Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  The greater point being that two of Hollywood’s most beautiful people don’t make friends so often. How can they? Neither one goes to an office or has regular contact with outside people. They have acquaintances.

  So they gravitate to Oybek’s orbit, where a few more acquaintances are made, who agree that Ravid’s work and love for the little fish and his books — especially the books! — are fabulous. Most new acquaintances at these Oybek-connected events also affirm the great good luck of having Oybek as an associate; he is such a fabulous man.

  Ravid discloses his initial misperception of Oybek as an amusing anecdotal foible shared with a friendly couple, Stuart and Richard, at a lavishly casual cocktail party at their home, just five minutes up from Ravid and Minna’s. The two hosts are also in showbiz, Stuart a producer and Richard in entertainment law. The poolside buzz is that both Stuart and Richard may be nominated this year — for the same movie! Not that Richard could actually be a film credit for doing the legal docs, or that he could actually get an Oscar, unless they make a special category to appreciate who and what he really is and the wonderful changes he’s brought to art cinématique, but still. Stuart regards him as a colleague, both professionally and artistically, not to mention domestically, and Stuart’s the fucking producer!

  Stuart and Richard take an interest in Ravid, asking if he’s ever worked on camera — in front of a camera, that is — underwater before. No, he has not, which elicits a knowing glance between the two hosts. They ask how he met Oybek, and Ravid tells of misperception and calamitous rescue during Oybek’s epileptic recurrence, which, by the way, has not happened again since, thank God, or whomever.

  When the tale is told, the two hosts wait for more, perhaps a moral, an irony or a punch line. Hearing no more, Richard says, “You’re not the only one who saw him that way — mean, threatening. If you want to know my opinion, Oybek’s amazing looks are what got him going in this town in the first place. What keeps him going is another story. I’ll tell you that one later, if you know what I mean. I’ll give him his due, though: he’s one in a million, you know, who can get things done.”

  Ravid has nothing to add, no wit, insight or elaboration, so with a bumpkin smile he confirms that Oybek sure has got things done for him. The obvious meets the incredulous; less sophisticated hosts a few minutes down the freeway might say, Duh. But Stuart and Richard rarely dally in the colloquial, so they offer the more astute response. It has no audio. It looks like disappointment or boredom or a blend. Then they flee, as if to catch a call from Marty, David or Sol.

  So? How should he have returned the droll serve, with a mouthful of chestnuts?

  But Ravid need not worry over a lame impression; Richard finds him again not an hour later and asks in confidence if he, Ravid, would, you know, consent to a, you know, screen test of sorts, underwater. By this time Ravid is familiar and comfortable with the gay lifestyle and senses nothing, as they say, inappropriate. He does wonder why an entertainment lawyer would want to set up a screen test, but he keeps his ignorance to himself. After all, Richard is big. So he says, “Sure. Whatever.”

  But just as Richard is putting coordinates on the session, he’s apprehended, or, as Stuart calls out, “Busted!” Stuart’s rant is shrill and embarrassing: he makes a scene, calls Richard a slut, says he knew it all along. Richard seems tolerant.

  Ravid commiserates, “Jealousy is very difficult. Maybe worse than alcoholism.”

  “Trust me, sweetie: the hooch is worse. We’ll be kissy huggy in minutes. Liquor remorse lasts for days...” These are the last words Richard will speak to Ravid in months. Turning suddenly to his colleague and partner, Richard stands his ground. “You’re wrong, Stuart! It’s you! You’re the one and only one!”

  Many friends laugh, and Stuart is consoled.

  More affable by nature and fluent in modern girl talk, Minna eases into a coffee klatch, where she keeps pace on new colors, new products, the new looks, rumors, deals, ins and outs, and who is walking into this place right now. She calls it an unspeakable yak but goes along for the entertainment value. Well, busy is good, and one day we’ll look back on this time and place, and we’ll laugh. Maybe one day soon.

  But Minna plays more than a bit part in the big picture. Fitting in with the girls with deft skills at modern jargon is cast to type. She transcends type through Basha Rivka. Naturally, a man with a wife and a mother under the same roof is relieved when these two females agree to share the podium. Ravid is grateful, except when they gang up, yet even then he feels the love in his wife’s adaptability and social skills.

