by Bergen, KC
About Novak
Belly laugh your way to shredded abs with Novak, a standalone romantic comedy novel about a Slovenian shepherd searching for love in California, inspired by modern classics like Borat and There’s Something about Mary.
After a string of disastrous dates, Mary concludes that Solvang, California, is full of freaks and nutjobs. So she heeds her friend’s advice and signs up to a dating site. One dreamy man of mystery catches her eye: a hotshot special agent named Tristan Drimov.
Meanwhile, Novak, a smalltime shepherd in Slovenia, learns a brutal lesson when his wife cheats on him with the most notorious herder in town. His life in shambles, Novak has no one to turn to but his estranged grandfather, Oleg. The unorthodox old life coach quickly helps his grandson’s life go from bad to dreadful.
Looking for love and a sliver of hope, Novak signs up to a dating site. He meets Mary and they instantly hit it off. Finally, their luck is changing … for the worse. Unbeknownst to them, privacy has been compromised and they’re about to be pitted against the scheming porn-producer Mary was once married to, as well as a desperate actor who looks just like Tristan Drimov. The juvenile son of Mary and her ex is also drawn into the tangle.
In a world that’s churning out false truths and absurd role models, Novak is the hilarious, heartwarming story about finding love and keeping it. Like love, Novak knows no bounds.
NOVAK
KC BERGEN
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents in this publication are either drawn from the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by KC Bergen
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, reverse engineered, stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, or used in any form or by any means whatsoever, now known or hereinafter invented, without written permission from the author and publisher.
Table of Contents
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
1
Mary suspected she’d made a horrible mistake coming to the silent speed-dating event. Sitting across the table from her was a man with bulging eyeballs and a razor-thin mustache, stroking a nervous-looking Chihuahua. The man and his dog’s bulbous eyes peered into Mary’s.
Was he—were they—trying to hypnotize her?
Disturbed by the thought, Mary looked away. She briefly surveyed the other nine tables, where silent interactions were taking place between male and female strangers. Were the other women’s encounters as awkward as hers? Mary couldn’t tell. She glanced at Debra, who had organized this odd event. The massive woman was standing in the middle of the room with a stopwatch in her hand, keeping track of the time the participants needed to endure in each other’s company.
Mary checked her own watch. Three minutes had never felt longer.
A bang against the table caused Mary to jump in her seat. Wavy tresses of chestnut hair blocked her view for a moment. She brushed away her bangs and peeked across the table. The man with the thin mustache and bulging eyeballs had slammed his right hand down on the tabletop. Was he chastising her for looking at her watch? His Chihuahua was even snarling at her.
“Time,” Debra said.
Not a moment too soon. Mary had seen plenty of bizarre behavior in her thirty-seven years, but she nevertheless got up and moved, as quickly as her high heels and tight-fitting dress allowed, to the next table, where a lazy-eyed elderly gentleman sat.
“Now remember to just look at each other without talking,” Debra said in a soothing voice. “If you like, you may gesture or pass notes. But first and foremost, simply gaze into each other’s eyes and observe the person silently emerging. Don’t judge, just observe.”
Mary couldn’t tell which of the man’s eyes was looking at her. But she didn’t want to offend him, so she focused on his nose, which made her feel cross-eyed.
The lazy-eyed man scribbled something on a notepad, then slid it toward Mary. The note read: “Have you seen my glasses?”
Mary replied with a shrug and a headshake.
The elderly man winced.
Did I offend him? she wondered.
Grimacing, the man clutched his stomach. He managed to pull himself together enough to jot down another note. “Where’s the restroom?”
Mary replied in writing that she didn’t know, then returned the note.
The old man added to the written conversation: “I have IBS.”
Mary didn’t know how to respond. Should she nod to show that she acknowledged his condition? Maybe respond in writing—express sympathy and concern? People generally didn’t take too kindly to pity, though.
The man beckoned for Mary to return the note. She did, and he swiftly added to it: “IBS means Irritable Bowel Syndrome.”
Mary knew what the abbreviation meant; she just didn’t know how to react to the information. How do you relate to a stranger who skips his own name and starts off by introducing the condition of his bowels? It was an odd choice for a first impression. But judging from the old man’s groaning and stomach-clutching, he really needed to go, so Mary quietly hurried over to Debra. Although Mary was of average height and build, she felt like an anorexic midget standing next to giant Debra. As she looked up at her, she asked in a hushed voice, “Excuse me, where’s the restroom?”
Squinting, Debra leaned in. “It’s not for sexual relations, I hope.”
“Heavens no,” Mary whispered. An eavesdropping man at the nearest table ogled her. “No,” she repeated.
Debra said the restroom was through the hallway in the back and to the left.
Mary quickly relayed the information to the elderly gentleman. Even his lazy eye darted toward the hallway. Mary asked if he needed assistance, but the old man said no as he scurried toward the restroom.
