Lola: Or How I Learned to Avoid Storm Drains

My theory is that quality trumps quantity when it comes to close friendships. Honestly, how many friends does a person need? It's better to have one good one than ten that can barely tolerate me. I never had a lot, but the ones I did have would probably lay their life on the line. However, they are kind of spazzy, so they may get in the way of that oncoming bus and become road kill, but they would be there. One, in particular, was Lola.

Guiding my wheelchair towards the back of the crowded classroom, I noticed all around me young faces filing in to find a seat. Spanish was one of those prerequisite classes. It was crowded, and obvious I was the oldest at twenty-five. You went to Miami Dade Community College when you couldn't get accepted into a more respected school. Karen, who lived down the street, sat with me, but today she had brought a friend. Lola. She had a few extra pounds with natural blond hair and grey eyes. We soon realized neither one of us wanted to be in Spanish. Lola and I could have been more perceptive in the language, so we strategically sat on either side of the unsuspecting Karen when test time rolled around.

After another successful test, Karen asked Lola if she would push me to my car. She usually walked with me, but she had to be elsewhere. I was independent and didn't need help, but looking at Lola's face, it was apparent that she was a little uncomfortable with the request, so with a big smile, I told Karen, sure, why not. Let's get better acquainted. Lola didn't say a word.

It was bright and warm, even in January, as we headed toward the parking lot. Poor Lola had a white-knuckled death grip on my wheelchair handles. Trying to make conversation, I twisted my head so we could hear each other but failed to watch where she was going. Halfway through a sentence, I felt myself falling out of my chair and placing my hands in front of me so as not to do a swan dive on the sidewalk. I lay there sprawled across the pavement, not sure what happened. Oftentimes, falling from a seated position, I wouldn't sustain a mortal injury. However, you would have thought that I was mauled by a tiger. Lola stared at me with her hand over her mouth, eyes wide, unsure whether to cry or throw up. Her confusion made me laugh to the point I was in tears. She wasn't sure if I was laughing or crying.

Our predicament drew a crowd of onlookers that stared down at me, not bothering to help, just gazing like this was a botched murder attempt. Lola broke the silence when she saw the absurdity of our situation and started laughing uncontrollably. I don't recall how my butt got back in the chair, but it wasn't long before we continued to my car. Unscathed. The culprit was a storm drain. The front casters of my wheelchair became caught, which sent me flying. That day marked the beginning of a lifelong friendship where my butt would hit the ground on more than one occasion.

My twisted sister and I became notorious drinking buddies even though she was underage. A mere six years younger. She was the bad influence. On an evening out, Miss wild child sat on a bar stool while I sat next to her and killed off a bottle or two of wine. Adjacent to her stool was a lobster tank with several of the critters immobile with their claws wire tied shut. Being a good buddy and trusted pal, I became the lookout as Lola's intention was to become "Lobster Liberator" and free one of the creatures from its prison, making me a willing accomplice. Our hearts were in the right place. But unfortunately, our minds were a bit off-kilter, believing it could survive a twenty-minute drive to the beach where we would set it free and wish it well. But unfortunately, it would never have lived long enough in the bath water we call an ocean in South Florida.

No matter. We tried her dangerous plan after she sidled off her bar stool. Her coordination could have been better. A bit wobbly even in flats. We were laughing so hard we were crying, which we did a lot. It was obvious what we were up to. Believing no one was watching, Lola lifted the plastic lid off the tank. She grabbed one, tossing it on my lap, soaking my jeans, and we high-tailed it to the elevator, trying to stifle our laughter. While we waited, I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. Slowly turning my chair to face our pursuer, I looked up. A burly bald man in a dark suit stood glaring down at me. Holding out his meaty hand, I peered down. The medium-sized sea bug that dampened my lap with rank sea water began to wriggle. The initial shock must have worn off. I gingerly handed the creature to the large man in the black suit clutching his two-way radio. "We just wanted to set it free," Lola slurred. He said nothing, just turned on his heel with the dripping, suffocating, pissed-off lobster.

We had epic sleepovers at my apartment to get in trouble in my neck of the woods, Coconut Grove. We had a small theater down the street that played the Rocky Horror Picture Show. We single-handedly kept them in business, unable to recall how many times we participated in throwing toast and rice and squirting the rest of the costumed crowd with water pistols.

At her house, I was a fixture for all holidays, including Arbor Day. No matter what time of year, Lola and her mother would haul me up the two narrow stairs to her home and drink vats of wine. This was the modus operandi for us, and almost everyone else dragged into our booze-fueled shit show. I had become the disabled daughter of a former public school music teacher and a big sister to Lola. Her real sister lived in New York. They were all blond and Latvian. Her father, who also resided in New York, referred to Lola as Embryo.

She married about a year or two after me. Her future husband was a stranger to the area, so we convinced my ball and chain to be his best man. To eventually spend weekends in domestic bliss playing cards and Pictionary in each other's homes. By the time she started having kids, I was getting divorced, making me an official auntie.

Even before I was hired, she was a public school teacher that escaped the horrors of being an educator by drowning in drink. Which just made the job more difficult and painful. For over thirty years, we would also "toast" to our divorces and relationships that all went down in flames. Yes, you could say we had an association based on self-medicating, but it was more than that. It was based on mutual desperation brought on by liquid courage. Neither one of us liked ourselves sober, not at all.

Our inebriated friendship took a turn when I remarried at fifty and found that booze wasn't the center of my universe. We would go for months or years without seeing each other, but when we did, it was like we were never apart. Lola had remarried but wasn't as lucky as I. Boozing was still at the top of her to-do list, so he left. She took a fall that left her with a cracked skull and the realization THAT SHE COULD DIE!! This was a defining moment in her life and mine. I could drink just one, but it was all over for her.

We are not on Social Security... yet. I have another year. There are visits and lunches reminiscing the days of debauchery with our remaining brain cells. The good and the bad. Still laughing till we cried looking at pictures of young women we hardly recognize. Ones without wrinkles, aches, and pains, or an extra twenty pounds. The smiles didn’t change neither did the feelings we have for each other. As I watched her get into her car, a sense of relief washed over me. Grabbing the bottle of Sapphire, my shaker, and a few blue cheese olives, I hum as I make a martini. I think how proud I am that she has gone almost three years without a drop. Sobriety isn't for everyone. Especially this best friend.