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Gasoline and Matches Part-12

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-12

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Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: A girl working as a server at the V-P roadhouse returned from maternity leave. She showed us the total hospital bill for her delivery, which I remember being around $125 and we thought that was a lot.

Helen, nursing a chilled Zima and Lyndy bouncing Maribel on her lap, sat across from one another at the main floor coffee table. All eyes were studying the triangular shaped puzzle piece in front of them, trying to make sense of it. This included Maribel.

The edges of the triangle measured one-and-a-half by two inches.

The paper slip was a kind of brittle, coarse periodical material turning yellowish with age. Made Lyndy wonder if it had in fact been torn from a magazine.

On one side, the missing full page must’ve displayed a pen and ink illustration. Only a small segment of the drawing remained, showing detail of a passageway. This tiny, smudged portion reminded Lyndy of a dungeon or sewer map, with shaded corners and a single 90-degree bend. The tunnels—assuming that’s what they were—would’ve continued in two separate legs out into the absent nine tenths of the page. On the flipside, the bottom right corner, a page number appeared: 41. In the footer, along the margin, four capital letters: “J-W-M-R”. These were faint, and Lyndy had no idea what they meant.

Lyndy paused to rest her eyes, running her palms up the side of her head and over her ears to massage her neck. She exhaled a frustrated sigh. Helen took a sip of her Zima, then put a hand in front of her lips while belching daintily.

Mari slapped the table and cried: “DA-DA”.

“Yeah, good thinkin’ Vanilla Bean,” muttered Lyndy. “Kyle might have ideas on this, but no can do. That plan opens a whole nother can-a-worms. Remember, we don’t want daddy to know we’re working on this.”

Reaching for a jar of applesauce and a thumb-size spoon, Lyndy attempted to deliver a scoop of food to Mari’s lips. The baby jerked her head away. Testing a different strategy, this time making that sputtering helicopter sound-effect with her lips, Lyndy twirled the spoon in a descending spiral to entice the baby. No luck. Mari observed, but pressed her lips firmly together despite how close the spoon came.

It crossed her mind; the baby had gotten this stubbornness from the Martinez side. She set aside the jar and spoon.

With her finger and thumb, Lyndy tried rotating the paper, hoping to make sense of the partial illustration. Few alive could match The Spitfire when it came to knowledge of the vast Mojave Desert region. If ever appearing as a category on Jeopardy, she knew she’d clean up. As a youth, she’d borrowed and read cover-to-cover nearly every book Lyndy could find on the subject at her library. This amounted to some 35 different works. She even purchased a few outstanding titles covering both human and natural history. These days housed in her storage locker, was a tub full of old maps waiting to be explored.

Still, none of these items paired up remotely against this obscure drawing. At least none she could recall. Which was frustrating.

“Ever have one of those 1000-piece puzzles from K-Mart,” Helen remarked, “and the middle piece disappears behind a sofa, making the whole thing pointless.”

Lyndy groaned in the affirmative. “Basically, that in reverse.”

There were three possibilities Lyndy could imagine. The map showed a portion of a slot canyon, or of a cave with somewhat sharp corners. Or third, most likely, a mine.

Page 41 of what? What book!

It occurred to Lyndy already there might be a closed, abandoned mineshaft in the area where Sabina went missing. Although every Joshua Tree map she could get her hands on, showed no existing claims in that section of the park. Of course, rangers were known to omit cultural sites on public maps. They’d been doing it for decades, saving themselves the hassle of rescuing mindless tourists who were victims of their own curiosity. Many of the well-known shafts were already filled in or fenced securely, and yet rescues were common. So, assuming there was a hidden mine there, she’d have to find evidence of this in some obscure reference.

Lyndy glanced to the TV, then to the smug face of Maribel, who again refused to ingest any food.

“Baby won’t eat?” queried Helen.

“No. And it’s really frustrating.”

Helen squeezed her watch. “Speaking of which, I should get back to my kiddo. I told the babysitter I’d only be gone an hour and a half.”

A few minutes later …

After receiving poor marks in “home-ec” class, Aunt Rose once proclaimed no sane gentleman would ever want Melinda Martinez to raise their child. Who was laughing now?

By anyone’s measure, Kyle Ellis qualified as a gentleman.

While wiping counters, sweeping the floor in the kitchen and clearing away two days’ worth of clutter, Lyndy used the cordless phone to dial Jackie Cordray.

Miss Cordray picked up after a single ring, eager to hear the news. Without going into much detail on the circumstance, Lyndy informed her the Volkswagen sedan had been recovered. Jackie seemed astounded at the news. One could hear the relief in her voice. Made sense.

Clearly things were becoming dicey; she wanted to give Jackie an easy out. So, in reasoned tones Lyndy offered to turn the evidence over to the police and try again to get them to do their jobs. Lyndy explained the disappointing reality: despite the high cost to obtain the car, nothing of value had been found inside, save for one tiny piece of paper. Whomever dumped it had beaten them to the punch by scrubbing it first.

Of her own accord, she hoped Jackie would come to the realization the situation was getting too intense. Jackie would have none of it. Instead, she offered Lyndy another $25k to keep going. Hard to pass up. Plus, in the time when Lyndy was busy with the towing company, Jackie had been doing some amateur sleuthing of her own.

She’d deduced where the art teacher, Tigerlilly, resided—which hadn’t been easy. It’d only come by haunting every art gallery and gift shop in the mountains, twisting the arms of the owners. Jackie was able to provide Lyndy an address in Crestline; a home and studio complex Tigerlilly apparently shared with an assortment of oddball roommates. She and Jackie made an agreement, that if Jackie would bring the Mustang back up the hill, they could swap for the Jetta.

It took several hours to clean the cabin, but Lyndy didn’t want Kyle returning home to a messy house—after Maribel, Fall River was his pride and joy. Becky would’ve done that at least. She had a lot of time to think; about how foolish she’d been trying to take on the impound yard scammers by herself. And about the unknown criminal ring at the heart of it, folks who might be just a little peeved at her going “full Hulk-mode”, utterly demolishing their illegal business. Course, she’d warned them.

While Mari took a nap, Lyndy made a list of ingredients for meals in the coming week. She wanted to cook something special for Kyle, having it ready when he arrived. It didn’t seem like anything else could go sideways.

You know the feeling, “what else could possibly go wrong?”

Preparing for an uneventful trip to the grocery store, Lyndy put sleepy Mari in her car seat, belting it down in the black Range Rover. She didn’t bother styling her hair.

There were two supermarkets serving the Arrowhead area worth shopping in. Of these, only one carried the yuppyish foods Kyle preferred—meaning a kind of Whole Food’s establishment. And every store here came with the customary for the mountains, cramped parking spaces. Lyndy was minding her own business, simply trying to snag a spot when she happened to pull-in next to another Range Rover. Because nearly all Range Rovers are glossy black, these two parked next to each other were identical twins.

Reaching for her purse, Lyndy made an important mental note that Kyle’s over-priced luxury SUV was the one parked on the right.

Then as she unbelted the car seat, Lyndy heard a hauntingly familiar voice, that of an ex-bestie. “You made the front page of the paper,” announced the female.

It was Rita Lovelace—living legend—in the bratty flesh. If Lyndy hadn’t known for a fact she was deadpan sober, she might’ve chalked this up to a hallucination.

Even so, every muscle fiber in Lyndy’s body contracted at once. She whipped around, spying a forty-year-old version of Miss Lovelace. Her deep brown hair, once flawless and uniform, had strands of silver mixing in—though still chest length and straight. Her eyebrows seemed to have taken the brunt of the graying hit. She maintained full, neatly trimmed bangs which served to hide them. This added a certain youthful radiance. Her lips were thinner, face had creases and age spots peppered across her nose. Lyndy had those too, though Rita’s were easily covered in makeup.

No hello.

No greetings of any kind were exchanged. Legend had it breaking up with a close female friend was harder than breaking up with a man. Lyndy was starting to believe this.

