Valley Girl: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Yosemite Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: You know how the great inventor Steve Jobs went through an “apple phase” whereby he only ate apples morning, noon and night? Allegedly this is how the name Apple Computer came to be. Well, me and Rita went through a “hot dog” phase, where we consumed grilled hot dogs every living day without fail. I don’t recommend this habit, due to the nitrates which we knew nothing about. Between us we went through gallons of mustard in a month, and I remember one time we drove to the grocery store and they were out of buns. Rita practically had a meltdown in the bread aisle.

A veil of smoke drifted in between the pines catching rays of light, ghostly but smelling of summer. The warm dry air was soothing to the skin, making one want to put on shorts or a dress—perfect for a cookout. Strolling from the bus stop, this was the Camp-4 scene: party R&B music on a boom box, charcoal grills sizzling, huddles of people laughing, talking.

Lyndy spotted Neil holding forth, recounting his “big wall” adventure stories to a circle of younger climbers. Picture a sensei surrounded by pupils. She could see how Erica might describe him as a celebrity. He paced confidently as he spoke, walking a figure-eight, delighting each admirer whenever he happened to meet their gaze.

Everyone had a cold drink in hand.

A few of the ladies present were college age, with hardly what could be considered a top—they were enthralled just as much. Spaghetti strap tanks were about as modest as it got for these campers. Lyndy felt out of place, as she and Neil were likely to be the two “elders” on site.

Lyndy rolled Mari’s stroller into a flat, out of the way spot, shielded by a tree stump. She then raised the retractable roof extension to block out some of the stimulation. There was no avoiding the thumping music though. Hopefully Mari would adapt. Nice to have something tickling the eardrums other than constant baby whimpering.

Next, she spotted Erica in the clearing, working a hula-hoop like an absolute boss, with those glowing plastic necklaces one gets at concerts.

Then she locked eyes with Neil. Neil stopped everything when he saw her, parting the crowd and marching up to Lyndy as his friends watched. He helped her place a towel over the opening on the stroller, for shade and to help Mari feel more comfortable.

“Glad you made it!” greeted Neil. “There’s a whole potluck table set up over there,” he explained. “Help yourself to anything you want to drink.”

Lyndy darted to the table, scanning for a stack of red solo cups. Searching in vain, she realized everyone else had brought those metal cups you get at camping stores. “Oh shoot. You’re supposed to bring your own tin cup?”

“You can have one of mine,” answered Neil. “Lemme just rinse out the gunk first.”

Lyndy examined the selection of red and white boxed wines, positioned on the ends of the table allowing one to hold a cup under the spigot. There were five boxes in total, enough for a small army.

Next to this were white igloo coolers, brimming with ice and import beer bottles denser than a fish market. The rest of the table was stacked with potato salad, chips, hummus dip and cantaloupe cubes.

“Yikes,” muttered Lyndy.

Someone had taken all her vices, her gluttonous desires, and packed them onto one epic picnic table. Inner demons were running wild. She reached for the white wine, dribbling it into her borrowed cup.

As she strolled to join the circle, Neil returned to finish a story. She sat down on the end of a bench, intending to rest and listen. Instead, one of the Neil’s pals whom she’d met at Degnan’s—fella with the shaggy hair—came stomping over to chat.  

The man sidled up, uncomfortably near, and spread one of his hairy arms behind her shoulders on the table. He leaned over, not so suavely and said: “I want to tell you a secret. I have a thing for new moms.”

Lyndy nodded, masking her cringe with a grimace. “Oh cool,” she replied, voice cracking, sipping her wine.

The dude seemed unsure where to go from there. He fidgeted with his beer, before taking another breath and spewing forth the words: “So do you like Porsche’s?”

Lyndy shrugged. “I dunno, maybe I do.” Though she actually preferred macho muscle cars to fancy German coupes.

“Cause there’s a sleek black Porsche hidden in the woods. Like a quarter mile from camp.” He looked over his shoulder, making sure no one was listening. “They put a bunch of tree bark and branches over it, making it look like a pile of yard clippings. But I could tell there was something underneath there so I dug it out.” The man shifted, squeezing his nose and exhaling. “Sorry, I gotta be honest. I’m outta practice talking to women.”