Mary sighed. Why can’t I find at least one half-decent guy?
“Time,” Debra said.
Mary moved to the next table, where a slim blond man wearing slacks and a pink shirt was sitting. Decent-looking guy, Mary thought, smiling. He actually looked radiant, as if wearing some kind of skin product. And his pouting lips were suspiciously red. Yes, he was definitely wearing makeup.
Mary frowned as she sat down. What’s going on with these people?
The blond man gracefully put his pen to paper and began writing or perhaps drawing—from her angle, Mary couldn’t tell—tenderly arching his eyebrows with each careful stroke. He paused to observe his work, licked the tip of the pen, and then continued for some time. Satisfied
, the man finally slid the note toward Mary. She picked it up. In beautifully crafted handwriting, the note read: “I am not wearing any panties.”
“Time,” Mary said and hurried toward the exit.
2
Novak was herding his sheep toward the Big Pasture Plateau near the Kamnik-Savinja Alps, when he spotted Franc, the biggest show-off in Kamnik, if not all of Slovenia. To Novak’s dismay, the blowhard was descending the slope, coming in his direction.
Franc was wearing his signature fur cloak, which fluttered in the wind, as did his thick mane of long black hair. A heavy smell of sweet cologne preceded him, as did numerous animals. Franc commanded the largest herd of Alpine goats in Slovenia, and recently he’d started acquiring sheep too. An impressive mixed herd, Novak thought as he turned to make sure his own herd was in tow. Not wanting to talk to the guy, he hung his shepherd’s crook over his arm, removed a wooden figurine and a whittling knife from his vest pocket, and began carving on the little shepherd’s half-finished legs. Unfortunately the trail was too narrow and the dawn too bright for Novak to pass Franc by unnoticed.
“Novak!” Franc said as he approached.
Novak sighed quietly as he stopped on the trail. “Franc,” he muttered.
“Didn’t you see me coming?”
“It’s dark.”
“But I’m huge! Check it out.” Franc opened his fur cloak. Underneath it, he was only wearing leopard Speedos, a layer of spray tan, and some baby oil. “This is what happens when you work out, little man.” He flexed his pecs, grunting delightedly as he admired his gleaming muscles.
Little man? Novak thought. I’m six feet tall! And I’m a decent man—a proper shepherd—not some self-absorbed muscle freak! Sighing, Novak decided to keep his thoughts to himself. There was no point in arguing with this megalomaniac. As Novak looked away, trying to calm himself down, he spotted one of Franc’s bucks trying to mount Matilda, Novak’s brood ewe. He swiftly pocketed his knife and figurine and then pushed away the horny billy goat.
Franc chuckled. “Come on, let him finish his business.”
“I don’t want a geep on my hands,” Novak said. “Goats and sheep should not interbreed. As you should know, geep tend to die at birth. You should keep the bucks and rams separated during breeding season.”
“Forget about it. He’s just doing what a guy is supposed to do.”
Perverted shepherds breed perverted sheep, Novak thought. “Not on my watch.”
“Well, how do you think I’ve increased my herd by fifteen percent over the past few months? I have more than seven hundred animals now.”
“That’s great.” Novak glanced at his own tiny flock, feeling a tug of envy. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” Standing on higher ground, Franc towered over Novak. The wind played with Franc’s cloak and long hair as he gazed into the distance. “You know, I think my incredible manliness rubs off on the animals. And so my herd grows and grows. What can you do, though? It’s nature at work, doing its thing.” Franc glanced at the sheep grazing behind Novak. “You still only have six? No, you have seven now. An additional little lamb. So your herd has also grown by fifteen percent. And you’ve even managed to grow a puny beard at the ripe old age of, what, sixty?”
“I’m thirty-nine!” Novak shouted. Franc’s heavy cologne and deep chuckle nauseated him. Feeling hot, he quickly unzipped his vest and rolled up the sleeves of his woolen sweater. Even his close-cropped beard was starting to itch. “I’d better get going before my animals start humping each other.”
“Watch out for Bigfoot.”
Novak scoffed. “Did you make another blurry video of that creature?”
“I saw huge footprints up there.”
“Sure,” Novak said sarcastically.
Franc gave Novak an incredulous stare. “You don’t believe me?”
Nope. Franc’s ridiculous stories were apparently good for luring chicks into bed, at which he was a self-proclaimed master, but Novak was neither chick nor chicken. When Franc wasn’t bragging, he was usually attempting to frighten his fellow herders. Franc’s ogreish brother Goran, who was a shepherd too, had corroborated the story with a Bigfoot sighting of his own. Incidentally, Franc and Goran were each alone when Bigfoot allegedly showed up, and they’d heroically saved their herds from the monster. But, according to the big men, a regular guy wouldn’t have stood a chance. The Bigfoot attacks had also occurred on the greenest pastures in the area, and now everyone else was too terrified to go there. Well, everyone but stubborn Novak.