Rita had been in the midst of re-arranging sacks of groceries in the back of her vehicle, but paused to deliver her one-liner.

“I did what?” That was all Lyndy could think to say.

“You made the cover of the paper,” Rita repeated, with a sneer, belying something juicy Rita knew and Lyndy didn’t. By this coy tone, Lyndy knew it must not be anything flattering on that paper.

Lyndy raised one eyebrow. “Huh? How so?”

“One sec,” added Rita, turning sideways and squeezing between an adjacent car to unlock her driver’s door. Opening the door a crack, she retrieved a folded newspaper from the side pocket. With a proud smile, Rita returned to face Lyndy, letting the paper flop open.

At the top of the color picture was Maribel, looking cute with a bow in her hair. Next to her, The Spitfire, flat on her back on a picnic blanket. Her chestnut hair was a mess, some of it tangled in strands across her face. She was obviously asleep, sprinkled in a handful of French fries while seagulls were pecking at the food. A half-eaten cheeseburger had fallen loose from her right hand. Behind the mother and daughter pair, the glistening lake, always pleasant and inviting.

Lyndy’s jaw dropped. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

It was hard to imagine a less flattering picture, at least with clothing on. And there were a number of doozy snapshots in the wild from her cocktail and dancer days. Out of perhaps the ten worst, this one took top prize.

The caption read: “Being a mom is hard!” It was touted as the “Picture of the Week”. Swell. Lyndy snatched the paper straight out of Rita’s hand. “Oh. My. God.” Lyndy mouthed. Her first thought, “What if Kyle sees this?” But then she thought about the contingent of other lake moms. These Martha Stewart wannabes, who watch the show and take notes—Lyndy was a laughingstock.

“Nice overalls,” teased Rita, with a snort.

Lyndy glanced up, wondering if her ex-best-friend would be diabolical enough to plan something like this. No words were needed, as they could practically read one-another’s mind.

“Me?” questioned Rita, touching a hand to her chest. “Definitely not. I hate to admit, I’m not as clever as whichever evil genius planned this. Plus, why would I want to humiliate you when you do such a grand job of it on your own?”

Lyndy had momentarily forgotten she was holding the handle of the car seat.

“You’re gonna die old and alone,” said Lyndy coldly. “No one will come visit you.”

Unsure where this venom came from, the words stung Lyndy more to say, and she felt her knees buckle. Her stomach turned. She wished she could take it back.

Rita blinked and fluttered her eyelids, as if the insult had a physical effect. Rita’s retort: “Are you done projecting?”

Lyndy gazed at the picture somberly.

Rita sniffed. “I was gonna say something nice about your baby, but I changed my mind.” She hit a button on her key fob, automatically making her motorized tailgate close and latch—in those days it was a major flex to have that feature. Pivoting, key in hand, Rita departed without saying another word.

As she paced the aisles of the store all the fun of shopping had melted away. Lyndy’s eyes teared up more than once, and the biggest reason she wanted to kick herself for being so rude: Rita was probably the only person who might help unravel the mystery of the torn page. Stupid!

Lyndy Life Observation: In the 80s, at the Barstow Sheriff substation one could file a crime report on a pre-printed form which included two carbon copies. Prior to the description, there were several check boxes depending on which unfortunate event happened to you and laws broken. You know, person-on-person crimes such as: assault, theft, robbery, fraud, criminal threat, violation of restraining order and lastly, they had a box for “hurt feelings”. Which I’m pretty sure meant just a pat on the back and nothing more.

In the old-old days, one could dress in a UPS driver costume pretending to have an enticing delivery for the fugitive to sign for. “Gee, someone sent me a package?” Or the old “census taker” disguise. That was a CBB bounty hunter trick going way back. And because of how stupid you had to be to fall for it, it rarely worked.

They called it the Land-Shark. It got so some neighborhoods; no one would ever answer the door for legit reasons.

Anyhow, Jackie Cordray had done a decent job of tracking down Tigerlilly’s address. If she’d had more time, Lyndy would’ve conjured up an excuse. But she could think of no such reason to visit that wasn’t silly.

She left Maribel in the loving care of Helen for an hour, while she decided to pay a test visit as herself. A check of the trusty Thomas Guide led to a homestead in Lake Gregory, only a fifteen-minute drive from Kyle’s place. While Dr. Ellis’s cabin was in mostly immaculate condition, this two-story farmhouse had seen more than a few harsh winter seasons. It might’ve started life as someone’s vacation home, perhaps for a wealthy individual living in the LA basin, nearer to the coast. But with the ensuing decades and few repairs, the shabby place had seen better days.

An unpaved trail through a tunnel of trees, three-hundred feet in length, served as a driveway. There were no parking pads, just a grassy clearing where three other vehicles were stowed haphazardly. One of these was a Toyota mini-pickup with a cracked windshield.

After shifting the Range Rover to park, Lyndy slid out and tightened her boot laces. Tapping against the screen door, the smell of bacon frying tickled her nose. Note it was 10 in the morning. She could see shadows of figures through the mesh.

A man’s voice cried, “come in”.

Lyndy adjusted her purse before pressing on the door with an elbow. Stepping inside to the main floor—wood slats creaking as she moved—Lyndy entered one of the most bizarre living situations she ever encountered. Working for Chan, she thought she’d seen it all.

A neglected toddler stood in the far corner, petting a seated, panting goat. The toddler’s eyes were milky-white, as though he were blind. A mustached man, roughly 30 years of age sat at the breakfast table. She couldn’t help staring at his eccentric outfit choice: jeans rolled up to the ankles, suspenders, no short, socks or shoes. This left his arms, chest and stomach exposed—also displaying many tattoos. On no man would this have been a sexy look, and unfortunately this white dude was one of those skinny guys with a physique like he’d never touched a weight in his life.

He grinned as Lyndy entered, smoothing his greasy mustache hair. His eyes were shifting, like those of a hyperactive kid.  Lyndy allowed her own eyes to wander some more.

In the kitchen frying eggs was another golden-haired woman, perhaps twenty-five. The attractive “babe” wore underwear and a torn, half-shirt. Somehow, she had more exposed skin than the dude.

The goat bleated. Nothing said hillbilly like livestock in your residence. Lyndy checked her watch, trying to remember what decade it was and her own age.

“Who might you be?” questioned the man.

Lyndy was preparing to introduce herself when a new character, a brunette, came dashing down from the second floor. This female—also youthful and model-like—had been dressed in nurse scrubs. While taking the stairs she’d been in the process of stuffing her hair into a scrunchie. She seemed flustered, possibly late for work.

When the woman spotted Lyndy, she froze in her tracks. “Uh hello?”

So far, neither female was Tigerlilly.

“Hi, sorry to intrude on your … uh,” Lyndy stammered. To whatever this was. “My name is Lyndy. I’m a local mom, thinking about enrolling a student in Crestwood Academy. You know, where Tigerlilly teaches art… and uh …. I was hoping to speak with her.”

The dude nodded. “Bout what?” he demanded.

All eyes were suddenly on Lyndy. Even the blind toddler and the goat awaited her answer. At least the male’s response confirmed the address.

“I’m also something of art collector,” declared Lyndy. Cause that sounded believable!

The fellow sniffed, leering her up and down, probably undressing her with his eyes. The other two ladies said nothing.

Lyndy wanted to ask bluntly whether Tigerlilly was in, but Chan always taught her to assume a fugitive was home. It was best to leave the question unsaid, letting co-occupants and roommates fill in the details.

Hard to tell if it was simply her presence or the fact she wanted to speak with Tigerlilly making everyone nervous.

“Are you a cop?” asked the fellow, who had yet to get up from the table.

The girl in the kitchen flipped the sizzling bacon using a spatula.

“Obviously not,” answered Lyndy. “Do I look like a cop?”

The man pushed back from his chair. His knees bumping against the table caused the silverware to crash into the plates, making that clinking sound.

“I can take you to her,” he said.

