Life With Lyla (Episode 3)

During the wonderful two years of ecstasy and agony that was my life
with Lyla, I learned that she was far more than dependent on sex and
alcohol. In truth, if it was a substance and she had the chance, she'd
abuse it. We wandered through trouble and turmoil as she'd embark on a
drug binge and we'd suffer the joint agony of recovering financially,
as she'd go through a period of sobriety. Her heart was good, and when
"clean &; sober" I've never met a more wonderful woman, but when the
inner demons that caused her to poison her body... well, you could see
that the demons were in control and she'd do whatever it took to feed
them and her addictions...

If cats have nine lives, then Lyla was truly related to these regal
creatures. During our time together she escaped more snares than you
would believe if I chronicled them all... but there is one that I'll
never forget, primarily because I was the vehicle of her rescue; rising
above my own courage and common sense to extricate Lyla from a
dangerous situation of her own devising...

It had been a good few weeks. We were in a "dry season" as Lyla had run
afoul of the law and had been scared into sobriety for a while. I could
always tell when Lyla was "clean and sober", she'd start eating better
and her voluptuous curves would return...

She had been suffering with a toothache for some time as well, and I
encouraged her to make a dentist's appointment. She was hesitant
because she was scared of the needle... ironic for someone who had been
known to "shoot-up", but when she was not engulfed by the hunger, she
was a more sane person.

A friend agreed to take Lyla to the dentist that day, around noon,
because I couldn't get away from the base. I would soon rue the
decision to not make Lyla make the appointment when I could take
her...

My friend called me at my desk and alerted me that Lyla had made a stop
at a local bar... she had needed a drink to calm her nerves... and
finally my friend had given up on getting her to the dentist and left
for safety sake. The bar in question was commonly known as "The Haitian
Club" and was a haven for the illegal immigrants and the local drug
connections. It was a bad place, so bad that the local sailors and
marines steered clear and if one did go in at night, he was on his
own... even the MP's wouldn't come to their rescue after dark...

So it was that little ol' me had to shirk my Naval responsibility,
going UA in the process; were I noticed missing before I got back. I
hitched a ride the nine miles to the bar and got out, still dressed in
my dungaree uniform with only a flannel shirt over the top and sans my
"Dixie Cup"... Boldly going where no man ought to go...

I entered the establishment as if I owned the place. It was dark and
dank and stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, filtered by the
sunlight that shown through the chipped paint that shrouded the
windows. To my left, four burly men sat and laughed. One sipped from
the bottle of beer and wiped his hand across his mouth. He said
something that the others thought hilarious and smiled at me, a gold
tooth gleaming in the dimly lit room.

"You shouldn't be in here," gold-tooth said. I immediately thought of
that line as I heard it in an old Chuck Norris movie. In "Code of
Silence", Chuck had said "If I want your opinion, I'll beat it out of
you."

But I wasn't Chuck and this wasn't a movie. I kept my mouth shut and
moved toward the bar. The bartender, a large man with graying hair and
scar tissue under his eyes looked me over.

"You here for the girl," he stated. It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," I answered.

"She's in the ladies room," he informed me, "you better get her out of
here... these guys have been waiting for her to pass out."

"Thanks," I said and moved toward the grungy wooden door.

"Hey Squid," one of the tough's called out, "what makes you think we're
gonna let you take her out of here?"

I stopped and turned to face the men. I don't know if it was the look
on my face or the sound of the bartender as he slammed his shotgun down
on the counter that stopped them in their tracks. Machismo likes to
think it was my "don't (mess) with me" look, but reality says it was
probably the gun...

I pushed open the door of the ladies room and saw Lyla standing
there... swaying as she washed her hands and face with water from the
grimy sink. She saw me and staggered toward me, wiping her hands on a
paper towel as she walked. She reeked of alcohol and the smell of
fresh, high-octane vomit hung in the air.

"Wha'... what are you doin'... here," she said with a tongue that was
way too thick to talk...

"Tryin' to save your ass, let's go!" I demanded.

Taking her by the hand, I led her stumbling past the quartet of would
be rapists. I nodded at the bartender and he at me; his hand rested
easily on the shotgun on his counter.

"Get goin'," he advised. It was advice I was willing to take...

Unfortunately, when you've hitchhiked to a bar, you don't have a
vehicle at your disposal to leave when you've finished your business...
so... I found myself outside the bar, in the wrong place, at the wrong
time... hell, in the wrong clothes! And with a barely conscious woman
who was steadily sliding toward an alcohol induced coma...

Then her trip was finished. I had her by the hand and I felt the moment
her knees turned to Jell-o and knew she was headed for the ground. I
caught her and carried her over my shoulder... as I walked down the
way-too-lonely highway. I was still over a mile from our
apartment.

And through it all, I still felt the rush I always felt when I touched
her... damn-it-to-hell. We were still in harm's way, and I was getting
hot! Just being in her proximity had a tangible effect on me... but I
couldn't think about that... we were still too far from home.

Then a car pulled up along side. It was our neighbor's; a couple we'd
met only recently as they had moved in a few doors down from us.

"Man, you look like you could use a lift," the driver said.

The man's wife got out, and pulled her seat forward. Together we
steered my package into the back seat... and as we did a battered old
pickup drove by slowly... the four tough-guys from the bar...
Gold-Tooth smiled and waved as I felt every muscle in my body tense...
and then with all four men laughing, the truck sped away...

We got to our apartment without Lyla puking in the car, which was
serious concern of mine, and I helped her inside. I got her to the bed,
helped her get undressed, and then made my way back to the base.

By some miracle, I hadn't been missed. Nobody was the wiser that I had
abandoned my station and damn near gotten myself killed. I had
succeeded in my mission, Lyla was safe at home once more... and a
couple of hours later, I was there with her. She was hung-over, but we
still made love. It was better for her head than a bottle of aspirin...
and better for me than life itself...

(Many times I wondered what would have happened if I hadn't been there
that day... but Lyla was charmed it seemed. She was a magnet for
danger, but there seemed to be a hero for every incident... an escape
from every trap... and happily this day it was me.)