Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-2

Yosemite National Park, 1990s

She adjusted her reading specs, nudging Kyle with her elbow. “Dude, this place has no prices on the menu,” she whispered. Mr. Chan, cheapskate that he was, only ever brought her places with pictures of food on the menu. Even Rita Lovelace, who owned in excess of 50 cars, hated restaurants that wouldn’t list a clear dollar amount.

“Don’t worry,” he answered shifting in his chair, patting his jacket pocket. “We’re good for it.” He encouraged her to get whatever she desired.

The patio of The Ahwahnee dining room was about the most romantic spot to have dinner in the lower 48. The architecture of the historic hotel was a stunning sight, towering from a meadow on the east end of the valley, mimicking a grandiose Northwestern lodge. The style, a blending of river rock and fir logs, matched the surroundings and somehow felt right.

Candles had been lit, casting a soft amber glow for their meal.

Behind her Mari was snoring, a fuzzy blanket pulled up over her tiny abdomen, and her head tilted to one side. Across the meadow, Lyndy could see flickering campfires at the perimeter of a dark pine woods. The sun was setting and silver-orange light reflected, shining upon the smooth cliffs. The air was chilly, but it made the dining experience cozier.

She’d have been on cloud nine, if it wasn’t for Kyle’s elitist business partners.

Lyndy tilted a champagne flute to her lips, taking a quick sip. Plucking off her readers, she slipped them into a delicate metal case as someone uttered the phrase: “Reagan was the most effective president this country has ever had. I stand by that.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, for Pete sake,” Lyndy muttered slowly under her breath. “Quite a group of raconteurs we got here.”

“Babe, shush,” scolded Kyle.

She wasn’t allowed to interject in any political conversations, Kyle forbade it. Those were habits of the old unmannered Spitfire.

“Your order Mrs. Ellis?”

Her ears perked. She recognized the manly voice and it made her jump. Glancing up, she knew him as the tall climber she’d encountered by the waterfall trail. He had a nametag now, which read Neil. He was dressed in a plum-colored hotel uniform with a bow tie. His messy hair was now combed and nicely gelled. He seemed to enjoy the element of surprise.

“Oh, holy cow,” she grinned nervously, holding up an empty ring finger. “He’s not. We’re not. This is my boyfriend, Dr. Ellis.”

Neil nodded, hiding any evidence of emotion.

“Lyndy Martinez is such a delight. You should marry her! Look at how good she is for you.” The woman, wife to one of Kyle’s partners, pointed at Mari’s buggy. “And look at what gorgeous babies you make.”

That ship is sailing, thought Lyndy.

Kyle smiled shyly. 

Neil had been patient this entire time. “Glad to see the little one napping.”

“We all are,” agreed Lyndy. She folded up her heavy leather-bound menu. “I’ll uh, have the swordfish fillet. With a baked potato, no butter please. And an iced tea.” Lyndy shifted her gaze, surveying the table. “As Rita would say, I’m working on my summer bod.” Everyone chuckled.

“Very well,” said Neil. He’d taken her order first which must mean something. He looked handsome all dressed up, though so did Kyle.

Once orders were taken, the conversation turned to company stock performance, the financial “woes” of vineyard ownership and the new 49-ers quarterback. Neil hastened back across the dining room and she watched him disappear behind a series of screens, blocking a view of the kitchen.

At some point a lady with bifocals on a beaded chain, leaned across the table to make friendly conversation. “So, what do you do for a living?” the woman asked.

Lyndy put a hand on her chest, then responded: “You mean like work, work? A job?”

The lady confirmed with a nod.

“Oh, I don’t mess around with that,” answered Lyndy gleefully.

The woman leaned back, cocking her head, processing the answer. She said no more, as though it made sense in context.

Lyndy fixated on the meadow and those campfires. Higher up on the cliffs, tiny lights were blinking also, evidence of climbers. She pressed her fingers onto Mari’s back, rubbing them up and down. She loved to caress their baby, feeling her backbone through her wool onesie. She recalled the experience of seeing the pregnancy test turn positive for the first time. And the joy in Kyle’s eyes when she showed him, her initial fears evaporating.

“She’s great, isn’t she?” Lyndy whispered in Kyle’s ear. Under the table, he squeezed her thigh, then wrapped his fingers around her hands. His hands were warm. He smiled back saying, “It’s good to be here with you.”

---

Two hours later ….

Lyndy Life Observation: Living with Kyle, he had no idea what anything should cost. So, one time he purchased a commercial blender for $900, which I later explained to him was outrageous for our kitchen or any normal home. That stupid thing had only 4 speed settings: Low, Medium, High and lastly, hurl the contents into a 360-degree nuclear explosion painting every surface in your kitchen. I learned that the hard way.

After the meal, Kyle was standing, conversing in a circle with his colleagues. At their backs, a 20-foot table with an elaborate model display: the Silver-Pacific dam project on the Tuolumne River. The project was a capstone to a new housing development, and the reason Kyle’s company had been brought in to consult.

