Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-9

Lyndy Life Observation: A hot, lazy seventies afternoon in Chan’s, both of us watching Let’s Make a Deal on TV—me probably doing my nails—and someone won a zonk that was literally an adult water buffalo on a leash. The look on the contestant’s face was fantastic. The buffalo stamped and snorted, Carol Merrill squinched, Monty laughed, and every time I think about that memory I chuckle.

Being a mother is hard—even when it’s not your biological child. But Maribel was hers, as the interminable hours of labor with Kyle waiting bedside were the proof.

To make it back to the Ramrod bar, they had to cross the lively strip. Driving around town, her daughter at the wheel, Lyndy’s neck pain was starting to subside. Her hands were trembling though, in part from the caffeine, and she didn’t know what to do with them. She stared at her heels, wishing she’d brought more practical shoes for this caper.

Meantime Maribel was waiting for an answer.

Lyndy blew her nose in a tissue—allergies mostly—then inhaled deeply. “Alright fine, here’s the deal. I don’t expect you to understand me. But you should know I tried really hard to be the woman your father needed me to be. Multiple times, and it caused both of us a lot of pain. His parents did not approve. Obviously. Only made our circumstance worse. From where you’re at now, you can’t imagine what it’s like to be in that position; I was so damned upset and disappointed with myself. Cause I wanted to change. I wanted to be one of those wealthy and bored housewives you see on TV. So for him to say he asked me to marry him. Well, that’s the easy part I’d say.” She realized her eyes were watering. “Oh, for god sake.”

Maribel passed her another wad of tissues.

“I promise you mi jita, that’s the truth,” Lyndy added.

“Why couldn’t you change?”

Lyndy gazed straight ahead, uncertain how to put her feelings in words. How to explain marriage requires sacrifice and compromise—and she’d been unwilling to do either? How to explain to your daughter that having an unattached lifestyle and multiple boyfriends was considered pretty cool—but not. “Cause I guess it’s like Rochelle told us about the rules of the universe. One thing may become another thing, but only for a brief time. And when they do, it throws the whole system out of whack. So eventually balance must be restored.”

Looking at her sideways, Maribel gave her mom a skeptical eye. “Did you make that up just now on the spot?”

“No. Course not.”

“Essentially, you’re admitting that you had the power within you to become what dad’s family wanted you to be.”

“Well … correct, but only a few months at a time.”

Maribel sat in silence, continuing to focus on driving; hard to tell if she was stunned, disillusioned, or what she might be thinking. And now The Spitfire knew what Mr. Chan must have felt when she pouted in silence. Mari had inherited her ability to carry a grudge.

“I mean … I totally feel like the worst mom ever,” said Lyndy. “And with the night I had, I should be pretty sick. But I’m not. Rochelle did something to me. I know it.”

“Look, you aren’t even close to the worst mom ever,” reassured Maribel. “Nobody thinks that.”

Freakin Kyle trying to act like he didn’t know why we never got married. Lyndy shook her head while staring out the side window. “Why am I like this?”

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Ten minutes later …

Lyndy waved goodbye to her daughter, who had a shift starting soon. Mari had dropped her off at a cement pullout where buses sometimes stopped, then continued on down the boulevard. Her parting words were the usual: “Be safe”. She’d given up long ago on the notion of talking her mother out of any ill-advised plan, no matter how bizarre sounding.

Next Lyndy hoofed it on wobbly heels, hair probably going every which way, feeling like someone who … well to put it kindly … had partied too hard and maybe had a romantic fling after. But at least it wasn’t that bad. And luckily nobody on foot was around to witness this embarrassing scene, as she stumbled into the lot from the southeast corner.

The Wimbledon white fastback, just where she left it, at first appeared untouched. She breathed a sigh of relief, pausing to fish the jangling set of keys from her purse. In fact, there were a number of other cars here too, no doubt belonging to patrons of nearby businesses.

Moving in closer though, she soon came to an unsettling recognition. Where the keyhole was on the driver’s side, the little chrome bezzle showed several ugly scratches. Those hadn’t been there before. And the little flap cover which prevented ice from forming, that piece too was dented. But the doors were locked and windows intact.

Nice of whomever broke into her vehicle to go ahead and lock it back up. Maybe they figured they’d done such a fine job she wouldn’t notice.

She stood in uneasy silence, taking in her surroundings, studying the storefronts and checking on any sneaky passers-by. She was officially on the radar of the builder’s syndicate, or whatever mystery group were targeting the Aloyans. The morning air felt a little chillier.

Now much more cautious and alert, she stepped gingerly up to the car, sliding the key into the damaged slot and continuing to listen. In the back behind the seat, a plastic sack of expired food, including vanilla wafers and grape soda, exactly where she’d left it.

She dropped her purse on the empty passenger seat, then easing behind the wheel, reached over to undo the glove box. Inside she found the contents—including insurance and registration card—undisturbed.

