Bad At Love: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-16

Lyndy Life Observation: It’s hard to describe to a young person how important paper maps were to life on the road, and in turn, how much time we spent studying them, folding and unfolding them, flipping them over, spilling coffee on them and arguing over them. A key reason for joining AAA was the maps. And literally, a common explanation for an accident was: “… I was folding up my map and I didn’t see that other car, and wham …”

He was absent a long time, so long she worried he might not ever return. But then she heard his footsteps—the same sort of men’s dress shoes—and became hopeful.

In one hand he held an amber color prescription bottle. In the other, pinched between his finger and thumb he possessed the tiny envelope, roughly the size of a fifty-cent piece. “I have no clue what this stuff is, but it’s certainly not what I used to party with on a Friday night in the eighties.”

Lyndy tightened her grip on the cold bars, hands spread the farthest she could manage given her restraints. She knew the paper envelope contained less than half the dosage she’d consumed in the parking lot two nights prior. She’d been instructed by Rochelle to use it all up—a rule she violated—and also, that it had to be made into a tea. But asking for a cup of hot water right now seemed absurd.

The cowboy hat shaded Graham’s charming eyes, concealed his facial expression. “I still can’t let you out of here you know. So, whatever happens, happens. If you croak, I’m going to tell em it was a heart attack or something.”

“Fine. I understand.” He inched in closer, so they were only the hat’s brim and bar width apart, allowing Lyndy to look up into his eyes. She’d forgotten how tall he was. She could feel the hot breath from his nose. “I’m sorry for what I did to you and Rita the last time … you know … the night of the fire.”

“It’s okay,” whispered Lyndy, her answer truthful.

“I should ask you about this stupid handgun. But I realized I don’t care. None of this is worth it to me. I have a different question for you.”

Lyndy nodded to go ahead.

“What was Rita Lovelace actually like? Was she nice?”

He passed the bottle and envelope to Lyndy. She accepted both in her palm, feeling a rush of adrenaline as her fingers closed around. She couldn’t help wondering about the jail cell, barely wide enough for escape and what kind of other obstacles might await.

“Funny you ask,” she replied, amused.

Uncapping the lid, she downed two of the pills, swallowing extra hard.

Impatiently Lyndy dumped the powder into her other palm and before Graham could wrestle it away, put her hand to her nose, inhaling as deeply as she could.

Graham looked horrified.

“Oh god!” She squinted her eyes as the horrible taste hit her in waves, tickling her throat. “… Rita Lovelace was not nice. I can damn sure tell you that much,” she managed, amidst gasping for air. She rotated her head to one side, not wanting him to see her overcome by the bitterness. “I don’t know how to explain. Even now it’s too difficult,” Lyndy coughed.

“Then what did you see in her, besides the obvious family money?”

“There was something unique about her. Call it manipulation, but she was one of those people you just wanted to please. Everyone did.”

Lyndy bent over and began to cough harder, feeling that sensation of trickling blood in her throat and put her hands up. Cramps gripped her insides, twisting her stomach in knots. Pulling her fingers away from her mouth, she found them splattered in red blood.

“Oh shit. Are you dying?” pleaded Graham, sounding panicked, letting go of the bars. “I wasn’t serious about allowing you to die on my watch.”

Honestly, she shared his concerns, thinking she may have made a horrible mistake. Her knees were buckling yet again as she began to thrash against the wall. A blink later and she lost consciousness. Next she knew, she was back down on all fours. Her clothes and the handcuffs formed a superfluous pile behind her.

As she feared, the bars were too close together for bulldog shoulders. She dropped to one side, putting her front paws through the gap and flopping like a fish.

Graham did a half-turn in disbelief.

Once free of the bars, she scrambled to her feet and sprinted across the hallway to the outer door. It was a metal hospital-style door, with a mesh window and beefy steel latch. She turned back to Graham.

He stared at her, squeezing the bridge of his nose, a combo of shock and amusement. She perked her ears while making sad, watery eyes at him. With her ears still alert, she tilted her head slightly, finally letting out a series of loud, desperate yips.

He rubbed his eyes and exhaled. “Wait. This is so confusing. Were you always a dog? Or were you a woman first and then a dog? Or vice versa?”

Lyndy barked back and then took a run at the door, putting both paws on it like she wanted a walk more than anything in the world. She whimpered. If her tail hadn’t been so stubby it would’ve wagged.

“Ahh, doesn’t matter,” said Graham. “Run like hell.” Then he stepped up to the door and turned the handle so it would open. From there she found herself in a white tiled hallway. She raced off down the hall as Graham said weakly, “uh, somebody stop that dog.”

She tackled two flights of industrial metal stairs, ascending from the basement level.

At the landing atop the metals stairs, another heavy fire door, also shut. She pawed at the kickplate, knowing no amount of canine ingenuity would be able to undo it, let alone turn the latch. This was why dogs would never conquer the world.