Gasoline and Matches Part-11

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-11

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Behind the counter at the Vanishing Point was a well-loved copy of the board game Smess, and I used to play against lonely dudes like Lt. Col. Rickman, while simultaneously on the clock cocktail waitressing. Cathy did the same. I don’t know which bothered Rickman more. The fact I was a 23-year-old woman, or the fact that it was such a stupid game and he was still unable to beat me.

Helen’s eyes were wide and cheeks flush. She pointed anxiously to the metal bat. “Did … did you manage to scare em off with that?”

“Dios mios,” thought Lyndy. She’d fallen asleep with it balanced on her chest. Obviously, it tumbled off sometime in the wee hours. Landed on the hardwood floor, probably leaving a permanent dent. Thank goodness it wasn’t the Beretta. Now that would be terrifying.

“Uhhhh….” Lyndy always hated to lie, only at this point the truth was even more absurd sounding. “Note to self. I really need to see someone about this narcolepsy.”

Lyndy turned to reassure Helen. “Ummm, you’re right. Yep, I frightened them off. They saw me chasing and the rascals got scared.”

Fanning herself to keep from hyperventilating, Helen’s irregular breathing gradually returned to normal. “Are you … sure you’re, okay?” she asked in a much calmer voice.

“I’m fine,” Lyndy assured, holding out a hand. “Just a little banged up.”

“But … who would do this to you? Why didn’t you call the police?”

After straightening her shirt, Lyndy raced madly around the kitchen island, collecting dirty dishes in her arms to shove into the open dishwasher. She was thinking how to answer, and how best to handle this delicate Helen situation. Cause it would be hard for her to comprehend—even for a sympathetic individual like Helen.

Her concerns ran much deeper than the present situation. She needed friends up here. A mom without friends was a mom without an excuse to get her hair done. Or have a play date. Hillary Clinton once said: “it takes a village.” Wise words. This mountain town certainly qualified, especially if you saw it covered in snow and stretched your definition of “village” to include ski-chalets. Or maybe it was the void of not having a best friend, following the Rita split. Either way she couldn’t run the risk of driving potential friends away.

Helen pointed to the baby. “So then, how is little Maribel? Unharmed, thank goodness?”

Setting the dishes in a heap, Lyndy rushed to the pack-n-play arrangement. Hovering over and breathing a sigh of relief, Lyndy made the sign of the cross. “Yes. Her normal active self. But uh, yeesh. P-U!” Lyndy remarked, pinching her nose. “She needs a changing pronto.” Lyndy exhaled with her arms at her sides. Passing a hand over her totally bare and neglected-ly shaven thighs, she felt a twinge of embarrassment. She literally had nothing on but a tank and thin cotton panties.

Clearing her throat and shifting her perspective back to Helen, Lyndy added, “Ya know, lemme throw some clothes on quick. “Help yerself to a …,” twirling a finger, “a cold Zima if you want.”

Helen nodded, still somewhat in shock.

Alone in the bedroom, Lyndy whipped off her shirt. From the uppermost drawer of the oak dresser, she snatched a pair of sweats and a fresh t-shirt, pulling them on. She threw the bloody clothes in a pile, near the hamper, making a mental note she needed to burn those.

Dashing up the steps, returning to the top floor, Lyndy found Helen crouching near to the pack-n-play, holding out a finger so Maribel could wrap her tiny hands and practice her grip. Mari was smiling ear to ear, her face mesmerized. She adored Helen Mason for some reason.

Bending over the soft webbing, Lyndy scooped Mari in her arms, exclaiming: “Alrighty vanilla bean, the diaper police have caught you red handed! You are being detained.”

Helen chuckled.

Transporting the precious cargo against her chest, Lyndy beckoned Helen to follow her. She led the way to the lower floors of the cabin, careful not to rush the steep knotty pine stairs with a baby in tow.

“Okay Helen, I need to share something with you, but you have got to promise me this secret stays between us. Can I trust you?”

“Mmm-Hmmm,” Helen murmured, trailing Lyndy down the stairs. “Of course.”

At the changing table, Lyndy rested the smiling baby on her back. She undid the sticky tabs on the soiled diaper, prepping the powder and a package of moist wipes. “Helen, you should sit down for this,” warned Lyndy.

Backing up, Helen tested Lyndy’s rocking chair, the only seating in the nursery suitable for an adult. Attracted by the beautiful finish work, Helen traced her fingertips across the smooth side handles. She then studied the animal mobile, suspended above the crib.

Lyndy set her gaze on this charming young woman, with her wavy dye-blonde hairdo and petite frame. She couldn’t have been older than 30 or 31, possessing a certain innocence from this angle. Yet now her cheery countenance had been tempered, replaced by a solemn, thoughtful look in her eyes.

To this day, Lyndy Martinez counted on one hand the circle of women entrusted with her deepest secrets. Even opening up to Catherine Cookson or Rita, had come after a lengthy process of getting to know them. Yet something about Helen—a genuineness—made her seem worthy of trust.

“Can you believe I didn’t change a single diaper until I was forty? Now look at me.” Lyndy chuckled, shifting her attention back on wiping Mari clean with a wet wipe, while she spoke. It made it easier in some ways, not having to look Helen in the eye. “But listen, ever since I was in my teens I’ve had a unique set of … abilities.”

“Okay,” said Helen uneasily, letting Lyndy know she had her attention.

“Some might call it a gift. But I don’t.” Lyndy shrugged, without turning around. She continued wiping Mari clean, but doing so gently to prevent a rash or irritation. “When I find myself in a tense situation—the heat of battle—I take on this alternate persona. It’s called The Spitfire.”

Lyndy paused for a laugh or scoff from Helen. Meantime Mari kept shoving her fingers in her mouth, chewing on them.

“Point is when I’m this other person, it gives me super-human stamina,” continued Lyndy. “More strength and fighting abilities. You might say increased brainpower too.” She sprinkled a dash of the baby powder, rolling the baby side to side to make sure her tiny butt cheeks were lightly coated. “There’s no obvious transition—not outwardly. But when it happens, I can feel it inside. It’s there.”

Lyndy turned, locking eyes with Helen who’d been keeping her hands in her lap. She’d been listening intently.

“That’s how I managed to survive all the crazy circumstances I found myself in, working for Chan’s Bail Bonds. And later, when I was a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace.”

“How did you acquire this gift?” questioned Helen.

“There’s no scientific explanation—if that’s what you mean—other than it seems to run in my family on the Martinez side.” Lyndy paused to fasten the sticky tabs on the fresh diaper. Mari seemed relieved. A huge smile formed on her face as she looked deeply into the brown eyes of her mother. In kind, Lyndy’s heart swelled with joy. “An alternate theory is it may have been passed down to me by a woman named Mabel Dixon. She was the warden at a youth detention center where I was locked up. But we don’t need to get into that.”

Lifting Mari into her arms, Lyndy twirled around, facing Helen.

“The reason I’m telling you this is … well … I’ve been moonlighting as a private investigator since I was in my early twenties. Believe me, I tried putting an end to this life years ago, but I just can’t seem to shake it out of my system. That, and Miss Lovelace keeps sending new clients my way. Used to be only her father would do it, but now her too. Last night, I got in a dust-up cause I needed that black car sitting in the driveway. That’s why I’m bruised. It’s a missing teen’s car actually.”

Lyndy stuffed Mari into a clean onesie, poking each chubby wrist through the sleeve holes one at a time. Once smoothed enough to cover her belly and torso, Lyndy buttoned the flap between her legs.

“Wait. That name sounds familiar.” Helen blinked her eyes, shaking her head. “I thought I heard you say you were a bodyguard for Rita Lovelace—you mean the Rita Lovelace?”

Lyndy nodded yes.

“World-famous model who made the cover of Vogue two times? Wow, I loved her. She was huge! Like, she was a super-model before supermodels were a thing!”

“That’s right.” Lyndy rocked her daughter by swaying her hips side-to-side. Flicking a finger, she spun the mobile for Mari, allowing her to watch and reach out, grasping for the colorful animals.

“Oh my gosh. How did I not know this amazing fact about you?”