  Open to discovery and what might be available in the here and now, Minna goes along with pop culture as a way of life. She tries trendy new things and a few old things, like pottery. She takes a course. It’s okay, but she wants to try Japanese cooking, which is also okay; she finds it more like Texmex than the real McCoy but makes new friends who love her background and her place of birth and visit Hawaii often and apparently revere the top tier exclusivity of the born and raised.

  She tries tennis and likes it, with a terrific court complex only seven minutes away. It’s not a club, per se, but a regular gathering of very nice people who show up, sign up and pick up games. Another woman there is taking French lessons she describes as fabulous, and another woman is actually French and concurs. So Minna revisits French; it’s so chic, and the three often practice after tennis, discoursing in French over a low-fat croissant and a double decaf skim macchiato grandé with organic carob sprinkles, hold the foam.

  She feels better after exercise and takes a few lessons from a strapping young pro who goes eighty minutes to the hour on Minna’s lessons and would likely go another hour or three, if she didn’t beg off, because the girls are waiting.

  Well, that’s life in a moneyed suburb, where young tennis pros have been trying to bang housewives for decades, often succeeding to the benefit and satisfaction of all parties. Not that Ravid would benefit or be satisfied. He would not. He loves Minna as he did from the outset, with the added dimensions of admiration and appreciation. Moreover, their congress is healthy and more frequent than the neighborhood average.

  But here too a sign comes as if by chance. It’s nothing really, or so it turns out. Jimmy the tennis pro sends Minna a note. Jimmy’s wavy blond hair, with highlights, done in a strikingly camp semi-pompadour recalls Troy Donahue with a touch of Tab Hunter, or he could be a ringer for the CREW catalogue guy, whatever his name is, and is actually asked on a regular basis, following the semi-dramatic pause and double take by a random passerby — “Did you...do CREW? The catalogue?” Jimmy smiles internally, cutting a sculpted indifference on the outside; maybe he did, or could.

  It doesn’t hurt that his V-neck sweater sleeves wrap around his neck, and his shades are on top to hold the coif in place and better frame his piercing blue eyes. What a hunk, though he could also play a sensitive supporting role, given the right script. Would he play gay? Is he? Hey, why speculate? Talk to my agent. Make an offer. Then we’ll see. Anyway, Jimmy thinks Minna is “great” in every way and says as much in many ways, opening with “attractive and intelligent” and attempting to close on “a strong desire” to know her better, maybe over lunch at his place, say from one to four on Thursday, if that’s good for you.

  The note is folded inside another note, her response. She responds that the admiration is mutual: he’s a great teacher, and it’s not his fault if she can’t wallop a backhand without both hands. Maybe someday. Meanwhile, she’ll know him better soon enough, if they stay friends, because that’s what happens in life. Lunch at his place sounds like a terrible idea, because she’s not attracted to him, which isn’t his fault, because she’s in love with her husband Ravid, the handsomest, smartest man she knows. His way with the fish is amazing, and she’ll be under his spell for a long time to come. So please, don’t bother her again with this.

  Well, you can’t blame her for saving Jimmy’s note. She likely planned to throw it away right after sen
ding her response. Besides, what woman wouldn’t be flattered by a bid for intimate frolic and possible romance, even if it’s from a cardboard cutout with a sound track? A better question might weigh the difference between a strapping blond tennis pro and da kine lumpy cousin Darryl: Would one be easier to accept than the other? The short answer is easy and quick: no, especially considering the pornographic appetites so common to the area.

  She’s scheduled for a lesson that afternoon, so Ravid offers to meet her for a sundowner. She says sure, and then asks why he’s being so nice. He blushes, insisting that he’s always nice, and he pledges to himself that he will try to be as nice. He picks her up after tennis, gives the young buck the stare down, takes her to a posh café with an ocean terrace for cocktails and talk, then home for a lovely screw, like it was years ago.

