Authors: Sandra Novack
Everyone but You
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2011 by Sandra Novack
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Random House, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
The following stories that appear in this work have been previously published:
The Baltimore Review;
The Chattahoochee Review;
“White Trees in Summer” in
The Gettysburg Review;
The Iowa Review;
“My Father’s Mahogany Leg” in
Paterson Literary Review;
“Please, If You Love Me, You Should Know What to Do” in
Palo Alto Review;
“A Good Woman’s Love” in
South Carolina Review
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Everyone but you: stories / by Sandra Novack.
PS3614.O925E94 2011 813′.6—dc22 2010053002
Jacket design: Catherine Casalino
Jacket photograph: Adrian Houston/Gallery Stock
We are not really at home in our interpreted world
—Rainer Maria Rilke
, Duino Elegies
he night I met Lola was the same night Floyd’s Used Cars seethed into an inferno. She leaned against a truck, picking pieces of cigarette filter from her tongue while firefighters ran past her, unleashing their coiled hoses and shouting to one another from under insulated coats and oxygen masks. The flames had already consumed the cars on the showroom floor, the chairs, and the rows of flakeboard desks before making an ascent, pushing through the roof and into the night air. Heavy plumes of smoke bloomed against the darkness. It was a dry August. The trees next to the car lot crackled and hissed. Brittle leaves ignited and then floated down around Lola like fireflies.
I felt the heat—intense, raw—I smelled the smoke adrift in the moonless sky, I sensed the possibilities. So when Lola drifted across the car lot to where I stood watching, when she breezily
ran her hand over my crotch and said, “I’ve always loved a quick blaze, Lucius,” I said, “Yes.”
I guessed Lola was no more than twenty. In the firelight, her eyes appeared turquoise green, pale like smooth sea glass. Chunks of red hair framed her face and stopped short of her shoulders. Red hair on a girl sends me into a particular meltdown. Pleased with her self-assured groping of a stranger, pleased by my dick’s affirmative response, she smiled and then looked around, finally, at the burgeoning crowd, at the people who walked out from their monotonous half-double homes across the street. A gas tank exploded. Smoke mushroomed up into the air and seemed to reflect the illusion of everything: Nothing was substantial and nothing lasted. My hands crawled along Lola’s ribs. I kissed her neck—salty, hot from our proximity to the flames. A group of frat boys lingered behind Lola and me, their drink-induced laughter rising in the air as they gave each other high fives. One of the guys, a big, dumb jock, yelled, “Bring it on. Let’s see if you really got it in you.”
Lola seemed to be weighing her possibilities. She stopped my wandering hands for a moment, holding them briefly before letting them climb to her breasts. This acquiescence made most of the frat boys whoop and holler and curse in what amounted to a real scene, the kind of full-throttled force that said anything might happen on a night like this, when a fire blazes out of control and when the city is set to unpredictable motion. Lola searched my face for something familiar. I am not a bad-looking guy. I have a beer gut, yes, but my calves and arms are rock hard. I’ve been told by my old girlfriend, Sheila, that my dark eyelashes and blue eyes send women into a frenzy. I have two years of community college under my belt, and for someone twenty-six years old, I am aware, almost painfully so, of the larger world
around me, which is more than I can say about the other guys I work with at Red Robin. I have a large Adam’s apple and am perhaps too tall and (short of the gut) lanky, but Lola was also tall, and slouchy. I considered this fortuitous at the time, a meeting of the heads, lips, and middles.
My name, by the way, is Harold.
Lola turned and stared off into the flames. Fire, it breathes, moves. Smoke suspended in the air above us, and seized my lungs. My eyes burned, watered. Sirens blazed. The windows of Floyd’s cracked and buckled. I swooned from the heat and from the close proximity of Lola. She said, “So you want a girlfriend, Lucius?”
“Not really,” I said. “Not on a full-time basis. But tonight we can pretend anything goes. Tonight I’ll be your Lucius. Tonight I already love you.” Lola looked at me strangely, and then I delighted in the burnt smell that radiated from her skin. She had small tits, but her T-shirt clung to them. She wore white shorts that showed off her legs and the rounded curve of her ass. You tell yourself it’s all about that—the ass, the tits, a certain measure of a girl that suggests she’ll be good in bed and not too much of a hassle, eating you out of house and home and taking over your bathroom, adding to the general thrust of entropy in your life. I said, “Who is Lucius, anyway?”