Next Helen lowered her chin, gripping the arms while slumping deeper in the chair. Her cheeks drooped and her nose began to twitch, as she sniffed. “Well, to tell the truth, in spite of outward appearances I was mostly unprepared for the trials of motherhood. My own mom did a poor job teaching me anything of value. I knew only what you see on TV. Which is all crap by the way. Also, I once broke up with a nice guy cause I didn’t believe he had enough future earning potential.” She exhaled loudly. “We were genuinely love. And now … now I’m worried I might’ve made the wrong decision. And for what?”

Lyndy rubbed her eyes, not knowing what to say. “Uhmm. Alrighty. Why did you tell me that?”

Helen’s shoulders began to heave. Her voice cracked with heartfelt emotion. “I thought like, it was a bonding moment and we were sharing each other’s secrets?”

“No, it’s not really that kind of moment, Helen. I was telling you all this now so you understood why I appear disheveled, and there’s a strange car in the driveway. By the way, you cannot share any of this prior conversation with your husband. It’s all off limits. Do you understand?”

“Oh, sorry, you’re right,” said Helen, wiping her nose with the back of her palm, getting herself together. “Look at me, I’m a mess too.” She made a hand motion like someone zipping up their lips.

Lyndy nodded to the garage. “Rotten part is, I already searched that damn Jetta twice last night. Which means, I basically kicked the asses of three grifters for nothing.”

Reaching into the tiny key pocket of her yoga pant ensemble, Helen began fishing for something. “Well, that reminds me. I found something strange on the floor of your garage.”

“You did? What?”

“This,” said Helen, holding out a tan piece of paper from a cheaply printed book. The scrap of paper was both torn and hand rolled, like someone had been using it as a makeshift cigarette wrapper. Made sense why she hadn’t seen it in the night, as a cigarette falling out a car wouldn’t have been terribly obvious or unusual.

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: Rochelle Bishop auditioned to be a presenter on a popular TV game show. Mind you she was a well-regarded dancer prior to this, and worked off and on as a cocktail waitress in several prominent night clubs. At the end of her audition, the TV producers told her they loved her energy, quick wit and contagious smile. They even said she was probably the best choice for the job, only she was about 50 pounds heavier than the role required. Too bad. As they called “next”, Rochelle stormed off, saying it took every ounce of self-control not to flip all the tables in the room.

Striking a match against the gritty side of a paper matchbox, Debbie Kowalski watched her tiny spark flicker to life. Sheltering the flame from the sundowner breeze, she undid the metal latch of a dusty storm lantern—the kind made of stamped tin—then transferred the tiny orange flame to the cotton wick.

The glass orb, cracked yet mostly intact, did a great job of protecting the wick.

Due to extreme isolation the Wonder Valley homestead wasn’t connected to the grid. A sliver of moon high in the east was lovely, but didn’t suffice as a work light. With twilight fading, Debbie would need this lantern if she wanted to continue the act of mending things. Her ultimate goal: working her way to the lofty triumph of getting one of two non-operating autos to move under their own power. Using scrap plywood and some cinder blocks, Debbie fashioned a work-bench of sorts, which she could sit cross-legged in front of.

Tucked amongst jumbled scrap piles, near to the precious rock collection, was the old geezer’s tool chest. Above her, limbs of two blue palo verde trees had grown interconnected, providing a canopy of sorts spanning the junk patch. From one of the low branches Debbie affixed the lantern. This then was her shop-light.

Placing a fist in front of her mouth, she yawned.

Perhaps one positive about the Mojave sun going down was the heat breaking. With her headache subsiding, having re-hydrated on warm Yoo-Hoo, Debbie felt like she could think clearly again. Though as her senses returned, she wished for a shower so she didn’t have to smell her own sweaty B-O.

For some reason the overly dramatic intro theme to Dallas was stuck on repeat in her head. She didn’t even like the show. Only her mother did. But that tune was an ear-worm. Nothing she could do about it, but a possible cure if she could get a radio working.

She next turned her attention to a small, cheaply made transistor radio liberated from the porch rail of the old geezer’s cabin. It was a Grayco model sold at Woolworth stores, possibly from the late 1950s. Pursing her lips, Debbie blew away cobwebs and the most egregious layer of dust.

Some might call it a warm up—an easy task to get her electrical problem-solving juices flowing again.

With a no-name brand screwdriver, Debbie undid three of the corner screws, allowing her to detach the plastic cover. The back portion snapped off easily, exposing copper coils, transistors, capacitors, diodes and amplifiers. Being an older device, the circuit board was shockingly primitive. Re-positioning it under the glow of the lantern Debbie inspected the parts. She’d anticipated the batteries were oozing their guts out or the tubes were blackened. But an eyeball inspection revealed nothing insurmountable.

Clawing out the 9V battery, she touched the terminals to her moistened lips, testing it. Sure enough—bit of a jolt. Thus, some juice left in it.

The antenna was a ferrite core type, common in those days, wrapped with fifteen or so feet of copper wire strand. Debbie traced the path from the antenna, through the amplifiers, the tuning circuit, to the intermediate stage and lastly to the cone speaker.

After a moment of deep thought she reasoned the cause. The wire feeding the single cone speaker had frayed to nothing, or else a small critter had devoured the insulating material. The connection subsequently shorted against the case clamps and melted away.

Scratching her head, Debbie supposed the best remedy was to harvest some of the fresh copper wire off the antenna coil itself—it had more than enough. She could use this to field repair the severed connection.

Pulling the knobs on the drawers of an old craftsman tool box, she found they wouldn’t budge. Rusted shut. She yanked harder, in hunt for a pair of wire cutters. As it broke loose a sudden eye motion and the head of a reptile poked out at her, causing Debbie to jump back.

All her muscles seized. Having lived damn near half her life out west, she had a healthy fear of pit vipers. Her tiny hairs stood on end and goose bumps formed on her arms.

Funny thing though, the creature seemed rather cordial, tilting its head like a curious bird. If this animal could talk, it would probably sound like Kermit the Frog.

Recovering from a mini-heart attack, Debbie studied it. This creature was no snake, rather a lizard with gecko-eyes and shimmering, moist skin. With a calmer attitude and a little more light, she recognized the species—an unusual one. These were called granite night lizards, and they had some curious abilities.

If one of her university professors saw this—the wacky reptile guy with the white hair whom she could never remember the name of—he’d be excited.

The night lizard shared traits in common with chameleons. If one were patient enough, their glossy scales would literally change color before your eyes, in the course of a minute or two. Thus, the unusual shimmering nature of the skin. The little guy had adapted to the dull brown of the tool bin, which is why he’d been hard to spot.

Cupping her fingers, Debbie encouraged the friendly lizard to walk onto her palm. He did so with halting, bird-like movement while his eyes studied her. Gently, she offered him a magic carpet ride to a nearby crevice in the trees where he could watch her in safety, while she opened and closed the drawers on the tool bin.

The palo verdes had been imported, however it seemed likely the semi-circular cluster of palm trees were native. Their roots ran deep, thirty or forty feet—predating the cabin—tapping into an underground water source. Which meant indigenous peoples had camped here, likely for centuries. Perhaps the lizards had been brought here by one of these ancient desert-dwelling tribes, transported from a habitat hundreds of miles away.

Another surprising characteristic—these lizards gave birth live. Something about that was unsettling in a reptile. Debbie got the willies thinking about a lizard giving birth.

Cringing, she remembered her halfway toxic mother figure—the woman who could watch Dallas and seem to enjoy it. The voice she used when she lectured Debbie that boys simply wouldn’t be interested in a girl who outwitted them in math, chemistry or worse, had superior mechanical abilities when it came to tools. Add to this, Debbie’s looks were nothing to write home about. Though unspoken, her metabolism and chubby features didn’t match whatever expectations her mother had for how she wanted a daughter to look. Her old-fashioned mother warned her that men liked to be the ones who repaired things and balanced the checkbook.