  The following night is another dog and pony that makes the sofa, a doobie, a few beers and a three-star movie seem like the most fabulous view available. “Would you mind too much going without me?” But no sooner is the suggestion made than Minna models her new dress, an elegant number in a fabulously sparse blend of velvet and silk. The Lana Turner halter-style top wraps the neck in a daringly slim choker, going to lush bunches of hip-hugging gown from the midriff to the knees — with a devilish cut, up to the waist, that reveals a slice of firm, tan thigh on every third step — along with a maddening strip of thong bracing the upper buns. As if that isn’t enough, the sparse harness grasping the independent halves of the bosom is inlaid with translucent pink chiffon over the nipples, to generate a series of scenes revealed in a casual stroll, like a selected short subject. Ravid watches the little documentary and blushes, anticipating his public embarrassment. He would express his personal discomfort, but she precludes him by promising that it’s going to be a night for nipples, likely kicking off a year for nipples. Nipples are the new look, which sounds silly, one more reach for something different to help fend off the dazzling tedium. But it’s a look the girls — the women — have agreed is long overdue, and they’re fairly confident the boys will go along, especially in view of the most fabulous public awareness of breast cancer. Why should the nipples hide, when they can proclaim so effectively that they are a look not to die for? Nipples will be the icon for women who suffer abuse, sexism and breast cancer, who will show their nipples to prove it.

  Or some such. Minna’s nipples are nice, and though he hasn’t considered them a source of pride, Ravid may have thought them a private resource.

  Not to worry, Minna’s nipples are only two in the amazing crowd of nipples peeking through the mesh. Few will remember which nipples went under what faces without a program, and a fête of this stature would never allow photographers, except for the fish guy, but that hardly counts.

  Minna is every man’s fantasy, an A-list exotic known for miles around, and coast to coast since they got her coming off the tennis courts in a sweat. But showing nipples playfully for a great social cause is the best response, like getting naked along with everybody else. It’s a trend-setting nipple buffet, with mashed nipples, carefully swathed nipples and a few nipples perked by chiffon chafe — could this be unintentional? You want little boy nipples, so cute and naughty, fat fluffy nipples, relaxed and assured, silver-dollar pancake nipples, droopy or indented nipples? This nipplefest will be the talk of the town, hailed as an important statement, not to mention an impressive set of nipples. Could awareness get much higher?

  Best in show goes by consensus to everybody’s favorite money girl, meaning mortgage broker, Stevie Ann Monihan. Stevie beams, so lovely on the arm of Dr. Paulo Jacinto, the fabulous cosmetic surgeon from Bahia. He’s the best of the very best. Actually asked to sign his work, he declined with a laugh, which didn’t lessen the terrible demand for his services. He’s the ultimate in augmentation, reduction, lift, spread or liposuction anywhere — and eight months out! Stevie Ann deserves this attention, she’s so service-oriented, optimistic and non-threatening to anybody’s agenda. What a worthy standard bearer.

  Paulo is brilliant, on the verge of a breakthrough to every transsexual’s dream: hips. Stevie Ann will be first, following some refinements in the procedure. Can you imagine, Stevie Ann with vivacious hips? In the meantime, any question of quality or artistry is quelled by Stevie Ann’s nipples. Are they augmented, implanted or donated? But if donated, what cadaver had such splendid nipples? So plump, pert and succulent.

  Paulo is a charmer, everyone agrees, with his glowing eyes and Latin manner, a subtle cross between Ricardo Montalban, with the distinguished good looks, and Ricky Ricardo mischief — but with an eerie dash of Ramón Novarro too — oh, yes! I see it! Like in Scaramouche! With those mysterious dark features and deadly playful eyes. Well, Paulo isn’t talking, and you can’t blame him. What magician reveals his magic?

  Which is all very entertaining, which is why we’re here. But the greater value is in context; Minna is flesh and blood with a sense of humor, sparkling charm and classic beauty. Ravid is her man, strong, tolerant and equally self-effacing in the clutch. Just look at what a good sport, laughing along at everyone ogling his wife’s nipples. Hmm. Nice.

  Later, she tells him softly in a whisper that she’s proud of him for being such a good sport, and also for seeing how so many people admire him and love him and the work that he does.

  He blushes in the dark and says he’s happy that she’s having a good time and has been able to find happiness herself.