“I thought you said you’d be,” she told me. With a horrific boom, another gas tank exploded. Someone, I don’t know who, shouted for backup. I was not fanatical about cars—I rode a bicycle to work and told the guys at Red Robin that for Christ’s sake they should
about emissions—but a car on fire was still something to see. Metal covered by flames, paint crackling in the heat, and the effluvious vapor of oil and gas in the air caused an almost pleasant high.
“Okay,” I said finally. “I’ll be your boyfriend, and I’ll be this Lucius fellow, but only for the night.” I stayed as collected as I could, made it about what she wanted, what I wanted. I whispered to her. I said, “It’s mostly because you have great tits.”
“Please, Lucius,” she said, whispering back. “Call them breasts. And, please, call me
T MY APARTMENT
there was frantic motion as Lola breathed, “Yes.” I laid her across the bed and undressed her quickly, taking pleasure in the smoky heat that rose from her clothes and skin. Lola had an earthy smell—cumin, exotic spice—and her red hairs curled in wild, moist circles. A tattoo of a Phoenix rose up—wings spread, head twisted back—and stopped just below the mole on her belly button. I kissed every inch of her. I flipped her around to behold her, but she said
and pulled out a condom from her purse. After that things moved so quickly I felt dizzy. The world accelerated and Lola was the reason for speed—Lola and the fire—and all I could think to do to slow down was hum the
Ride of the Valkyries
“You’re kidding me,” Lola said, laughing between squeals. I hummed more. Lola pulled from me, turned over, and then brought me close to her again. Afterward, she got up and made her way, naked, to the bathroom. The air felt hot and sticky with our sex, with everything about us that seemed to fill the small room.
I lived a few blocks from Floyd’s, on the first floor of a decaying building. Pipes leaked and clanged throughout the night because the landlord, some Indian guy named Gopald Dusvehma, didn’t, as he said, fix things that weren’t broken. It was a one-bedroom efficiency with a small kitchenette. The
walls were painted the color of canned peas. I’d covered the ratty sofa with an afghan in an attempt to make things homier, but the place was really something of a shithole, and I knew it. Still, after sex, Lola stood naked, looked around, and then walked over to my bookshelf and took down a picture of my mother and father. She commented on my associate’s degree in English, tacked up on the wall. “Why didn’t you go all the way?” she asked, turning around to face me. Her nipples were rock hard, pointed like rubber nubs on a pencil. Her hip bones protruded slightly, in a pleasing way. Her body, I decided, was beautiful.
“School?” I said, shrugging. I got up, pulled on my jeans. A part of me was hoping she’d take this as a sign to leave. Nice and simple, I thought. In my experience, too much history, too much talk, and things start to go downhill. Soon she’d be asking about my parents. “I don’t know. Lazy, I guess. I got tired.”
“Interesting,” she said. She ran her hand over my collection of books. Then she placed her hands on her hips. “You know what I’m thinking?” she asked.
“I’m no mind reader.”
“I’m thinking that even in a shithole like this, Lucius, there are always possibilities.”
Did I love her then? I loved the look of her, the contours of her body—the two dimples above her ass, the line of her backbone, the unending supply of freckles that spotted her body. I could even say I loved the way the room felt with Lola in it, which is to say surprising, bright.
Lola came back to bed. She lay naked atop the covers. “Got any pot?”
“Hell, yes,” I told her.
“I figured,” she said. “I’m a very good judge of character.”
I pulled my stash of pot out from the bedside table. Lola
flicked on the television and we smoked some dope together. I was pretty supportive of
shit, I’ll tell you—the strange, pleasant feeling that only dope can give, coupled with that sense of wonder and amazement and, yes, even love. Lola inhaled. She smiled widely. The pipes clanged. She said, “What is it with your pipes, anyway?”
“Gopald Dusvehma says they aren’t broken, so what’s the problem?”
Lola snorted. She couldn’t help it. She snorted again. When she stopped, we watched the Weather Channel, the swirls of precipitation that appeared on the Doppler radar.
was something to see.