She climbed back out, feeling her way to the trunk and popping the lid. Those silver quarts of oil were there, along with a duct-tape covered jug of coolant. Couple of shopping bags with empty yogurt cups. Tools. Jumper cables. Spare tire and jack. That ugly thrift store sweater she used when she was freezing. All of it hastily searched and shoved in roughly the same spots as before. Unless she’d forgotten something—certainly possible given her aging grey matter.

“So wait, somebody picked open my lock, carefully searched this dumb car, but didn’t swipe anything?” she whispered. Meaning they must not have found what they were after. “What the heck?”

Taking a deep breath, she slammed the trunk lid.

She had a surreal craving for junk food: nachos, like the truck stop c-store kind with jalapeno slices. Maybe some Gatorade or diet soda would help too. Then she’d circle back to Rochelle’s. She checked her watch, thinking.

Lyndy slipped off her pumps, planning to drive with bare feet. But first a precaution. Getting down on hands and knees, she craned her poor neck at a right angle so she could see underneath the car. Perhaps there was like a one-in-a-billion chance someone would rig an explosive charge under there. But she couldn’t spot anything—not like wires sticking down. And having a pro assassin go to that much trouble, well it might be almost flattering at this point. Nada. She returned to the driver’s seat and slumped down.

Resting her forehead against the ice-cold steering wheel, Lyndy shut her eyes briefly. A knot formed in her stomach, as all at once it occurred to her what they were really after—and of course they hadn’t found it cause it wasn’t here.

“Oh duh.”

It was the thing she’d been avoiding thinking about, ever since her first encounter with new boss Rhonda.

Wearily she set her left foot on the clutch, inserting the key in the ignition. As she went to turn it, her gaze drifted upward and she caught the bright glint of light. A white flash like that triggered her instinct to duck—a true old west kind of response to something unnatural. Her body hadn’t moved this quick in ages, and she went flat across the seat like a ninja.

The clapping sound which followed was unexpected, as it made her believe someone had chucked a good-sized rock at the Mustang. No exploding glass, just the THUNK of metal bending. After a second or two pause she popped her head up, just enough to see over the dash. When nothing else happened, she twisted the key, attempting to start the motor.

“Okay, it’s time to punch it,” she thought. Recklessly she slammed the gearbox into reverse, slouching in her seat and watching the mirror; bad part was you could only see if something tall was blocking your way.

After backing up twenty-feet, she jerked the lever into first and gunned the engine. An instant later she peeled out into the busy avenue, swerving, cutting off a delivery truck driver but she didn’t care.

As she rolled down the street, constantly checking to see if anyone was following, she knew the car had been shot and hit, but where? She touched her chest and abdomen. Perhaps adrenaline was masking a mortal injury, but pulling her hand away it seemed as though she’d been spared. So where did it strike?

The engine sounded different, a bit louder, but still had plenty of pep.

It angered her in an irrational way. This car survived so many dangerous encounters: braved the Mojave Desert, the neighborhoods of East LA, bone-jarring crumbling freeways, the back streets of Vegas, the sands of Arizona—all with mostly original sheet metal. And to be shot at? What an insult!

Thank goodness Mari had to leave for work.

She wanted to get a few miles from the scene to be sure no one tailed her. Rhonda would be pissed too, knowing this had happened. She didn’t care for conspicuous things, and this car garnered about as much attention as one of Liberace’s rides. Admittedly.

---

Several Minutes later …

Lyndy Life Observation: Saw this bumper sticker on the back of a run-down VW van that said: God is watching when you tip. And for once, there’s a bumper sticker I can agree with.

It was at one of those 50-cent filtered water dispensers where she finally caught her breath. Pulling off the road she parked in the shadow of this bizarre monolith: a blue and yellow tower with three grated insets, where one could bring their own re-usable five-gallon jugs to fill. People who visited these contraptions lived off grid, had trailers in remote wild places where municipal water didn’t get delivered.

And the tower was decorated with the mural of a jolly teardrop. Future archaeologists would assume these things served a religious purpose in a land of so little rain.

Her pulse was racing—gonna be one of those days. She jumped out immediately, put on her shoes, then dashed around the car in a loop. And there it was, they’d hit her at least twice, the holes like vampire bites in the milk-colored hood. So the shooter had been on an upper floor or roof? That’s where the glint came from. She ran fingers over the smooth arc of stamped metal til they dipped abruptly into divots cause by the bullets—like little black holes warping time and space.

Leaning in the window, gripping the lever below the dash, she popped the hood and raised it all the way. The visible tangle of spark-plug wiring, coolant and fuel lines; a miracle to have been shot and yet missed everything vital. But not everything.

“Ooof!”

Raising her arms, she locked both hands behind her head, exasperated, as she observed damage to the cast aluminum valve cover on the left-hand side. The grayish metal had been pierced. Oil sloshed around by pushrods and valves was now oozing out the side, dripping down the engine block. She was so agitated she had to march a quick circle round the water filling station and come back. Her baby was wounded—not to mention, those original-style covers weren’t cheap and a messy pain in the rump to get back on. Could have been worse though.