Lyndy’s ears perked up. “It’s okay.” She was about to ask a follow-up question. But the party got hushed. Somebody turned down the music which was most noticeable by the lack of bass. Two tall climbers, whose dress and appearance revealed their Europeanness before they uttered a word in French, had entered the clearing.

The mood shifted. One of them helped himself to a craft beer, popping the cap by whacking it on the edge of the table. The other was pointing to an imposing granite boulder which looked utterly unclimbable. This thing was as big as a house, and so heavy they’d not bothered to clear it when they built the camp. With a raised hand he was charting out several spots where there were chalk lines. Which meant, despite its polished smoothness, climbers did occasionally perform their training exercises upon it. The route was 20 feet in length, and a fall from the top end meant landing in packed dirt and a broken leg or worse.

The blonde men began speaking to Neil in aggressive tones. Neil was in a crouch, his trademark “aww shucks” modest expression on this face.

Erica moved right beside him. She grabbed onto Neil’s shoulders, ready to defend him.

Lyndy could only hear bits of the conversation, but it was obvious the foreigners were goading him, accusing Neil of being over the hill. With his hands and body language, Neil was waving them off. He wanted them to get lost and leave the party.

Out of nowhere, it escalated. The dude who’d been chugging the beer took his bottle and slammed it against the rock, causing it to shatter. The crowd got even more hushed. Neil and everyone else at the table instinctively put-up hands to shield their eyes from an explosion of glass shards. But now Neil seemed upset. A line had been crossed. Neil spoke something firm like: “I hope you’re planning to clean that up.”

The drama was making Lyndy uneasy and she glanced to Mari’s nearby buggy.

It was clear the gauntlet had been thrown. Neil arose with folded arms and the taller challenger began dipping his fingers into a chalk bag. Slapping his hands together, he created a puff of white, then rolled his shoulders and bounced in place.

Neil walked a semi-circle, facing the rock, hardly ruffled but now with more intensity in his eyes. He reached for his climbing shoes, which were upside down on a tarp next to his other equipment. He started to dust them off. Meantime the cocky fellow approached the smooth rock face, and it must’ve been agreed he would go first.

Jaunting the few yards to Lyndy’s seat, Neil whispered in her ear. “Watch this,” he spoke confidently with a wink, and began lacing up his shoes one at a time.

The blonde man started his ascent with his partner spotting. He moved upward with gecko-like abilities, requiring only the tiniest flakes to make progress. These holds were so small they were invisible from afar. His arm muscles tensed and flared, and sweat beaded on his back, which was mostly visible through a ventilated beach shirt.

Neil studied him, while tightening his laces. The specimen of a man was grunting and breathing heavily, but continued to make progress inching up the wall. His feet were splayed in different directions like a tree frog. Soon his forearms were shaking, fingers pinching onto sandpaper-like grips. On the ground his partner had hands ready to soften his pal’s landing. He’d even put down his beer, thus indicating he was serious.

Neil leaned over, cupping his hand around his lips. “That’s like a grade 8 route.”

Lyndy, knowing nothing about the sport of bouldering, was ready to believe anything Neil said. It sounded intimidating—even life threatening—from where she was sitting. Neil again whispered in her ear: “Forgot to mention you look smoking hot right now in that outfit. I can’t take my eyes off you. You’re the best-looking woman I’ve ever seen.”

Lyndy blushed. Perhaps a desperate man had uttered those same words to her, in her prime, but she couldn’t recall the last time. It felt delightful and warm inside all the same. She pointed discretely to the route. “But you’ve climbed it before, right?”

Neil bobbed his head side to side, then lifted up one leg touching his heel to his butt, stretching the hams. “I’ve climbed it once. Except I was 28 years old at the time.”

