I’M GETTING AHEAD of myself. It happens sometimes, looking back at things from a distance, that the time line of love becomes obscured; things meld together. How did I even come to wonder or to care about Lola’s background? How did we cross that mystical line, where she and I became an us?
In the week following the fire and our first, fateful encounter, Lola showed up each night at my apartment, even though I hadn’t committed, in any overt way, to letting her room with me. I’d be bone-tired after work, and she’d be standing there at the door, waiting, dressed in cut-off jean shorts, a top that clung to her. Sometimes she’d have on bohemian-type bracelets and long earrings. She’d look red hot. “Hey, we should probably get some ice cream tonight before bed,” she’d say, matter-of-factly. Or, “I brought Scrabble and a copy of Backdraft, in honor of our meeting.” Or, “Baby, we’ve got to stop running into each other like this.” She’d reach out and squeeze my arm, bite her lip, and give me a rebellious, mischievous look. After sex I’d resist having her stay the night. I told her, like a lot of guys my age, I didn’t necessarily want a girlfriend or a roommate; I pretty much just wanted to get laid. I explained that sex was one of the great motivating forces in life. “Sex and food,” I said. “Just watch Animal Planet sometime and you’ll see what I mean.”
She thought I was joking. She said, “Don’t tell me I’m not the best thing that’s happened to you all year.” She was right. By the end of the first week, she was cleaning out my closets and moving in her things. By the second week she had keys and was painting the walls because she claimed to be allergic to drab surroundings. Every night when I came home from work she’d make dinner and light candles. My professed need for only sex and food aside, it was hard to deny the benefits of Lola’s entrance into my life. The place began to feel like a home. She even brought her goldfish, Boo, over from the dorm room. “Boo isn’t safe with that lunatic fucker of an ex-roommate of mine,” she said. She wanted to know how I reacted to animals. She tapped her finger on the glass bowl. “I learned in my psychology class that most deviant people don’t relate well to pets,” she said. “Can you please tell me your thoughts on that?”
“It’s not a pet,” I told her. “It’s a goldfish.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, like she was noting this. “Having a fish is no different than having a dog or a cat or a new boyfriend or girlfriend, you know. If you’re not going to learn how to take care of them, if you’re not going to give them the proper conditions in which they can thrive, then you don’t have any business having them in the first place. In that case you might as well be like my ex-roommate or boyfriend, both of which are some serious fuck-ups, Lucius.”
“I started out alone,” I remind her. “Happily.”
“Didn’t we all start out alone?” she said. “Happily?”
I tried to be reasonable about all this. I stopped asking her to leave when it became clear she had no intention of leaving anyway. I stopped resisting her affections when it was clear that resistance only made her desire stronger. That’s the kind of girl Lola was. I pushed her away but she persisted and hung on and made me love her.
I’d heard that romances were sometimes born under extreme, hostile conditions, which I suppose is how things went with Lola. After Floyd’s, and in those weeks when Lola and I were reconfiguring our boundaries, fires sprang up all across the city. The blazes were set in the dead hours of night. The police began referring to the culprit as the “Lunar Pyro,” since the person set the fires during those occasions when the moon was full and beamed down and grew diffuse amid the artificial lights of the city, those same nights when crime in general rose and sirens sounded in urgent ways.
Lola and I followed the story. One night in September we sat and listened to the latest news report on the Pyro’s antics out on Third Street, where a small Mexican restaurant had been set ablaze. Hearing this, Lola shook her head in disbelief and bit into the apple she was holding. She tucked her legs under her and turned to face me. “Lunar Pyro,” she said. “It really doesn’t have much pizzazz, does it?”
I agreed in an absent way, thinking how good Lola looked eating an apple, how in her hands and against her full lips an apple became a thing of beauty. “You know the type Lunar Pyro is?” she continued, chewing. “He’s probably your average Joe, the type you’d never expect, seemingly pleasant, oh sure, but a man who holds a grudge against not just a single person, but against the entire world.”
“Hm,” I said. “Can I have a bite?”
“Get your own.”
I went to the kitchen and retrieved an apple. When I came back to the couch, Lola turned off the TV and tossed the remote on the table. She gave me a curious expression. She said, “Why do you ride a bike, anyway, Lucius? That’s what I want to know.”
“Harold, Lola. I’ve told you before to call me Harold.”
“Okay, Harold. So why the bike?”
“Environmental protest.”
She raised her wonderfully expressive eyebrows. “Really.”
“Somewhat,” I said. “Also I don’t have a ton of cash. Do you know what gas costs these days?”
“Next question,” she said. “Have you ever been in love? I mean, before me.”
“Well, there was Sheila,” I said. “She was pretty hot.”
Lola studied me intently. She waited.
“Anyway,” I told her, “I’ve never been in love.”
“I believe you, because it’s very obvious. My last boyfriend was in love all the time. He was what we’d call a romantic. But you, you’re different. You’re terrified of real love. Trust me, I know it when I see it. It’s like looking in the mirror.”