Her advice was to fake like she couldn’t do math. Debbie rolled her eyes as she twisted the fraying copper strands. She snipped it to the correct length with the rusty, but otherwise functional diagonal cutters.

Unfortunately for her mother, Debbie had been born a scientist—a gifted one at that. When once measured, it was discovered her IQ was almost off the charts. And yet being born a female, that didn’t count for much. On days like this Debbie often wondered if her mother was correct about a thing or two.

Tightening down the wire with the screwdriver, she flipped the radio around. Everything should be attached.

Switching it on, she tuned the dial right-to-left to see if any stations were within range. She half expected a religious sermon, or perhaps Spanish language programming. But no such. She heard music, cutting faintly through the noise.

Debbie tuned it again, twisting the silver-white knob. She could hear a sweet thumping guitar rhythm. Next, she twisted the volume knob, recognizing a familiar masculine voice. The voice of a man born to rock. He was so cool, people called him “the boss.”

Debbie couldn’t help strutting her shoulders, and soon thrusting her hips—miming the way Cathy Cookson or Lyndy Martinez would dance together next to the jukebox at the VP. They were both good dancers. That song was fire!

Debbie stood up and did a little whirl. Closing her eyes, she almost forgot how miserable she was. Maybe this was an omen. Men absolutely loved it when Lyndy and Cathy danced at the V-P. And sometimes Debbie would watch them, fantasizing about being cool.

The song was a B-side originally, not commonly played on the radio. Pink Cadillac.

Debbie was wise enough to know there were branches of physics yet to be discovered, and resonant frequencies which bridged the divide between space and time. Which is why, she couldn’t help feeling someone might be sending her a coded message. Who?

Who indeed.

Gasoline and Matches Part-10

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Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-10

Lyndy Life Observation: A man applied for employment at the V-P Roadhouse. His resume listed one of his previous occupations as: “Technical Director for Rapid Human Ejection.” I asked Mr. Potts what that meant and he answered without skipping a beat, “fancy term for bouncer.”

Lyndy used the rifle as a defensive bo-staff, countering each strike and preventing Block from slicing her. He lunged forward as Lyndy bent at the hips, ducking low and kicking with max force at his wrist. Even this blow didn’t dislodge the Rambo knife. Instead, Block’s torso tipped sideways, only serving to knock him off balance. He recovered quickly, but Lyndy continued to fight.

Backing up a step, Lyndy planted the ball of her left foot to brace herself. Because the weapon wasn’t an ideal proxy for a bo, it felt unbalanced, more akin to a broomstick. Adjusting her grip to be nearer the center of mass, with a tighter grasp, Lyndy exercised her fingers.

The hot blood staining Block’s shirt continued expanding. She had to give him some props. He wielded the knife as a trained professional. He was a tough opponent with a high pain tolerance; most men would shrivel up from such a gaping wound.

In her periphery, Lyndy sensed more motion at the building, the front door having been knocked wide open. Sergei appeared holding something tubular on his shoulder. At first, she assumed it was a shotgun, but a second glance revealed it was way too large in circumference to be that. The Tug stalled at last and the motor died.

Lyndy and her foe circled slowly in a clockwise direction.

Repeatedly she tested Block, stamping her foot closer to him as though going in for a quick kill. Her motivations were in testing his response. At first, he showed no reaction, only the permanent crazed look on his face. Block easily ignored the bait, observing her movements like a disciplined boxer. His patience belied strength and one hell of a reach. She did it again, altering her pattern. Once within striking distance, he slashed the knife in a blow that would’ve cut deep into her knee. Except she’d pulled away in the nick of time.

Block’s eyes weren’t tracking as well as before, not like the rest of him. He took another downward slash, almost straight at her in a karate chop motion. Deflecting this with the center of the rifle, Lyndy felt her bones rattle. The sound of the knife impacting the dull finish of the gun created an unnerving clashing of swords sound. Then twisting the rifle by 90 degrees, she smashed the stock against Block’s chin. He seemed not to have registered the oncoming blow, but as soon as it hit him, he appeared dazed.

Twisting the gun again, Lyndy rammed the muzzle into his stomach. As Block doubled forward, she side-kicked her boot into his rib cage—which felt like kicking a telephone pole. Next, she windmilled the stock so it slammed into the side of Block’s head. Amazingly, he still wouldn’t go down. He tried to kick her, but she caught and deflected his foot easily using both her fists cupped together. She knew the tide was turning.

Shifting her attention momentarily onto Sergei, she felt dismayed seeing him aiming a bazooka at the Coleman Tug. That was smart. Without that exotic vehicle, her plan to tear down the dozer-shovel gate would fail. She tried to think fast. In the corner of her eye, she sensed Block bending his good arm back. Making an educated guess he was throwing his bowie knife, she dove with the speed of a fox onto a rabbit hole, dropping the gun and flopping to a push-up stance.

The knife sailed over her body, another twelve or so feet beyond and finally lodged in the hamstring of Sergei. Leaning on an elbow, Lyndy rotated to one side, waiting to see what would happen next. The result, was Sergei had been in the act of firing his RPG as his spine contorted.

Block froze in shock at having wounded his comrade. She used this fractional second and the sandy soil to execute a round-house kick—her strongest—knocking Block in the temple. The blow expelled bloody mucus from his open jaw as Block collapsed into a heap on the soil. His eyes shut. Maintaining balance, she landed back on her feet without toppling.

Because reflexively, Sergei’s leg muscles stiffened and he recoiled in agony, his back tweaked past 90 degrees. His careful aim was thrown way off. Instead of propelling straight at the Tug, the rocket fired at an upward trajectory. With a fiery blast and a blinding bright orange glow, the projectile launched on an arc whisking high across the road and continued gaining altitude. Somewhere beyond the nearby housing, it reached an apex, then continued on a parabolic track back toward a dry wash between neighborhoods.

Lyndy knew two types of grenades: the kind which exploded upon impact with a solid object and the type with a timing fuse. She didn’t know which this was. On the other hand, she knew the fight would continue regardless of where the grenade fell.

Collectively the three of them held their breath. They all were thinking: “Yikes! That’s not good.”

As soon as it landed in the dry ditch, the rocket detonated—meaning the impact kind. The blast was deafening and absurdly bright to a human eye adapted to the darkness. The dry foliage in the wash exploded in fire, torching all the smoke trees and a number of protected Joshua trees.

Sergei whipped around to face Lyndy with rage in his small eyes. Ignoring the knife wound in his leg, he raced at her like an angry bear. Lyndy did the same, and for an instant they ran toward one another like two locomotives on a collision course. When he was within range, Sergei threw a full body punch, aiming straight at her face. The blow would’ve killed her, but Lyndy blocked it by raising her elbows and rotating at the hips. With her other leg, she sprang off the ground and windmill kicked Sergei in the chin. While he was stunned, she uncapped the bear spray in her pocket. Pulling the pin and hitting the trigger, she marked a thick line right across his eyes and nose.

Instinctively Sergei put both hands up to cover his face, bellowing in agony. The bowie knife was the type with a blood gutter. Lyndy rolled into a crouch. Gripping the handle as tightly as she could in her right hand, she yanked the knife horizontally out of Sergei’s thigh.

Next, she elbowed him behind the knees, causing him to double over.

Meantime the third driver—the one who’d been originally in the overalls—exited the building. This time, the attacker had a real pump-action shotgun. He immediately aimed the gun at Lyndy and Sergei, resting it on his shoulder in a hunter’s stance. Before his finger could pull the trigger, Lyndy chucked the knife she was holding as hard as he could.

It sailed through the air, lodging in the man’s belly, near his beltline. The knife plunged so deeply in his gut, only the handle showed. A state of shock came over him. The fellow dropped the gun. Flailing desperately to remove the knife in a clumsy motion, he fell against the wall. Within seconds his body become limp. He collapsed in a heap.

Sergei soon went fleeing for the BMW, holding his cheeks. He was waddling as fast as his legs could carry him, given the injury to his thigh. Without even shutting his car door, he fired it up and spun the wheels to accelerate away. “What a sissy,” thought Lyndy. A real warrior would’ve checked on his comrades.