All eyes from camp-4 were on the French climber, when suddenly he made a noise and gravity brought him back. He slammed into his partner with a FWOOSH, both men landing in a heap on a crash pad. The blonde challenger jumped up immediately with a smug grin, self-assured in his performance. Having been roughly two arm lengths from the summit when he slipped, he seemed to believe this was unbeatable. Meantime his partner clutched his head and frowned, having had his bell rung.

Now it was Neil’s turn, as the other two were licking their wounds.

“You gonna be okay?” asked Lyndy.

“You worry too much,” said Neil, unbuttoning his shirt. For a man nearing forty, he had no sign of a beer belly. Every inch of him was lean. He tossed his dusty shirt to Erica.

Neil strode forward to place both hands on the rock, steadying himself at the base. The guy with the curly hair jumped up, ready to provide the spotting.

Neil studied the rock for half a minute, gazing vertically and taking in the details; in his mind working out the moves like a chess master. Lyndy couldn’t eat or drink she was so nervous for Neil. She pushed her cup and a paper plate away, then gripped the edge of her seat with both hands.

With one deep inhalation Neil started up the granite face. The moment both hands and feet were off the dirt, his mission had begun. Stretching with his long arms, fingers clawing for a grip, he snagged a hold. Then with his bicep power pulled himself two feet higher, re-positioning his shoes. He couldn’t turn back now.

All attention shifted to Neil, including those of his two rivals.

Lyndy could see the muscles in Neil’s back were tense, as his spine curved so he could twist a foot onto a higher grip. Her own heart began to pound, and her fingers began to curl. She could feel the grittiness of the rock on her fingers. His breathing got heavier and when the moves were tough, he exhaled a sudden rush of air. She breathed just as hard.

At the apex, where the climb tilted to a negative slope, he cupped both hands over a knob extrusion on the rock, launching himself with the power of his forearms and shoulders.

Lyndy glanced to Erica who had knotted up Neil’s shirt and was biting it.

She smiled. It occurred to Lyndy that although Erica had said she had a boyfriend, that she was actually hopelessly in love with Neil. If one counted her own crush, well that made two of them.

As Neil kicked up his left shoe, one of the French climbers scoffed. He was approaching the crux move, now twelve feet over the soil. A fall from this height would be hard to soften, and his buddy Rick with the shaggy hair, had both arms raised and eyes fixated. He was nervous. Neil was battling gravity with his muscles and his brain, but all his buddy could do was dance a small circle with his hands up.

Neil’s back like iron, began to glisten with sweat. Yet this and his heavy breathing was the only evidence of exertion. The rest of him was deep in concentration. In a tense moment, Neil managed to heave his core above the negative section onto a polished, but positive sloped pitch. From there, it was the friction in his shoes and the chalk on his hands that kept him glued to the rock. An impact from the full height couldn’t be softened now. His spotter backed away. Probably he would be hospitalized if not dead.

Lyndy couldn’t watch so she covered her eyes, but continued to peek through the cracks in her fingers.

The Frenchmen scoffed again. One of them said in a thick accent: “I knew he could do it. I wanted to see the way it should be climbed.” But everyone knew that was bull.

Neil topped out onto a flat summit, peering down at the party like a perched gargoyle, with a very broad grin.

“Hey Lyndy! See, I made it,” boasted Neil, like a proud little kid.

Lyndy stood up and clapped. So did Erica. It took a few seconds for Neil to skid down the back, where he used a pine tree to gracefully descend and lower himself to the ground. He marched across the circle to the tables and Erica gave him a hug.

The celebration didn’t last. In the corner of her eye, Lyndy spotted a fish out of water man, wearing khaki pants, a loosened tie and plaid business shirt. He was poking around near where Maribel’s buggy had been stowed.

“Ohhhhhh shit,” Lyndy mouthed in slow motion. Kyle caught sight of her at the same moment, and the anger was plain to see. He stormed across the circle of tables, disrupting even the French climber dudes.

He grabbed hard onto Lyndy’s wrist, with a cold rage.

“Hey man, what’s yer problem?” argued someone.