“I didn’t say that,” Novak replied. “Listen, I’ve got to go.”
“Whatever.” Franc swiveled so quickly on his heels that his cloak slapped Novak in the face.
Whistling, Franc led his animals down the slope. A couple of Novak’s sheep split from his herd to follow the caped pervert, but Novak used his crook to send them in the right direction. Franc was going downhill, and Novak was heading the other way.
Why is he returning home so early in the day? Novak thought. Who cares? Good riddance!
Novak continued up the hill, prodding his sheep to keep moving along the trail. But his mind bugged him about his inferior herd and his less than stellar, well, everything. Why did Franc always have to show off? The man was like an overgrown middle-school bully. A man-child who had strong-armed his way to success. And it had worked! Novak sometimes wished he had it in him to ruthlessly intimidate others to get his way in life, but then he recalled how bad it felt to be on the receiving end. He simply didn’t have a mean streak.
Good guys may finish last, but at some point they’re finished.
The stupid thought didn’t cheer him up. At least the stench of Franc’s perfume was soon replaced by fresh mountain air. Novak focused on herding his sheep through a swath of dense forest, and as they moved to higher ground, the air got colder and mistier. Swirls of gray shrouded the trees, and Novak thought he spotted movement up ahead.
A shadow.
A chill crept up his spine. He felt as if someone—or something—was watching him.
3
Mary parked in her driveway. The porch lights were off, even though she’d specifically told her friend and babysitter Carol to turn them on at dusk. Mary approached the gloomy front entrance and the two stone columns that were perfect hiding places for an attacker. She whipped out the can of pepper spray from her purse, along with the keys. After living in LA for years, she had brought the big-city mentality with her to Solvang, where she had lived for the past three years. Fortunately, no attacker was lying in wait. Relieved, Mary opened the door and went inside. She switched on the porch lights, thinking that maybe the latest string of disastrous dates—not to mention her ex-husband Brian—had something to do with her distrust in men and the world in general.
But why was the house so dark and quiet? Mary turned on the spotlights and padded through the hall. Her son Michael was nowhere to be seen. And all she heard was heavy breathing. She put down her purse on the piano table and crept into the living room, pepper spray in hand.
Carol was asleep on the couch, her frizzy blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looked so peaceful, and much younger than her forty-one years. Mary put down the canister and gently shook her friend’s shoulder.
Carol stirred. “What? Oh, you’re home already?”
“Yes. Where’s Michael?”
“I don’t know.” Carol yawned. “I must’ve nodded off.”
“I told you to keep an eye on him. And to turn on the outside lights.”
“Hey, it’s not like you’re paying me. I’m doing you a favor. He went to his room. I’m sure he’s still there. And he’s twelve, for God’s sake. He doesn’t need a babysitter anymore.”
Not convinced, Mary walked upstairs and knocked on Michael’s door. He didn’t respond, but she heard the clatter of gunshots and thunderous blasts as she pushed the door open. As expected, Michael was playing a war game, his headphones clamped over his ears. Mary quietly closed the door and w
ent back downstairs.
Carol was sitting on the couch. “He’s in his room, right?”
“That’s right.”
“I told you.”
Mary felt like scolding her friend for being so careless, but she bit her tongue. Was this really about Michael, she wondered, or was she actually upset about the horrible date night and felt like taking it out on someone? Probably the latter. Well, she didn’t want to be that person. She also didn’t have too many friends left since the divorce. Come to think of it, she really only had Carol.
Mary lowered her shoulders and forced a smile. “How about a glass of Cabernet?”
“You don’t have to ask me twice.”
Mary went to the kitchen, opened a bottle, and fetched two glasses. She filled them up and handed one to her friend.
Carol had a sip. “So how’d it go?”
“I’m never going on another silent speed-date. This city is full of nutjobs.”
“That bad?”
“Yes!”
“Oh, you'll get over it.”
“I don't know.” Mary gulped down a mouthful of wine. “I've tried everything. I’m at my wit’s end.”
“You’re so melodramatic. And who says ‘wit’s end’ these days?”
“I just did.”
“C'mon girl, you’ve got plenty of wits left. You know what they say: When there's a wit there's a way.”
“They say that?”
“I just did.” Carol giggled teasingly. “Have you tried the Internet?”
“You mean online dating? Isn't that for losers?”
“Maybe if it was still 2003, but the last time I checked we weren’t living in the distant past. These days virtually everyone’s dating online.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
“See?”
“But I’ve been with Ted for so long.” Carol twirled her wine glass. “Don’t you conduct most of your business online?”
“It’s a big part of my strategy, yes.”
“Well, if you can sell houses online, then why not—”