Pulling the Berretta, Lyndy checked on Block. He wasn’t moving.  She’d expected him to be faking unconsciousness. Holding steady, catching her breath with a bead on his head for half a minute, she waited for something to happen. Nothing did. She approached his limp body and gave him a nudge to the groin. There was no response.

Hurriedly, Lyndy checked herself for unfelt injuries while attempting to calm her nerves. In the intense heat of battle, it was easy not to notice having been hit. But all she felt pain wise was the ache in her bones, from a car accident and fighting much larger men.

Distantly she heard sirens, snapping her from the momentary calm. The Spitfire ran for the Tug, knowing she needed to get it started.

With a hint of optimism that it would restart, Lyndy retrieved heavy cargo chains from the storage area under the hitch. She heaved one coil of 3/8 chain over each shoulder and marched to the pneumatic fence. Alone, the coils weighed over 40 pounds.

Trudging through the dirt, with her ankles and thighs straining at the mass, she looped the chain over each corner of the barrier. Then, shrugging the weight, Lyndy shifted into a tug-o-war stance. Using this method, yanking and pulling, she squirmed like a fish until both were taught. With a snatch hook, she clipped them into the tow hitch on the front bumper of the Tug.

Now she just needed the damn thing to start.

But of course, it didn’t. This time when she turned the key, the starter buzzed but the motor wouldn’t turn over. She tried again, twisting the key and pressing the cutch pedal flat with her entire weight, using her wrists to push on the roof. NADA! Buzzing but no joy. Exhaling, she let her forehead slam onto the wheel. The flex plate or something in the rain of gunfire must’ve become mis-aligned. And the sirens were getting louder. Probably fire trucks to put out the small brush fire in the wash, before it spread to homes or the surrounding areas. Hopefully they were pre-occupied.

Hopping out, she grabbed for a hammer and bounced on the ground. Rolling under the car, Lyndy located the starter and gave it a good sharp THWACK. The gong sound rang her ears. Pitching back and rolling into the clear, she climbed up to the cab.

This time the primitive motor cycled over. Coughing and sputtering, the diesel roared to life. The chugging of the diesel, normally an irritant—like someone making a motorboat with their lips—was music to hear ears.

A part of her feared the snapping chains would let fly, becoming deadly projectiles and pinching her head off. But no time to worry about such low probability events. Sooty exhaust puffed like a volcano into the air as the engine rattled. With its herculean pulling power, the massive pneumatic shovel blade began to tip forward, pulling out huge concrete pylons from the ground beneath it. The pylons were like the root balls of a massive oak. Once they’d been liberated from the soil, the rest of the gate mechanism came tumbling forward.

The gates to the city had fallen. Now Vikings were running amok through the heart of Paris. And Godzilla met his match.  

45 minutes later…

A string of lights floated in the sky—like glowing orbs—representing the long line of Southwest planes approaching Ontario. All waiting for a runway.

Chan would’ve called it her greatest hat trick ever. She wished he were still alive. She would’ve loved rolling up to his trailer, cracking a beer or two and regaling him with her tales of battle. He probably would’ve called her “Melinda” and done one of his trademark: “Huh, huh, huh,” deep laughs. Nowadays she missed those.

She kept smiling, and a few times she laughed into the wind.

Though her confidence soared, The Spitfire still checked her mirror about a hundred times between the town of J-Tree and Banning pass.

The surge of pure energy from a victory of epic proportions began waning as she approached the base of the San Bernardino’s and Highway 18.

Other than survival, nothing much was on her mind. Until now.

Soon Lyndy began pondering, “Just what type of valuable, case-breaking clues were in this car for which she’d risked life, limb and the future success of her offspring?” A crummy Jetta would not be worthy.

A simple glance behind the seat suggested nothing of substance. A wrapper for a candy bar and a Diet Coke can the only items reflecting in the scant shine of streetlights.

A sinking feeling began to settle in the bottom of stomach. “híjole!” Lyndy mouthed, with a sigh. Before taking this thing up the hill, she decided to give it a once over.

Next morning …

Lake Arrowhead CA, 1990s

Lyndy Life Observation: On a summer afternoon Rickman was busy working underneath his Cobra Jet Mercury in the side yard. Must’ve been 90 degrees or more, cause I was wearing a bathing suit top and cutoff shorts. He needed a different size wrench, and I kept circling back and forth to the garage bringing him the wrong one. Obviously, I didn’t know fractions to save my life. He was very frustrated with me but trying to stay patient and not look like an A-hole. He was like: “No Lyn, listen carefully, this is an 11/64, I obviously need a 3/16.” Finally, I go to the garage and drag his entire 165-pound tool bin, containing every earthly wrench he owns across the driveway, the lawn and into the side yard.

As she came to, Lyndy heard strange voices emanating from a TV set. She knew she must be crashed out on the rustic loveseat, cause every damn sofa in this cabin stunk for sleeping. Compact design and oversize pine logs serving as arm-rests, meant her ankles and feet were simply dangling in space. Placing her fists on her eyes, Lyndy rubbed the sockets with her knuckles.

Every muscle and joint ached. She knew it wasn’t only the fighting that did it, rather the terrible wreck when the truck plowed into the brick building. Her body slamming against an unpadded metal dash—that’ll do it alright.

Letting her head slump rightward against her shoulder, she could see the TV was on a network station, running a popular daytime talk show. Today’s topic scrolled at the bottom edge of the screen: My husband is a truck driver; I just found out he secretly has another family across state lines. Which might have been amusing, if not for hitting close to home. Dr. Ellis did in fact have an entirely separate family, whom he’d been neglecting. Although they lived in Riverside, with Becky—the alpha wife.

Reaching out to the rectangular oak coffee table, Lyndy closed her fingers around the Costco-size bottle of liquid Advil. Beyond this, the wall of windows opened to a magnificent view overlooking the lake. Mid-morning sun streamed down on the lake, making it shine.

A moment of, “oh dear god, I think I’m a mom! Where is my baby?” swept over Lyndy. I mean, seriously, where is my baby?

But all was well. Refocusing a bit closer, she could see Mari Ellis safely corralled in her pack-n-play, surrounded by baby toys, a teddy bear and her favorite blanket. She’d been busy with one of those rainbow wire spaghetti toys containing the wooden beads one could move around. That chaotic invention could keep a baby occupied for an hour or two.

It was like an abacus, but for math on an inter-dimensional level. Hmmm.

Seeing her mommy awake, Mari ceased her activities, then commenced staring at her while teething on her soft foam giraffe. The look-through-you with blue eyes stare.

Lucky for that pack-n-play thing too. God knows what would’ve happened without it. Maribel Ellis smiled to her mother, then resumed the all-important task of moving a bead from one end of the spaghetti to the other.

Twisting the cap on the Advil, Lyndy dumped four of the capsules into her mouth, swallowing them dry.

“Mommy had a rough night okay,” whispered Lyndy, a hoarseness in her voice.

Over at the kitchen island, lunch sat untouched. Mari had neglected a meal of steamed carrots, chicken cubes and elbow pasta. Lyndy couldn’t remember even cooking that. Geez.

A spark of resentment stirred inside. “Do you know when I was a kid I had like 2 toys?” Lyndy remarked to Maribel. “Now look at this place.”

She’d need to do a little vacuuming before Kyle returned from his business trip.

Compared to growing up an orphan in East LA, this love child enjoyed a life of pure luxury. Maribel Ellis dined on fancy food from boutique grocery stores, she had a top-of-the-line car seat, a similarly space age stroller and slept in a beautiful crib made of yellow oak. The crib itself had clean, crisp sheets.

By contrast, in one of her earliest memories, Lyndy Martinez awoke covered in biting ants, since her mattress was always on the floor and the insects had been attracted to cake crumbs she’d been eating when falling asleep.

Lyndy knew it was petty to resent Maribel for not having to suffer. Logically she didn’t want her child to suffer. Of course not. But it was annoying feeding this baby the equivalent of a three-course meal, then watching it go cold.