She began to shiver, wondering if there might be another way but knowing inside this was the end of the road. They wouldn’t have two entrances to their jail, nor would one be any easier to open.

An almost unbearable minute elapsed as panic filled her small body.

Then something miraculous happened. She heard footsteps pounding on the other side, and the latch twisting. As it opened thirty degrees, she wedged her snout into the gap and burst through like a projectile. To her right, someone’s pant legs, the missing guard. But she didn’t look back or slow down. Time for warp speed, the fastest an old Frenchie could go.

The far end of the passage opened onto a casino floor.

She imagined an angry conversation transpiring below: “How did she get away?”

“Did you see the dog? That’s her!” What? Have you gone mad?

At least Graham had done her another solid. She sprinted toward the jubilant sounds of slot machines and flashing lights.

“There’s a service animal loose!” a woman exclaimed.

“Who let the dogs out,” cracked a man holding dice. People huddling round the craps pit started laughing.

She leapt onto a fancy felt-topped table, discovering it supported the roulette wheel. The dealer lunged at her, swiping with both arms wildly. She outmaneuvered his reach, climbing onto the wheel, riding it as it twirled 180 degrees like a lazy Suzan.

From there she dove, hitting the floor so hard it caused her to roll two times. Dazed, she found herself underneath the card tables crawling and scrambling across people’s shoes. A few times she narrowly avoided being kicked. Swerving out into the aisles, she tilted her head up eyeing the greyish signs and looking for the ones with exit arrows. Following the arrows, she continued to dash for the main entrance.

Someone shouted: “Block the door!”

Fortunately, she beat them to it—so many tourists coming and going nobody had the wherewithal to listen to an unexpected command. The doors kept being pushed open and it was only a matter of picking the right time.

The swinging doors opened out onto a crowded sidewalk, a cold soggy night. The colors of this world she once knew to be vivid, were again running together in muted tones. She felt trapped in a blue impressionist painting. The weather was rotten and folks were dressed in jackets and coats. The scent of people and rain and the slick road, plus honking of horns combined to overwhelm her brain. But her heart felt strong.

Lyndy wanted to laugh, but wasn’t able. She snuck out of view into a decorative planter, panting in the cover, thinking she’d come far enough. While resting she reflected on her incomplete answer to Graham: “It’s weird to say or admit this about Rita. I guess I loved her.”

In part due to the ever-changing landscape, she didn’t recognize her surroundings. With a keyhole view of the street she did her best to think and take it in. Some of the buildings were restored, yet this area was definitely giving off downtown vibes. The block had to be north, near East Fremont. And actually, it seemed like the very spot where she and Rita had stayed so long ago.

She needed to keep moving, knowing someone might put two and two together and pursue her outside. At the next opening, she dashed across the street where it was darker, hoping to escape notice. Her paws felt mucked up and dirty.

Noticing a sign for the Atomic Liquors bar, she knew she was in the seedier end. Luckily though, she was probably within a mile or two of Rochelle’s fortune telling shop.

Losing all the time to these casino jerks was getting old fast. She needed a way to turn the tables on them without these unnatural transformations. She raced off diagonally across a large parking lot and into another flat graded area, eventually making her way down a slope. A block or two after she crossed under the 515 overpass, unseen.

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Lyndy Life Observation: Witnessing a quintessential American event, a modern ten-year-old scampering to catch a yellow school bus, and his backpack is so boxy and humongous, he channels one of those sherpas on an early Everest expedition. The book weight alone is jolting his body with each step. More job security for chiropractors down the road I suppose.

Rochelle’s fortune telling shop featured the same squared off brick appearance in the back, but she’d not realized it shared a lot with a small, bland cottage. This was due to the fact it butted up to a narrow alleyway, where the entry for the garage was. A door and one window of the residence faced this backstreet, with a twenty-foot stone path leading to the door and bisecting a muddy patch of turf.

Strolling up the path, she could tell lights were on inside and a fire must be going, as the smell of smoke tickled her nose. She didn’t know what to do next. A doorbell wasn’t apparent, nor would she have been able to activate it, so she simply barked.

Barking was fun. She made certain it was the loudest, most annoying dog bark she could imagine. Ironically, her breed was known for being quiet.

Eventually the milk-colored Siamese appeared in the window, glaring at her. The look on the cat’s face: “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

She continued to bark. If Rochelle were home, she couldn’t ignore the barking forever. The cat continued to stare, every now and again hissing.

Minutes later the back screen creaked. Rochelle appeared in a nightgown, covering her tall frame down to a pair of furry slippers. She frowned at Lyndy.

“Hush up!” Rochelle commanded, peering up and down the alley, probably checking whether there was an owner lurking about.

Lyndy went down into a sitting position, holding out her front paw for a shake and whimpering.

“Where’s your collar?” Another frown, and Rochelle tilted her head. Between her legs, the cat watched from the shadows.