“Okay.” I bit my apple.
“But the thing is, everyone should at least have some sort of story. Love, unrequited love, broken love, the search for love, recovery efforts, you know, stuff like that. And if you don’t have it, well, then, you’ve got to make shit up because the world requires conflict and heartache.”
What was I to say? I shrugged.
“You know what I think? You set the fires. You, Lucius, are the Lunar Pyro.”
“Get out of here,” I said. “I’m not a pyromaniac. I’m a comic-maniac, maybe.”
“True,” she said. “But let’s pretend anyway. You set the fires because your girlfriend—let’s name her Bertha—the light of your life, the fire of your loins, broke your heart, and when she left, something deep within you died. It’s the fires that make the pain go away for a time. Think of it, Lucius, the blaze, the energy, the excitement of it all. It makes you forget that you’re heartbroken.”
I turned toward her. “So what’s Bertha like?” I asked. “Is she at least a hottie?”
Lola rolled her eyes. “What does it matter?” She thought for a while, before continuing. “Fine. Bertha Copeland, twenty-one, blond hair, short legs, a little stocky—frankly, Lucius, I’m surprised at you—but generally soft-spoken, lacking backbone. It’s a wonder she had the nerve to break up with you in the first place, the few prospects that she has. She’s really rather quite homely, now that I think about it, but her ugliness has fostered in her a good soul, a kind disposition, and that’s what you loved.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did. Pay attention.”
“Was she good in bed?”
“Hardly. But she had a way of looking at you after sex, you know, a meeting of the souls or something like that.”
“Interesting,” I said. “I’m starting to get horny. Can I call you Bertha?”
Lola flushed with embarrassment. She shook her head. She picked up the dictionary from the coffee table and opened to a random page: “Effluvious,” she said.
“Effluvious,” I said.
“It’s wonderful when you do that.”
“What?” I asked.
“Play along.”
AFTER THAT I STARTED taking Lola out on bona fide dates. Movies, art shows held on campus, dinners at the Red Robin. By mid-October she was officially my girlf
riend and I’d begun, for the first time in my life, to think of a life with Lola that spanned out beyond our exultant fucking. I realized that in Lola’s presence I was becoming a better person. It began to feel that our meeting was fated. I talked about going back to school. I thought eventually I could get a better job, and Lola and I might even get a small place with a yard and a dog. In actual conversation, though, I limited the scope of such thinking. I talked about what we might do for a New Year’s celebration, or how the following summer we might go to the beach for the weekend. When I discussed these things, I tried to ignore the look that overcame Lola, as well as the certain phlegmatic “maybe” she issued in response.
“So what’s the status update on us?” I asked one rainy day while we sat together at the Red Robin, sharing a sundae. Lola looked out the window to the dreary cityscape. “I mean,” I added, “do you have plans to take off to France anytime soon, get on the right side of the tracks?”
She glanced back at me then, picked up her spoon, and dug into the sundae. “ ‘Us,’ ” she said. “Weren’t you the one opposed to the notion of an ‘us’?”
“Initially,” I said. “But then I started working to support your orange juice cravings.”
“Okay,” she agreed too easily. “So there’s an us; but remember, two beings can’t share the same space at the same time. We’re not fused together or anything, Lucius. This isn’t like Harold and Maude, after all.”
“For the twentieth time, Lola, my name is Harold.”
She shifted. She pushed the sundae forward, toward my side of the table. “Lucius adds some distance to things,” she said. “Sometimes I find I require it.”
“Oh, you require distance? I thought you wanted a real boyfriend.”
“I wanted a place to crash initially,” she said. “Then it got complicated.”
“Right. Like your girlfriend begins evasive maneuvering just when you agree to care. Isn’t that always the way it is?”
She thought for a while. “Fine, Harold,” she said. “I’ll be your Maude. Still, a girl’s got to protect her heart, regardless.”
“Huh,” I said. I looked out the window. I waited.
She rummaged around in her purse, pulled out her keys. She got up. She left the bill, leaned in, and kissed me. “See you later, gator. I’ve got a date with Voltaire.”
“OH, YOUNG LOVE!” my mother exclaimed when I called and told her I didn’t understand women. It was probably then, at the moment I solicited the advice of an elder, that I should have known I was undeniably screwed.
“Because sometimes she seems distant,” I explained. “What’s up with that?”
“Look, Harold,” my mother said in an affectionate, doting way. “I think you’ve got a good thing going here, so don’t over-think it. She’s in college and she’s smart—just like you, except she’s currently enrolled in classes.”
“Don’t push it, Mom,” I said.
She sighed. “On the subject of women and distance, buy her something nice. That’s what your father always did when I got distracted. Flowers. Cards. It’s the little things.”
“That’s it?” I asked. “That’s the solution to women?”
“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” she said.
The next day, I bought Lola red roses from the corner store. Lola beamed. “Harold!” she said.