She heard footsteps on the stairs.

Lyndy froze. Maribel did the same, pausing mid-activity. Too early for Kyle. Both of them stared at the landing where the stairs connected to the kitchen. Even Mari knew it wasn’t daddy, or she would’ve been shouting the word “DADA” over an over.

“Hello?” The voice of Helen Mason echoed from the hallway stairs. “Lyndy Martinez? Are you here?”

A panic set in as her eyes bugged out.  “What was Helen doing here? Aye caramba!”

The kitchen and living room were an absolute disaster zone. The ape exhibit at the zoo was a cleaner, tidier environment to have friends over and Lyndy had no time. Worse, she had visible bruising showing on her arms and face, no time to apply makeup. Even worse, she actually wanted Helen Mason to like her, thus caring how things looked. This was completely unexpected.

Did they have some coffee date she’d forgotten? And why hadn’t she locked the door? Foolish! Lyndy checked her watch.

Helen’s profile appeared near the top of the stairs, looking perfect as ever. She had a purse with a brand logo Lyndy couldn’t even pronounce. Something like HPHFO—apparently, they were expensive. Her sporty headband matched her leg warmers, and her spandex pants hugged her hips perfectly.

There was nothing to do but spectate in the slow-motion train wreck.

“I was coming back from yoga class and I saw this strange car in the driveway, where your vintage Mustang usually is. And I thought, you know—that’s sort of off. Maybe I ought to pop in and check if everything is okay.” Helen had been still coming up the second flight of stairs while saying all this. “And the front door was open … and ….”

Pausing for a breath or two, Helen slowly took in the top floor scene. The many dirty dishes. The uneaten food on the counter. Lyndy, sprawled out on the couch in a blood-splattered tank-top and panties. A metal baseball bat on the floor beside her.

“Oh my … how awful! Lyndy…,” the look of horror showed on Helen’s face. Bracing herself on the counter so she wouldn’t collapse, Helen stammered for the right words. “Oh, sweet, sweet girl, you’ve been assaulted!” Helen’s head swiveled as she took in the mess. “And in your own home.”

“No, no, Helen,” Lyndy jumped up to correct, wishing she had a robe or something to cover up. She poked the mute button the TV remote. “I’m totally okay.”

Explaining that, if anything, she’d been the one who’d done most of the “assaulting” seemed like fanning the flames. Probably the wrong thing to say in a time like this. First order of business was to prevent Helen from dialing 911 on the wall phone.

Gasoline and Matches Part-4

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Note the original Skyway Fantasyland station in the back near those pine trees. If you’ve been to Disneyland in the last 30 years or so, the change in this view is remarkable. Fun Fact: As a toddler I rode Dumbo and cried because the ride went so high in the air. -ASC

Gasoline and Matches: A Lyndy Martinez Story, Part-4

Wonder Valley, CA 1990s

 Lyndy Life Observation: The absolute dumbest, bottom-of-the-barrel episode of The Brady Bunch had to be when Mike Brady installed that payphone next to the kitchen. Then later, there was some sort of afterhours business deal requiring Mr. Brady’s input, and of course he didn’t have enough change for the call. Couldn’t see that plot twist coming.

Arriving at the screen door, Debbie hesitated. She removed her hat, raking her curly hair away from her face, breathing a deep sigh. Half her water was used up and her hiking shirt was drenched in sweat. She knew she smelled awful.

Despite the fact the miner’s cabin appeared to be occupied, she still hadn’t detected any signs of motion from inside. No footsteps on the floor boards. No rustling of curtains.

The cabin included a shaded cement porch. This area had been swept clean of sand with a broom resting against a two-by-four, supporting the eve of the roof. Whomever lived here cared about this place. Course there weren’t any chairs to sit upon, but one of those plastic crates had been inverted. Presumably this was the exact spot where the cabin’s owner relaxed to take in the view.

Glancing to the water tank, mounted on stilts, she could see clear water dripping from a leaky spigot. This scant trickle had nourished hollyhock plants growing around it. Bees were buzzing near the large blooms or drinking from the puddle in this otherwise desiccated scene. Every once in a while, she heard the unmistakable hum of a hummingbird’s wings. How they survived out here she couldn’t guess.

She reached for the handle on the screen door, pulling it toward her. Like any screen door, it screeched in a most ear-buggering fashion, pivoting on rusty hinges and an overused spring mechanism. Behind the screen was a regular door, with most of its lead paint flaking away to bare woodgrain.

“Uh, hello?” Debbie called out, as she pounded a fist on the door.

Something similar to this happened in many a cheesy drive-in movie, and even in the famous Rocky Horror Picture Show, cept in the latter case that was a rainy night. Which sure would be nice.

When no one answered, Debbie cupped her fingers onto the latch handle and tested it. It turned. Pressing it about 45 degrees down, she felt the catch releasing from the frame. She assumed next she would just push it open. But then the face appeared.

This dude could’ve given the HBO “Crypt Keeper” a jump scare. His hair was ghostly white and so were his eye balls from untreated cataracts. He had wrinkles all over his face and huge liver spots on his arms.

Acting on pure instinct, Debbie reeled back off the porch. Then she noticed the 16-gauge shot gun in his hand. He gripped it in his left like one would carry a pipe wrench. Even the spot where his hand rested was noticeably shiner because the finish had worn off. When he gazed at her, his eyes were pointed roughly 30 degrees from center. Probably this was to “see around” his horrendous cataracts.

“H-H-H Howdy,” Debbie stammered. Was this a nightmare or reality she wondered?

“Nance, is that you?” asked the elderly man.

“Nance?” Debbie looked over her shoulder. Obviously, no one was standing behind her.

“Uh. My name is Debbie.”

You know that smell old people have? And the unexplained wheezing of someone in the normal course of breathing. Grandma Kowalski, when meeting a man in this condition would’ve made one of her snide remarks. Something like: “this gentleman has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.”

Debbie pointed a finger far off in the distance. A tiny glint represented the windshield of her stuck Jeep, reflecting into the haze. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. I’ve had a breakdown a couple miles down the road.”

Again, it was difficult to tell whether he was looking at her, something in the horizon or a phantom of someone named Nance who wasn’t there.

Debbie forced her lips to curl into a smile. “You wouldn’t happen to have a phone, would you?”

“Why don’t you come in?” offered the man with a nod. Then he did an about face.

Something smelled off. But she figured everything smelled off. The situation was off.

“Pardon the clutter,” muttered the fellow, as he shuffled toward the kitchen. Indeed, rusty cans, old newspapers, mail and just about anything else littered the floor so that one could only pass in a narrow trench across the room. Even his jeans were coated in dust, looking as if they were last washed when Eisenhower was still president.

Letting the screen door slam behind, Debbie stepped across the threshold into what must be the entry and a one-time sitting room. She watched as the man set his gun against the wall, stock resting on the floor, in a position where it could easily fall over.

Passing through an archway and rounding the corner into the kitchen, her gaze fell upon the fifties style round kitchen table. In the nook, next to the window, her eyes caught sight of something which registered as a Halloween decoration. You know those life-size witches sold at big-box hardware stores? Families who were way too into Halloween put those in a chair on their porch, next to the bowl of candy. Sometimes they’d take it one step further, putting this witch’s fake rubbery hand into the bowl.

That’s what her brain told her she was seeing. Textbook movie scare. She almost began to laugh, and her rational person’s response would’ve been: “Nice decorations dude. Very amusing.”

Then she felt her internal organs spasm. Her heart ceased pumping, and her lungs involuntarily seized, making her gasp. “What the F is that?” Grabbing a fistful of her flannel shirt, Debbie pulled it over her mouth and nose, squinting her eyes. She began to gag, and if she’d had any food in her stomach she would’ve vomited right up.

“Oh sorry,” commented the man. “Ought to have warned you about that.” He stopped in his tracks, making that wheezing sound as he breathed. He stood perfectly still, almost in reverence.