  “I am. I have. I have a great time here.” She rolls a quarter turn and speaks up, “I’ll miss it. I think it’s getting close, time to go home.”

  A few nights later, in the afterglow of sexual relations Ravid turns through a troubling dream in an old, familiar setting, struggling for air at depth till he gives in to consequences and breathes, as it were, through gills. Mano hovers alongside, terrible and magnificent, till just before dawn, when she rolls and passes, brushing Ravid with her chin whiskers. Is this a warning? Or a threat? Will she open wide on the next pass? She turns back with quivering lips —

  Wait! Sharks have no chin whiskers —

  and makes her move.

  “Nohhhh!”

  He can’t tell if his yell is heard above the surface as he bolts through, wet as a man adrift.

  The kupuna teach that contact is ambient and often a harbinger. So he ruminates on the stimuli of recent days.

  Insight cannot be ordered on demand. So he meditates, sitting still and staring over the bluff and out to sea, as many in the neighborhood do. He sits for ten minutes or forty. Thoughts pass by like birds, till the sky is empty.

  Nipples and a tennis pro, a solid backhand, homosexuality — I mean the gay lifestyle — as it relates to personal stuff, to sexual identity, change and commitment and the extremes people pursue to find happiness, even as happiness mutates daily in the land of the free and the home of the brave — like here in La La, where a successful man can become a woman, and for what? Social acceptance? Social altitude? Some attention? Sexual fulfillment?

  Well, this is the showbiz place, where every ray of light hitting a square foot of anything comprises a stage or a screen, and stability is a long way from Elm Street and a picket fence... This ain’t the old hometown, but given a fair shake, it’s been a good run. It’s okay to have a household word for a name, once you manage the monster. TV hosts prate over rabid and Ravid, or raving and Ravid, or they call him Rocky Rockulz, testing the temper that has lain dormant in recent years.

  Tolerance indicates personal development, no two ways about it. Meditation is good, even if it’s popular in LA, but a man has promises to keep and miles to fly...

  Another name caller at the airport is easily ignored, till the unusual voice calling out becomes Richard, who once hosted Ravid at a fabulous cocktail party at the home he then shared with Stuart. Trouble is, it’s Stuart’s house and no longer shared, after all he, Richard, put up with, not the least of which were the scenes a jealous lush could manufacture. Then what? Stuart took up with the cabana boy.
“My God, talk about tasteless. And cliché and passé and...oh, by the way...”

  By the way, Richard says he’s been meaning to call for the longest time, not that he has any fantasies about, you know, Ravid, but he did think Ravid was so sweet when they met, that he just wanted to be sure Ravid knew about Oybek and his standard seventy-thirty cut.

  Ravid did not know, but he understands very quickly. He can’t crunch numbers quite that fast but knows instantly that the stratosphere of personal income and wealth he exists in is a mere suburb of deep space, his rightful domain.

  Well, what can he do, complain? Hire a lawyer? Spend ten years or twenty and all the energy a sane person has in trying to retrieve what is his by rights?

  “No, no, no. That’s what you pay us the big money for,” Richard intervenes, hawking legal services.

  But no. What Ravid can and will do is to express gratitude yet again for Richard emerging out of nowhere to confirm that the time is now. Time for what? Time for things to begin again.

  Hey, where is Mano? Even in the asking Ravid glances down on Richard’s toothy visage, feeding up, as it were. Richard confides with soft sincerity that he hates to sell himself short, but he knows he hasn’t a chance with Ravid...

  Has he?

  Ravid laughs and then laughs harder, realizing that Richard is like a child asking for a lollypop, pull-eeze, then realizing that Richard is serious. He stops laughing on further realization that laughing in Richard’s face is a crueler response than a foot to the chest, which seemed normal, way back when, and may have caused less pain.

  Grinning lopsided as a sad little clown, Richard says goodbye and shuffles off. “See you, huh Richard?” Richard doesn’t mean to be funny and doesn’t want to be sad. He only wants what he can’t have, which seems to be a pattern in the showbiz quarter, where few people labor for money or love; they work for the jackpot in dollars or forbidden fruit. It rarely comes, but oh, baby, when it does...