Kyle dragged Lyndy across the camp; she followed out of sheer embarrassment. As he brushed past Neil—who’d been in shock—he said words which were etched in her mind for years to come: “Lyndy Martinez is a lot of fun isn’t she? Well, she can’t come out and play anymore.” He swiveled his head, making sure everyone was watching. “Lyndy can’t come out and play cause she’s a mom now! For Christ sake.”

Kyle kicked the buggy until the brakes let go, then he pushed it with one arm while not letting go of Lyndy’s wrist. Maribel was crying. Hard to tell if it just started, or she’d been wailing for an extended time as so much excitement had gone on.

“Dude, wait up,” said Neil, attempting to follow.

Kyle stamped the ground in a threatening manner.

“Now are you her boyfriend or are you Lyndy’s dad …

Kyle glared back at Neil, daring him to finish the sentence.

“… cause right now it’s hard for me to tell,” said Neil.

Kyle pointed to the east end of the valley, the direction of the hotel. “Your boss will be hearing from me. This is unacceptable.” Kyle looked at the crowd with disdain. In his eyes they were losers.

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Santa Barbara, CA 2010s

Lyndy Life observation: As a new mom I often wondered how many of my personality traits Maribel would inherit versus Kyle’s. I remember one early warning sign came from a teacher’s report the first day of Mari’s kindergarten. They had nap time of course and apparently there was another little girl who was sniffling and complaining about missing her mother. After ten minutes of this, Maribel rolled over and scolded: “Oh be quiet, people are trying to sleep!”

They waited a long time before coming to get her. Lyndy spent the alone time seated in the yard, listening to the rustling of leaves and chirping birds. But then she heard a door unlatch and creak.

“I know it’s a lot,” remarked Fred, stepping from a side entrance off the patio. He had both hands in his pockets as he sauntered to her. Behind him, his daughter emerged, using a cane for support but moving more easily than expected.

Gillian hobbled across the lawn to her stone bench, resting beside The Spitfire. Then she placed a hand atop Lyndy’s. Her green eyes were inquisitive and wistful.

“Miss Martinez, could you please tell me something about my mom?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Anything. I was so young, I only have a few precious memories, like still frames of her with nothing substantive.”

Lyndy cupped a fist under her chin, while flashes of her youth played on a projector in her mind. The reason some of these were hard to access was obvious. She didn’t like to think about those days.

At last Lyndy answered: “Your mother enjoyed Mexican food. A LOT. Homemade tamales especially—the more authentic and lower budget the better. With red and green sauce. But obviously not from chain fast food joints.”

She could hear Fred exhaling a laugh. But when Lyndy glanced to the curious eyes of Gillian, she could tell the girl felt unsatisfied.

“No. Like what I mean is, tell me something good about my mom. Something positive she did for others or yourself.”

“Uh. Geez. Lemme think,” said Lyndy running her hand over head. She accidentally dislodged her glasses, catching them in her lap and preventing the pair from falling to the stone path. Lyndy smirked, as an old memory floated itself from the murky depths. “This one time we were flying to Denver and Rita was in first class. I was stuck in coach, of course.” Lyndy turned to squeeze Gillian’s shoulder. “This was back when flying was still hip, and first class was worthy of the name. As she was boarding, a stewardess presented Rita with this zippered goody bag. It was scarlet red, with the logo of the airline and inside were all sorts of girly items. There was a hairbrush, some pink sunglasses and an eye mask. And like little candies and stuff. But Rita didn’t want it. After we took off, she wandered back to coach where I was sitting—probably in a middle seat—and she handed me the bag, saying something like: “Here. I don’t’ want this.” She glanced to Fred and then back to Gillian. “That’s something nice right? Proves Rita was thinking of me.”

“That’s all you can think of,” sighed Gillian. “What about her philanthropic work?”

Lyndy shrugged. “Philanthropy? Rita had her moments. She often donated to charity. But your mom wasn’t known for being what others consider quote-unquote nice.” Gillian glared at Fred. There was an unspoken grievance, possibly with the truth about her mother being revealed at last.