky gold wallpaper. Dim and quiet, no sign of an occupant. It had decaying floors. Near the back corner, a rear exit.

“Guess nobody is here?” whispered Maribel, her tone in the form of a question. Folding her arms, she glanced behind, sticking near the front door.

“Gimme a sec,” said Lyndy, heading for the far wall.

“Let’s just go,” Maribel added.

“Know what this place needs?” asked Lyndy, feeling behind the curtains for a switch.

Mari shook her head. “I dunno. A glitchy TV and some creepy dude saying, wanna play a game?”

“I was gonna suggest a giant bronze gong. But your answer is better.” Having located the switch panel, she twisted a raised plastic knob. Ceiling lights flickered on, leading to a temporary blindness. Seconds later one massive figure emerged from the back, their platform boots heavy, punctuated on the creaky floors, large hair brushing the door frame.

You know when somebody seems apart from time? As if you weren’t expecting them to age, because they always appear the same in every memory you have—like a photo on a mantle visited only in holiday seasons, or how George Burns seemed to go on forever. So when these folks do age, it’s even more of a shock. But it shouldn’t be. Because they’re human, and all human beings are subject to the forces of time.

Her face, once flawless and full, having succumbed to numerous wrinkles. The hairdo, a natural cut, largely white instead of the shiny black. But hell, she still had it. And tall, but no longer skinny, Rochelle had put on maybe forty pounds.

“Well, I’ve been waiting a dog’s age for a visit from you,” declared Rochelle. In spite of the years, two things had remained constant: her calm, empathetic voice and her inquisitive brown eyes. Yet they were fixed upon Maribel and it made Lyndy uncomfortable.

“Eeesh. I can see the old age truck caught up and ran you over as well,” jested Lyndy.

In her mind, the observation hadn’t been near as harsh as it sounded aloud.

Rochelle blinked and exhaled. “I can see you’re still a smart ass,” she replied. “And you reek of a barroom.”

“Ahem. … oh, this is my daughter,” Lyndy explained, turning to face Mari, who was still stationed by the front. “Maribel, this is Rochelle Bishop.” With her hand, she encouraged her daughter to come forward but Mari refused.

Instead, Maribel lifted her chin, letting her eyes meet with Miss Bishop’s gaze then looking away. “My mom talks about you. But somehow, I didn’t know if you were real.”

Rochelle smiled at that.

Entering the room from a hiding place unknown, an elegant Siamese cat mewed—the apple-headed breed, slithering between Rochelle’s legs with tail raised. It rubbed its cheeks vigorously on both her ankles, as though taking a liking to the leather of her black boots. They were a Louis Vuitton style, but not the genuine ones, a good imitation.

“You were Chan’s favorite,” accused Lyndy, finding her speech a little slurred.

The off-handed remark caused Rochelle to chuckle. “Mr. Chan had a favorite girl? Yeah right!”

A silence followed, while rain pounded steady on the roof. The cat, its coat mirroring a toasted marshmallow, stared up at Lyndy with stunning blue eyes and those diamond shaped irises. It might have been awkward, were it not for a sense of relief she felt just being around someone from the past. Somehow, she needed this.

“I uh, hope we didn’t wake you,” added Lyndy, putting away the light and folding over her purse flap.

“Oh, I don’t sleep all that well anymore,” replied Rochelle. Her heels clicked.

“Well, lemme just get to the point here. I’ve been trying to pick up some more work and I got this humdinger of a sanction from Rhonda Thurgood—you know the Mountain View. It involves a wealthy developer, and a construction contractor who maybe faked his own death … and … I wanted to get your opinion on how to accomplish something. Cause every idea I have sucks.”

“Which is?” coaxed Rochelle.

“I need to become invisible.”

A comical expression came over Maribel’s face—both embarrassed and amused.

Lyndy held up her hands, fingers splayed. “I know. I know. I’m a crazy you know what. But … but not that crazy. And I don’t mean like, nobody normal will talk to us, or buy us drinks, cause we’re the forgotten baby boomers. And it’s all about millennials now. I mean…”

Rochelle smiled.

“…I mean, I literally want to become invisible. Cause that place is hiding something.”

“Mom’s drunk,” added Maribel.

“I know what you mean,” assured Rochelle, speaking in a serious tone. “Follow me to the other room.”

How ironic! The lengths she used to go to avoid Miss Bishop, and the way she seethed underneath whenever Rochelle strutted into The Vanishing Point on a Saturday night. She never learned to share the spotlight, and without really trying the former go-go dancer had a way of stealing the show.

Pushing aside a curtain, Rochelle revealed a hidden doorway. From the street, she hadn’t imagined this second room would be here. Perhaps once a stockroom—but what kind of supplies did a fortune teller need—it was smaller than the first, no larger than her storage unit, approximately the dimensions of a single-car garage. Like a true garage, the sides were unfinished, no insulation, pipes and tarpaper exposed. But none of that was wholly unexpected. The oddest thing was in the center of the room, on the concrete floor sat a green two-seater canoe—the style you might see at a pricey summer camp in the mountains.