“Lyndy, is that you?” whispered Rochelle. She folded her arms, squinting. “Or am I speaking to a normal dog like a crazy person?”

Lyndy yipped back in an excited fashion.

“Oh, for Pete sake! You were supposed to be a cat,” Rochelle scolded. She pushed open her door until it was twelve inches wide. “Well, come in then.”

The Siamese cat hissed, attempting to block Lyndy’s path, however she shut her bulging eyes to protect them while she pushed her way in anyway.

The back door had been an entry to Rochelle’s kitchen, which was tiny, like a fifties style and never remodeled. All of her cabinets were jam-packed at the hoarder level. But one in particular contained a spice emporium, hundreds of small jars, packed in so tightly and so deep it was a wonder she’d know where any particular item was. But somehow, she removed five or so and dug down until she got to one which contained a sugary substance.

Rochelle measured out a tablespoon and deposited this into a bowl with lukewarm water. This water began to fizz, as Rochelle stirred it. After thirty seconds she set the bowl of milky liquid down. “Drink this,” said Rochelle.

Lyndy stepped up to the bowl, sniffing it. She cast a glance at Rochelle and the mean cat, then began lapping the water, which tasted a bit like baking soda. She stumbled back, feeling a bit woozy.

Moments later she was naked, cowering on the arm of the sofa in Rochelle’s living room. “Do you know I got dropped in a pet surrender box and locked up at the pound last time.” she screeched. “So freakin humiliating!”

Rochelle laughed. “You were supposed to fixate on cats.”

Lyndy piled all the loose throw pillows onto herself, attempting to cover up. “Dude, I’ve had a really miserable day.”

“I’ll say.”

Lyndy shook her head. “Come on, Rochelle. Can’t you find me a robe or something or …. or are you gonna revel in my nudity?” she accused.

Rochelle laughed. “How did we get from cat to bulldog?”

“I dunno. Maribel used to adore those type a dogs. And I accidentally fixated on it.”

Rochelle disappeared to another room, but still within hearing range. Lyndy spoke louder, “ those jerks at the casino syndicate put me in their private jail, which I narrowly escaped. Next encounter they’re gonna make me dig my grave and murder me. And turning into a dog isn’t going to work a third time. That virtual reality spell you showed us the other night. Is it for sale?”

“No way Jose! Not for sale. It’s like the most powerful one,” Rochelle appeared, holding a bathrobe with a tattered bottom. Tossing the robe to Lyndy she added, “I think my cat has been sharpening its claws on the edge of this, but other than that it’s fine.”

“Can I at least sleep here? I don’t have a ride and I’m trying to keep Mari outta this.”

“What happened to your car?”

Sliding her arms through the holes, she folded it over and tied the comically huge robe in front. “They stole it. Said they were sending it to a crusher, but I highly doubt it. Just gonna be really tough to find again.”

Rochelle laughed. “Like old times then? Making you feel young?”

“In a way,” replied Lyndy, looking down at the cat.

Rochelle filled a copper teapot from the tap, then carried it to her stove where she lit one burner with a match. With the pot centered on a circle of blue flame, Rochelle made her way to her sitting room again. Settling in an armchair across from Lyndy, the cat climbed in her lap and Rochelle began petting it.

“How did I not know you had a daughter until just the other day?” Rochelle commented.

“Maybe cause we haven’t spoken to one-another in 20 years,” replied Lyndy.

A few minutes later, The Spitfire sipped tea while still wearing the oversize robe. Her eyes drifted across the room to a glass fronted hutch, the kind some old ladies put decorative plates in, and noticed it was filled with dance awards from the seventies and eighties: several trophies, a few ribbons and medals. She sniffed, stepping across the room and standing in front of it. “Did you win all these awards for dance?” asked Lyndy, thumbing through the scrapbook atop, with black and white clippings from newspapers and bulletins. Peripherally, she’d known Rochelle was talented, but it never crossed her mind how much.

“Of course. It’s what I always wanted to be when I was a kid.”

“God, you were such a gifted dancer; somehow I didn’t know you won these. How come you never showed em off?” Lyndy turned around to face Rochelle. “Remember when we were both performing at Roland’s club—I’m not sure you could call what I did dancing—I think I made people laugh is all.” She tilted her chin down, smiling shyly. “Aren’t you glad there were no camera phones in those days? Like you know how kids film everything these days and put it up on the internet.”

Rochelle winked. “Trust me, Lyn. I have more than enough embarrassing pictures of us when we were younger. Just in case I ever need to blackmail somebody.”

Lyndy fell back onto the sofa.

“So … how come you’re not living your best life?”

“What makes you think I’m not?”

Lyndy looked around.

“Uh, you’re literally a genius … and a witch …  and you live like me.”

“I wish I’d had a kid.”

“Oh no you don’t,” assured Lyndy.