You know how skin begins to dry and turn brown in the weeks and months after death. It becomes brittle, the texture of rawhide. Well probably you don’t. And why would you? But that’s what happens.

“That there is my late wife, Patty Sue. She passed about a year ago now,” he said, with a touch of sadness in his calm voice. “Haven’t had the heart to bury the old gal.”

Debbie’s legs felt weak and she lowered into a crouch. With both hands over her eyes, wishing she would wake up she began to whisper. “How … long … were … you … married,” she managed through gritted teeth. Then her coughing continued.

“Forty-three years,” said the old man proudly.

With her sense of balance restored, Debbie began gaining control of her gag reflex. She studied the partially mummified body before her. The dry air must’ve stemmed the decay. Course, the ladies’ eyes were totally gone, just black holes in the skin.

“You must be thirsty,” said the fellow. “How bout a Yoo-Hoo?”

“Is it cold?”

“No,” he answered bluntly. With a shaky hand he opened one of the lower cabinets. Inside was indeed a shelf full of Yoo-Hoo bottles with the yellow cap. “Lot’s of people think Yoo-Hoo is chocolate milk, but it’s not. It’s a chocolate drink—never goes bad.”

Lake Arrowhead, CA 1990s

Lyndy Life observation: Cathy Cookson’s mother once claimed to have cut back to just 2 cigarettes per day during her pregnancy with Cathy—for the sake of the baby.

Funny thing about stress dreams, they could take a wide variety of forms: from rabid dogs chasing you through misty woods, to accidentally driving your car off a series of cliffs, to having to perform a complex speaking part in a play at a crowded theater. But somehow you never even agreed to be in a play. Like how the hell did you get here? Was this Carnegie Hall? When did you sign up for this?

In this case it was learning a tricky dance number, a type of synchronized performance which could be surprisingly stressful. She was training for a show with Rochelle Bishop, a woman whom she always felt she needed to impress. In spite of how hard Lyndy tried, she couldn’t master the moves. Rochelle was becoming frustrated. And it pained Lyndy not being able to duplicate something Rochelle considered a basic step. This lesson was taking place in a darkened room backstage at a dance hall, lit by kerosene lamps in a non-descript frontier town. She had one of those big ruffled dresses with the corset—whole nine yards. And Rochelle was in her thirties, not having aged appropriately, or at all. For that matter, Lyndy was young too, maybe 28. Which made zero sense.

Why were her feet not listening to her brain? With each repetition, she only managed to find new ways of stumbling and messing up. She could hardly control her body and even intelligible speech became a struggle.

She could hear little kids giggling inappropriately. Why would children be laughing with the mirth of a kid on the swings reaching unsafe heights.? How come toddlers were even allowed in the dance hall or in any way witnessing this? Then she thought she detected Maribel’s giggling voice, with a kind of spittle sound and her chubby little fingers clapping.

Her brain circuits started firing. Wait, the dance lesson was a dream! Rochelle criticizing her ability was all imagined, but the laughter was not. It was mid-afternoon and she’d dozed off in a public place. The children were real.

Squeezing both hands to cover her face, Lyndy sat up. Her rapid rise frightened off the pigeons and most ducks, but as one of them took flight, it carried away the remaining portion of her fast-food chicken strips. The birds had encroached on her picnic, scattering her fries, dipping sauce and even poking at her chocolate cake from the desert counter.

“Shit!” Lyndy cursed, brushing off some feathers and loose French fries. She’d fallen asleep in a quaint little park adjacent to the lake. It was one-thirty on a sunny afternoon.

As her eyes adjusted, she could see children on the swings. They’d been laughing at the birds, who managed to peck and swipe most of her lunch. Lyndy frowned at them. Then she glanced at Mari, who was smiling ear to ear.

“Excuse me, it’s not funny. Why didn’t you scare off the ducks?” Lyndy demanded.

Mari’s expression changed to one of concentration. Her intense brown eyes focused on her mother, listening and reading her mood.

“And how long was I out?”

Lyndy felt a gooey substance oozing off her forehead, threatening to leak into her eye. Reaching up with her palm, she wiped away barbecue flavor dipping sauce.

Of course, the lakeshore was lovely, the mountain air warm and dry. No wonder she’d nodded off.

“Lyndy, is that you?” A female with a youthful voice called her name.

Lyndy passed one elbow across her perm, then smoothed it back over each of her ears. Scooting closer to Mari, she folded her legs under Indian style.

“Lyndy Martinez?” repeated the woman.

Peering over her shoulder, Lyndy spotted an attractive housewife pushing a stroller on the path. One had to have a key to get into this park. It was no public beach. Only home owners technically were allowed to access the lake. Of course, Lyndy’s key came by way of Dr. Ellis.

Squinting for a better look this new arrival was a knockout, probably thirty-one or so. Though dressed as a housewife, her snazzy outfit passed for peak fashion in this town: stonewashed jeans (baggy of course), a chunky knit sweater tied in front and what could only be described as “Martha Stewart hair”. This chick could go from walking her kid around the block, to raising the sails on a vintage boat, to hosting a party for the PTA with just a change of shoes. Speaking of PTA, her mind probably contained sacred knowledge regarding school districts, and it would be a good guess to assume she were on a “board”.

The cheerful face seemed vaguely familiar. Sadly, Lyndy’s brain was so fried, she couldn’t place her. There were dozens of lake moms resembling her within a two-mile radius of this beach. After waking from this kind of nap Lyndy hardly knew her own name, let alone a woman she’d crossed paths with a time or two in five years.

Still, the stranger was hell bent on making conversation.

Hurriedly, Lyndy gathered her frizzy perm over one shoulder, then stuffed the chestnut-colored mess through an outsize scrunchie.

“It’s me,” said the woman. “Helen Mason”

Bracing with one arm, Lyndy pushed herself to a standing position. “Helen Mason?” Now that they were toe-to-toe, Lyndy reached out to shake the dainty hand of Helen. Lyndy wished she weren’t so disheveled, wearing mom overalls and a white blouse from K-mart. Internally she chastised herself, knowing she needed to be more careful these days. She wanted to peek into her makeup case mirror, but doing so would be impossible to disguise.

“So, this is your daughter?” questioned Helen.

“Yep, that’s the little devil baby,” Lyndy replied, still not entirely sure to whom she was speaking. Bending down, Lyndy scooped Maribel into her arms. “When that doctor told me it wasn’t bloating, I was actually pregnant, I about slapped him right off of his stool.” Maribel grinned as the young woman reached down to pinch her nose.

“Oh my gosh, she’s so precious,” declared Helen. “I think she has your hair.” Helen cleared her throat. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

Clicking her tongue and inhaling deeply, Lyndy shrugged.

“My husband works for the same engineering firm as your boyfriend.”

Of course. Now it made sense.

“Tim and I are having a few friends over on Saturday. We’ll be grilling on our deck. We’d love for you and Kyle to join us.”

“That sounds lovely,” Lyndy replied.

“Say, three o-clock?”

Just a hunch, but Helen seemed like a good source of info on preppy academies.

“Oh hey, I had a question. We are looking into private schools.”

“You mean preschool?”

“No. High School.

“Already?” Helen pretended to bump a fist into Lyndy’s shoulder. “Well, aren’t you one heck of a planner!”

“Ya know how it is—college getting harder and harder to get into. With the giant brain on Kyle, little Maribel might end up being an engineer too.”

Helen grinned, her whole face shining with kindness. In this day and age, the world so cynical, Lyndy found herself doubting the authenticity of unexpected kindness. But not everyone hated her. It took a certain kind of narcissist to think so.

“Do you know anyone at Crestwood?” asked Lyndy

“Great school. Expensive. But nice. It’s down in Redlands.”

That was a valuable fact. Not as far a drive as she anticipated.

Bending down, Helen adjusted the little sailor’s cap on her own child, a precocious two-year-old boy with red hair. “Ya know what I think. Most all of us just have destinies. No sense in putting too much pressure on yourself to make Maribel into something she isn’t.”

“Good advice,” thought Lyndy.