“Please, step into my boat, won’t you,” commanded Rochelle, standing to the side. She gestured grandly, waving her palm to the closest seat from the stern.

Using both arms, The Spitfire eased onto the flat seat, as though the boat were actually floating and might capsize. Lagging behind, Maribel seemed unsure.

“It’s not a trap. Come here mi jita,” said Lyndy.

Mari rolled her eyes, glaring at her mother. “Don’t call me that in public.”

“Sorry,” said Lyndy.

Rochelle took the bow seat, nearest the helm, and sat so she was facing Lyndy. Sighing loudly, Mari knelt in the empty storage space between her mother and the stern. Even the cat, strolling into the room, put its front paws on the side. Hopping up gracefully, it curled into the lap of its owner, snuggling and beginning to purr.

Rochelle stroked the spine of the cat, then held out both her arms as one would saying grace. “Grab hold of my hands,” she coaxed.

“Uhm…what?”

The Spitfire hesitated, considering whether this was a wise thing to do. If their fingers touched then she might be able to do certain things to her body. But one didn’t come here, the shaman’s home turf, and not expect to be tricked. She twisted back to check on Maribel, whose face expressed nothing but skepticism.

Nervously, she turned to Rochelle, locking eyes with the tall woman. Holding her arms steady, Lyndy allowed their palms to merge; as soon as it happened, she felt a tingling in her neck and a radiant warmth of Miss Bishop’s large hands. Rochelle’s fingers squeezed tighter around hers, and Miss Bishop closed her eyes as their surroundings abruptly transformed. Oldest trick in the book.

What had been a bare cement floor, now tranquil waters, stretching on for miles, almost as far as the eye could see. The walls had become a honey glow of sundown, with faint blue outline of distant ridges cradling the lake. But it was the glorious desert evening which awed her and Maribel, reflecting fiery shades of orange on the tranquil waters.

“Whoah,” said Maribel.

“Is this …”, Lyndy craned her neck, taking in the scene. “… the Salton Sea?” She could have sworn she felt a rush of cool breeze, carrying with it the smell of brine. But something in her body had awakened her senses as well. An aching in her joints, so constant in life she hardly paid attention anymore, for the time being had vanished. Alcohol could only numb these pains, not make them go away entirely.

Rochelle grinned and nodded; her eyes open now.

“This is incredibly realistic,” said Maribel, dipping a finger into the water and watching in wonder as droplets sailed from her finger.

“I call it V-R, for virtual reality,” added Rochelle.

The cat, suddenly aware of being stranded in water, sniffed the air. It gazed out the side of the canoe at the vast expanse, cocking its head like a confused Weimaraner. Even the cat knew this made no logical sense.  

“Listen Lyndy, I can’t actually make you invisible, any more than I can stop time. You know that right?”

“I suppose.”

“And if I could, I’d charge a lot of money for that—more than you can afford. Here’s the reason: one thing cannot become another thing. It’s one of the immutable laws of the universe, so engrained in us we don’t have to be taught.” Rochelle paused, stroking the cat’s neck to calm its anxiety. “On the other hand, you and me aren’t known for following the rules. And temporarily, we may be able to bend them in our favor by exploiting a loophole.”

“Get to the point Rochelle,” Lyndy complained.

“Pay me $300 bucks and I’ll turn you into a cat.”

Maribel laughed loudly, but Lyndy didn’t.

“It’s very temporary. It’ll last maybe an hour at most.”

“Okay, how does it work?”

“I’m going to give you a tea from seeds cultivated in the rainforests of Peru. You dissolve it in hot water—wait for it to steep. Don’t do something stupid like snort it!”

“Is that supposed to be directed at me?” Lyndy muttered.

“Oh, and listen to me, word of advice, stash some spare clothing for yourself when it wears off. You obviously aren’t going to transmogrify with a cute outfit. And be sure to fixate on this particular cat for the next several days. Only the cat, got it?”

Lyndy nodded, undoing her purse. “Makes sense.”

“Mom, you’re not seriously gonna hand over $300?” lectured Mari. But The Spitfire was already licking her index finger, prepared to dole it out.

“Hon, I need to get in there,” Lyndy asserted.

“Isn’t there some other method? Like cut their power line?”

Lyndy shook her head. She passed the folded over cash to Rochelle.

“Stop by tomorrow afternoon. I’ll have the dry ingredients ready; all you’ll need is a tea diffuser and cup of hot water.”

The moment Lyndy stood, the room went back to normal—disappointing to Mari.

Rochelle grabbed The Spitfire at the shoulder. “Let me read your fortune. I’ll do it free.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but that’s a hell no from me.”

Rochelle frowned. “I saw a memory just now, when our hands touched.”

Lyndy stopped resisting. “Saw what?”

“A winter moon shining through a busted-out window on a malnourished child, curled up and shivering. You were on a rug, laid atop wood floors. A room without a bed. Tall buildings. Sirens in the night. A young boy, placing a quilt over the girl, and nothing to keep him warm.”