“It was my mother’s idea,” I confessed
Lola asked if she could call my mother. They talked for an hour, mostly about what I wasn’t doing with my life. Lola said, “He’s signing up for a night class in spring.”
I could hear my mother’s relief flood the wires. When Lola got off the phone, I said, “You’re joking, right? About the class?”
Lola rummaged under the sink for a vase. She set the flowers in water. “I’m going to pay for a class. You can consider it my share of rent or groceries. You could try an English class, maybe creative writing. You know, improve your vocabulary.”
“Lola,” I protested.
“Lucius,” she said. “No arguments. I don’t like to argue. It makes me feel tense.”
“No arguments,” I said. “But thanks.”
She said, “Don’t say that, either.”
After that my mother stopped by on a regular basis, which was something she never did pre-Lola. She’d show up after work, dressed in a long skirt and ruffled blouse, her heels traded in at the end of the day for bobby socks and sneakers. She’d bury Lola in a wall of flesh. They’d sit and chat. My mother even crocheted Lola a pair of mittens. “For winter, to keep you warm,” my mother explained. “You’re so skinny,” she added, patting Lola’s shoulder. “Where’s your family, dear? Tell me, are you on your own?”
ON A COLD DAY in December, when the light filtered through the tree branches and the sun hung low and birds darted overhead, Lola and I stood once again in front of Floyd’s. Lola had been somber for a few days—I realize this now—and she suggested we walk there. The wind whipped through her hair, and she shivered. She wore mittens my mother had made her. She reached and took my hand. “You know the thing about people with criminal hearts?” she asked. “They always return to the scene of a crime. It’s usually guilt that drives them. And look,” she said, waving with her free hand at the dilapidated structure, the boarded-up window frames, the demolition trucks parked in the lot next to piles of salvaged, blackened wood, “ruins.”
Did I smell death in the air? Transformation? Probably not. It started innocently enough. She said, “Bertha worked here, didn’t she? I mean, this was the first fire you set, after all. You’ve kept the police on their toes for months now. Still, you can’t hide the truth forever.”
“Oh good,” I said, squeezing her hand. “I like this game. As I recall, Bertha is a hottie.”
Lola said nothing. She inhaled and waited. “Lucius was here that night.”
“Of course I was.”
“Not you, Harold. The real Lucius. He was here with his stupid frat brothers,” she said. “It’s been bothering me that I never told you. Lucius Lee—what a stuck-up name, right? It was a dare,” she said. “A stupid frat dare. He didn’t even care that I slept with you. He said he wasn’t in charge of my body.”
I let go of Lola’s hand. I remembered the big jock who shouted Let’s see if you’ve got it in you, but I said nothing. Something closed in me. I balled my first. It was all a show, and Lola had staged it. “You used me,” I said.
“Use is a relative term,” she told me. “You didn’t mind. You enjoyed it.” She smoothed her hair. She shivered and pulled her coat closer.
“You lied.”
“You know I take umbrage at that. Most people I know are pretty much serial liars. My parents, for example. They pretend to be happy, and everyone knows my mother is fucking her shrink. My roommate was doing it with Lucius, and I just smiled, pretending—lying, really—that it was all okay.”
“Were you fucking him still?” I asked. “After us?”
Lola fell silent.
“Jesus,” I said.
“Twice. Only twice. We haven’t really spoken in a while.”
I inhaled deeply, smelled the rank trash from the Dumpster next to the building. I stared at the wreck that was Floyd’s—the ashen, ruined quality of it. I wanted to destroy everything. I wanted to smash my fists against Lola. I saw myself as Lola saw me, dousing the building with gasoline, igniting a spark, watching everything burn. I was that incredibly jealous, angry man whose girlfriend had dumped him. I wanted revenge. Then, in an even stranger moment, I saw Lola and me in those flames, burning to ash and cinder.
I yanked her around, hard, and she jerked away. “Have you lied about everything?” I yelled. “Do you even know what it means to be real?”
Lola looked as if I’d slapped her. Her face was red, blotchy. She was on the verge of tears, and so was I. I didn’t understand what Lola’s tears meant, and I didn’t care, frankly, because I was still pretty pissed off about the Lucius revelation. I walked away from her, l
eft her to her burned-down building. “I’m going home,” I said. “Maybe you should go sell your bullshit to your last boyfriend.”
IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT when Lola came back to our apartment. I don’t know where she went after our fight or what she did during those long hours. Perhaps she went to the library or the Barnes and Squat. Perhaps she went to see her old boyfriend. Women, I’ve found, can be impossible to know.
She threw her keys on the kitchen table and took off her coat. Her eyes were bloodshot and puffy. She pulled her hair back into a small ponytail, undressed, and turned off the light. When she slipped into bed, I said, “So, did you go and fuck the first Lucius? That would be just like you, I bet.”
“I’m exhausted,” she said. “So please don’t start.”
“You have no idea.”
She lay there for a moment. “At some point it stopped being a game,” she said. “Do you really think I don’t know how to be real? Do you think all I do is lie?”
Everyone but You Page 2