Poking her head in the engine bay and a little closer to the firewall, she noted fragments of metal embedded there. She’d been lucky; any more force and it might have punched through to where her legs were.

Hurrying to the trunk she searched for rags, and finding an old undershirt, coupled this with her tools. A combination of the ratty undershirt and strips of tape peeled from the coolant jug helped her plug the hole, stem the bleeding. Obviously not a lasting repair job, but would suffice to allow a limp home. Assuming the valves were unharmed, she could later weld in something a bit more permanent.

She wanted water too, fearing the damage could affect the cooling system. Pacing to the water dispenser with a handful of quarters, she placed the yellow jug under the spout.

Recent events had left her hyper alert of surroundings.

Across the street was a closed dollar store and a church with drab metal siding. The whole church building was covered in brown painted steel, with a handmade sign stating all were welcome. Something told her those folks really meant it.

Hmmm. If you think about it, what kind of church would Jesus have taught in? One next to a dollar store? Important thing was there didn’t seem any place for shooters to hide.

Next to the blue-collar church, a mom-and-pop home improvement store. A group of day laborers huddled near the landscaping, and a pair of them paced the sidewalk. Those men wore conspicuous turbans; she assumed they were Sikhs, though there was no way to be sure. The pair were eying her.

As she was waiting for the yellow bottle to fill, one of the men pointed to her. He spoke something to his friends, too distant for her to perceive but sounding like a foreign tongue. After, she distinctly heard the man yell: “Bullitt”.

Maybe it was the type of day she was having, or the drumbeat of nightly news which instilled fear of random attacks; but she recoiled, every muscle in her upper chest tightening. Her breathing ceased as she pressed her back against the monolith.

The man said it again. “Bullitt”. The whole world was closing in. How did they find her again so quickly?

She reached for the jug—not sure whether to flee—and where to go for cover? A stupid jug of water would make an awful weapon.

His buddy, all smiles, shouted across the street: “Steve McQueen!” And it struck her. A grin and relief. Guess in their homeland they’re a little behind on current films.

“Of course. Yeah. Like the movie,” she pointed to her car. “Cept that one was green.” She was able to move again. The men chuckled. Made sense after all. Whomever was actually coming wanted her to feel intimidated. Mission accomplished. She went back to work filling the radiator, pondering the fact that Rochelle said she was supposed to fixate on a cat.

Prior to getting spooked, she thought she saw something shiny she wanted to retain. The asphalt was pretty coarse, so to save her ribs and delicate back she threw down one of the grungy floor mats. Then armed with a set of pliers, she shimmied under the car from a point just behind the front left fender well. By wiggling with the pliers, she loosened remnants of a mushroomed projectile. Easing back into daylight, she inspected her find: a fragment of a semi-jacketed lead bullet. “Gotcha,” she mouthed.

---

Later at S-bucks…

She almost never came here, but Mari used to love these places—the little cups of kid’s temp hot chocolate, her favorite treat.

A jazzy tune played on the ceiling tile mounted speakers. Three baristas in green, one of them a Latina, tattoos of playing cards—the queen of hearts—on her right arm. That girl was working harder than the other two duds. Below the cards, something in cursive writing; from this angle looked like “Bad-at-Love”.

Teenagers seated on stools pecking thumbs rapidly on their phones. At the counter, drinks were piling up. Guy in front gets rung up for 30 bucks, only has 4 drinks.

All she wanted was hot water—no other place to get it. In her pocket she had a tiny envelope of black powder, the ground up seeds. “Focus on cats dummy,” she told herself.

But she couldn’t only think about felines. Her mind kept wandering, as it always did. And now it drifted back to California. The event she’d been thinking about when she touched hands with Rochelle, because Rochelle was from her same era and place. A message was hidden in their touch, perhaps the reason she’d lied about the memory. Rochelle must have known the real vision.

It was a smoggy summer in East LA. She remembered being seated next to Aunt Rose Martinez, in the afternoon on a weekday, on one of those orange metro buses. This chaos all around them. Sun shining, the LA skyline floating in a moat of haze. Behind them some weirdo shouting incomprehensible gibberish. A nun in the front row praying. Car horns honking. And Aunt Rose, sitting there closes her eyes, tilts her head back and falls asleep. That blew her tiny mind. Still did. Sleeping on a city bus. She nudged Aunt Rose. “Are you tired or something?” No answer.

Approaching the front, a red-haired twenty-something barista locked eyes with Lyndy. “Hot water only please,” she said. “Tall cup. No tea bags or anything.”

“Hot water? That’s it?”

“Yes,” she repeated. “How much for just that?”

“Hot water is free. But the cup costs 25 cents,” answered the young man. “Name please?” He stood there with an obnoxious grin, but retrieved a fresh cup.

“Lyndy.” She passed him the quarter.

As he used a sharpie to write on the cup, he said in a snotty tone, “How’s yer day goin?”

“Well, I’m hungover,” she answered. “Depressed. My daughter thinks I’m a bad mother. And I got shot at this morning.”

“That’s real nice.” He hadn’t been listening.