Lyndy paused, crafting a response. “Oh, come on. So what,” she replied. “You witness a blip in a person’s life. Big whoop!” Lyndy attempted to jerk away but Rochelle held a grip on her top.

“Look, you did a wonderful job raising Maribel. You ought to be proud. But you still go around with this enormous chip on your shoulder. You carry a weight of many grievances. At your parents? For abandoning you? Leaving you and your brother destitute, to face the challenges of being a strong, bright kid, growing up in East LA.”

“For Christ sake. How dare you try and lecture me? Now? What do you know!” Lyndy managed to wrestle the part of her blouse free of Rochelle’s grasp. “I gave you money. Go buy your medical prescriptions and leave me be.”

“I can promise they loved and cared about you.”

Lyndy gazed at her daughter in disbelief, however Maribel only seemed confused. The Spitfire then gestured westward, the direction of California and Los Angeles, tilting her head to the sky, as though asking God to weigh in. “I really don’t recall asking your goddamn opinion. But after everything that happened … how can you even begin to think that?”

“Your family was from Mexico, right? Yet they abandoned you in America.”

---

Lyndy Life Observation: If you’ve ever gotten drunk and fallen asleep in a bean bag chair, you might be from the seventies.

A new day dawned clear and cold; the storm having cleansed the atmosphere of aerosols. They used to do the same over El Sereno, and it always lifted her spirits, like the whole city had been renewed.

At the same time, the brightness hurt her eyes. Not only that but her neck ached, not from a rotten pillow or the aftermath of whiplash, actually an odd symptom of a hangover. She didn’t dare try and walk yet, fearing more things would hurt or she might trigger a bout of nausea. Still she rose, stuffing a pillow behind her back so she could rest against the headboard.

Maribel was up already, and a smell of expresso permeated the air. It was the type of trendy condo without a drop ceiling, leaving pipes and black ductwork exposed, but making the room feel larger. It was handy, Maribel’s friend owning this comfy timeshare, as she truly didn’t know what she would have done otherwise; might have slept in the car. Like the good ol’ days. If there were good old days.

From the king bed Lyndy could watch the sunrise, above the mountains to the East. As it rose yellow light glinted off the colorful exteriors of casino buildings, water droplets having condensed on the cold glass.

“Damn,” she whispered, remembering the white mustang was stranded at the bar. They’d need to pick it up first thing—and hopefully someone wouldn’t mess with it. But she had a sinking feeling they would.

Her eyes fell upon the nightstand, an LED alarm clock blinking 12:00 due to a power outage, and a curious tri-fold pamphlet.

Rolling over halfway, she lifted the pamphlet, holding it twelve inches from her nose so she could resolve the title: “Signs and Symptoms of Depression”. She chuckled. So fitting for this town. Must have been left behind by a previous vacationer. “Wonder how many boxes I can check?” she thought, before setting it back down. She pinched her nose and squinted.

Years ago she remembered an AA meeting, a cold gymnasium, the dreary accountant-dressed speaker dispensing a bit of uncommon wisdom with a cigarette: “If you decide to sit down and take a quiz on whether you’re an alcoholic, maybe the answer is already known.”

Angelic Maribel arrived from the kitchen, clutching two small white mugs. Her hair was wet from a shower, but she’d already brushed it. “Hey,” she said cheerily. “They have some comfy looking chairs on the balcony where you can sit if you want.”

Lyndy shook her head.

Mari set one of the mugs on the nightstand next to Lyndy, taking a sip from the other one. “There’s a breakfast bar in the building. I was thinking I’d head down. Did you want me to bring you something back? They have hash browns and stuff.”

“Don’t you have to work?” asked Lyndy.

“Not until noon,” said Maribel, scooting up to sit on the bed next to her mom. “And I quit school, so no classes,” she added cheerily.

Lyndy let out a gradual exhale, rubbing her fingers over her scalp. “I could use a ride to pick up the Mustang.” She locked eyes with Maribel. “Hey sorry I got into with Rochelle a little last night. I was kinda, you know, … buzzed. I wasn’t in the mood for her psychology bull shit. She should have known that.”

Maribel sipped her coffee.

“Mom, there’s something I need to ask you. And please don’t give me any of your usual deflections or other baloney.”

Lyndy chuckled. “Not you too.”

“Dad told me that when you found out you were pregnant, he specifically asked you to marry him. And you two were engaged for a while. He said you lived in his lake house. So like, why didn’t you just marry dad? Wouldn’t it have solved ten different problems at once?”

Uh oh. This question is like twenty years in the making.

“I’ll answer your question, but before I do, there’s something you need to know.”

“What?”

“Rochelle definitely lied about seeing that memory.”

“Okay. How do you figure?”

Lyndy took another sip, letting the warm liquid lift her fog. “Cause if that did happen, I actually don’t remember. And it isn’t even remotely what was going through my head at the time we touched.”

Maribel frowned. “So then, why would she lie?”