Lyndy circled the colorful model, ignoring their words while dabbing on her favorite shade of violet lipstick—her heels clicking on the floors. She smacked her lips together as she capped the gold-colored container. Four can lights had been directed on the scene, and she was enthralled at the level of intricacy on this thing—some artist spent hundreds of hours crafting it. The shaded contours of the rocky foothills matched every twist and turn of the river, and every side gulch. Even the trees were modeled, not just a spray of green foam, but literally hundreds of toothpick size pine and oak trees blanketed the hills.

How do you win approval to construct four thousand new houses in Walnut Creek, one of the driest municipalities in the bay without water? Answer: throw in a dam for free. 2-million-acre feet. It’s not like Californians were eager to share water, or part with their precious swimming pools and lawns.

Lyndy paused and sighed, resting her fingers upon the table’s edge. She twisted her arm to adjust her gold bracelets. Peeking through the doorway, she began watching the bar.

How Kyle’s associates could fritter away so much time debating the geology—aka rocks—business and not get bored into a coma was beyond her understanding. The bar looked fun though. A more relaxed space, sharp dressed bartenders and a classy 1920s art-deco style. A man was playing a piano—it had to be good. One high-backed leather stool was open. A beer sounded nice. Just one.

She drifted that direction in a curious mood.

As she came near to the entry, she sensed a commotion overtaking the otherwise sophisticated atmosphere. A bellicose drunk kept arguing with the bartenders, ranting over something to do with fault lines, virtue and her money not being green enough. The staff were threatening to call security. Everyone seemed to know this entitled blonde lady, who’d worn out her welcome.

“Sir this is America! Are you suggesting I can’t speak about God or righteousness in a bar anymore?” complained the overdressed woman, pacing back and forth. “We’ll see what THE LAW has to say about this.” She emphasized “The Law” as though it would transcend any rotten behavior and rain down punishment on a couple of low wage bartenders.

Lyndy focused her gaze on the baby buggy next to Kyle, confirming Mari was still asleep. He had a hand resting on the rubber grips, and was rolling it gently back and forth the way she’d taught him.

She hoped Kyle was prudent enough not to exit the meeting room without their baby in tow. It wasn’t guaranteed for any man, but at least he had common sense. They didn’t give just anyone a PhD.

Feeling confident, Lyndy strolled to the doorway, listening as the blonde lady continued arguing. She warned the patrons of an impending “Big One” earthquake, some sort of catastrophic judgement day. As in, “God created the San Andreas fault for good reason. Remember that.” While this distraction carried on, Lyndy slipped in, unnoticed. She cinched the cross-body strap on her purse, halting abruptly in front of the drunk.

Immediately she realized this lady was taller in stature and heavier, up to 170 pounds, a lot of excess weight to throw around. Forty more than herself. But the woman was older too, in her early fifties. To compensate, she’d dolled-up with expensive makeup, including fake lashes—becoming an angrier, chubbier version of Cathy.

“Time for you to jet,” Lyndy announced.

With benefit of heels, Lyndy stood near eye-level. A tattoo of a Norse symbol, a shield perhaps, emerged from the sleeve on the drunk woman’s wrist and a tiny gold crucifix hung just below her collar.

“Why’re you here?” her opponent replied, slurring words. “I know my rights! These people need to learn how to listen.” Her face with was flush with red, as the blonde poked a stiff finger in Lyndy’s upper chest. The plump finger narrowly missed some sensitive areas, causing her to backpedal. “What’re you gonna do, hoe?” she challenged.

Lyndy felt a rush of adrenaline. “What am I gonna do? Make you leave for one.”

“How will you do that … Old Navy shopper?” Her intoxicated mind had been searching for an insult, but with nothing clever falling into place, she’d settled on that zinger. Then she balled up a fist. Lyndy easily dodged a sloppy punch, then pushed her palm into the other lady’s gut. Deftly she latched onto her thrown wrist, pivoting a foot, coming up behind. Lyndy wrestled the opponent’s arm behind her back—bouncer style—until the woman began squealing in pain. The Spitfire tensed her muscles, pressing on the blonde lady’s knees, forcing a surrender. They moved together, twisting around, kicking and stumbling toward the exit door. 

“This dress is from JC Penny,” corrected Lyndy through gritted teeth.

“Okay, made yer point.” The lady panted, catching her breath. “I underestimated you, but I honestly wasn’t bothering anybody.” She paused to inhale, while pinching her crucifix. “I was telling them about the fault line. Loosen up.” She was gurgling a bit, out of breath from a mere five seconds of struggle.

Lyndy tightened her grip, pushing her rival further to the door. “I don’t think anyone wants to hear your doom spiel right now.” The blonde lady strained against her. Even with superior size in the other woman’s favor, Lyndy held firm. She was tougher and she knew it. Yet Lyndy felt empathy for anyone in this position. Wasn’t much of a stretch to picture herself with no friends, drunk and ranting in a bar at 50 years of age. Hell, it might happen later tonight—probably not about quakes, but the old days and what a shit job working for Rita was. “Go sleep it off or somethin.”

“Fine. Made yer point.” The blonde repeated, then started coughing. “They say my credit card won’t go through.”

“Maybe it’s a sign from God to hit the road. I’ve been in your shoes.” She still didn’t loosen up. “Will you leave now, peacefully?”

“Yes. I’m done.”

As Lyndy loosened her grip, the lady bent at the hips, bracing on the frame of the double doors. She grabbed for her chest, like one of those middle-aged guys who have pacemakers, muttering something indiscernible. Then she clawed for a fur parka—the fashionable ones worn in Manhattan. From the inside pocket, the woman removed a hundred-dollar bill, clipped to the back of a Motorola cellular phone. She gave everyone a dirty look, then slapped the money onto the hostess stand. “There, last of my cash. Big One is coming though.”

In those days, there used to be bearded, gray haired guys on street corners, in both LA and San Francisco, holding up signs that read essentially the same. People were numb to it.

“Kristen, if you don’t clean up your act, you’re gonna get banned from staying here. Yer husband won’t like that one bit,” warned a bartender.

“Oh, screw it,” scoffed the lady, stomping out the door. “God knows he did the same to me.” She attempted to slam it for a more dramatic exit, but the little stops were in place on the double French doors. Instead, the blonde wandered out into the lobby in the direction of the back lawn.

Lyndy realized all eyes were on her now, probably thirty-five people. A lot of those folks were well-dressed, men in blazers.

Lyndy sniffed for dramatic effect. She rotated in the direction of the bar, straightening her black dress around the thighs. “Martini please, … shaken, not stirred.”

Everyone in the room chuckled, which was more about a sense of relief than humor. Still people were smiling at her. Lyndy buttoned her cardigan across her chest, pacing forward to the empty stool. She set down a designer handbag—another gift from Kyle—then said, “I’m kidding. I hate martinis.”

“Miss, whatever you want is on me,” said a gentleman next to her.

“California could use a good earthquake,” thought Lyndy.

---

Several hours later …

She awoke from a vivid dream, brought on by heavy food, champagne, a shot of tequila and three IPAs. Kyle was elbowing her. Mari was screeching again, loud enough to wake any hotel guest on the entire fourth floor.

She squinted at the red LED clock, 02:00. In the morning. Lyndy groaned. Kyle elbowed her again. Rolling onto her side, she forced herself upright by climbing hand over fist on the headboard, exhaling. “I know. I know,” she muttered.

In her twenties and thirties, a shot, three beers and two flutes of champagne would’ve been considered an afternoon hydration session at the VP. She’d drink that much and go out dancing too. Now it was a punch to the head. A headache radiated through her cheekbones, into her eye sockets. Even her ears were ringing.

Hopefully Maribel simply needed her bottle.

Lyndy was wearing candy cane striped pajamas, paired with a sleeping shirt that said mama bear on it and had a picture of a female grizzly. A fierce one.

She checked Mari’s ears, on the off chance it would be the same problem, but they still looked okay. She moved Mari up to the nightstand, which she’d setup as a makeshift changing station. She went through the motions, putting on a fresh diaper with the rash powder. Then Lyndy warmed up a bottle, offering it to Mari. Predictably, Mari pushed it away with her tiny arms. She continued to wail.

“We gotta make her stop soon,” muttered Kyle, as he sat up. “People are gonna dial the front desk.” His hair was all messed up and his eyes were just slits.

“WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK I’M DOING!!?” shouted Lyndy. It came out as a top of her lungs rage, though she hadn’t meant it to. The neighbors would’ve heard that loud and clear. She hadn’t realized how upset she was. She’d delivered a Shatner-esqe performance, raging about Khan.

“I’m doing the best I can,” she clarified at a more sensible volume.

Kyle stared at her while yawning.

Lyndy sighed. She lifted Mari into her arms, trying to rock her.

“Lyn, when you got in the car today, by the waterfall, were you crying? Your makeup was streaked and you looked like you’d been crying. A lot.”

Lyndy rubbed her eyes. “I dunno. Dust in the air?”

“Okay,” said Kyle. “Though he didn’t seem to believe her.”

Lyndy carried Mari, who was screaming, over to the buggy. “I’m gonna try taking her for a walk.” She shrugged on a fur-lined winter coat, faux of course, bought from REI. The garment extended to her knees but really held in the heat, especially when one was burdened with having to wear a dress.

“It’s two in the morning,” argued Kyle, checking the clock by tilting it toward him.

“What are our other options?” Lyndy took a few breaths, watching Mari, same look of pain on her face. “This is normal. Anxiety is normal. You would know if you took a moment to crack open any one of the goddamn books I gave you. But no. You don’t have any time. You have time for…,” she gestured to the outside. “… fishing boats, but not this. I get it. I have to learn everything and do everything.”

Kyle sat there listening. He rubbed his own eyes again. “Lyn, I love you. Everyone who meets you loves you. And I know this is hard to hear, but like, you’re a mom now.” He added, almost under his breath: “It’s on your shirt.”

Lyndy glanced at her chest. She held back a hasty, dry retort, knowing she’d regret her words. It was hard to be angry at a man who paid every child rearing expense. Kyle was like a walking ATM in her life. But she knew he loved her too. That’s why this situation was such a mess. It was a mess before they had a baby.