Ravi hated the hatred, which felt contradictory, but what could he think? He knew what came of complaisance in the presence of evil. Next thing you know, liberals are laying their necks on the block to compensate for injustice of the past. Missionaries my tuchas—I’m Jewish! We don’t proselytize.
Besides, Ravi knew people all over the world from many racial, social, economic, age, and health strata, and he judged on merit. Natural values, love, and good manners were foremost in any culture. Maybe the Hawaii challenge was best called uninformed, not to be confused with hateful and ignorant. Still, few things got his goat like the false pride of being born and raised. Everyone was born. Everyone surviving childhood was raised. But a sanctimonious few assumed that no place else counted. But growing up local was so much less than growing up in the world. The difference began in local schools. Some matriculates put huge decals on their trucks:
Born & Raised.
Ravi wanted his own decal, custom-made:
Hatched and Fledged on four of the seven continents, deep diving four of the seven seas while engaging intimately with richly diverse cultures in their political, artistic, warrior, romantic and meditative layers…
Well, a message that long would require a new car with a huge back window, which might be nice but would also require giving up his current ride and identity marker signifying liberation from material gain and the burden of possessions. Ravi Rockulz was free of the rigors of undue mechanical maintenance or cosmetics that could hinder nature in her course of decomposition to dust. His vintage Tercel lost its back window and back bumper in a tribute to gravity and the miracle of massive rust in movement. The back window was good for laughs through many recollections. Little shards littered the drifts and detritus on the back seat, or on the ground where they tumbled in a sparkling wake through gaping holes in the floor.
Most males in Ravi’s social set drove beaters. A beater indicated comfort in the soul. A man in a beater had beaten bourgeois creep. The first symptom of a man giving in was a new car or a car with no rust. The women loved beaters and the men who made the commitment, or lack thereof, and they matched sincerity tit for tat.
Could that be the problem? Could a devil-may-care approach to milestone events be the cause of subliminal anxiety that might be gaining momentum on the road to nowhere? Yes, it could, but no, it wasn’t that.
Are you kidding? You want to call nights of wine and laughter, friendship and love a dead end? If that’s the case, call me suicidal. You fucking nutcase. You… you Mennonite. You Taliban. Christ on a crutch, you want to take away joy and call it productive? Go peddle that poison elsewhere. Get the fuck out!
Anyone could observe that Ravi Rockulz refrained from obscenity. He left it in the bilge, favoring polite discourse every time. Esprit de corps made the bawdy good times all the more fun. Polite good taste, as seen in your better hotels, was a matter of choice, and it was free! Still, conversations internal were often profane, meant to discipline self and ventilate the spleen.
But it was the days of endeavor that best balanced the dark view. Could a person be more gainfully engaged than in fun, laughing aloud, or moaning to God in gratitude for what must be heaven-sent? No, he could not—until he questioned joyful pursuits as adequate compensation for a life of no security, no prospects for advancement and, in a most difficult phrase, no future. Good times rolling seemed less foreseeable than growing old. Getting high, getting laid, getting loved, getting wet was easy. Jump in. Youthful wonders are free to anyone willing to work for rent, groceries, entertainment, and no more. In California, they’d call it a lifestyle. In Hawaii, they called it life. I submit to the court that life cannot get better than a rollicking good time, Your Honor. Simple truth was the defense.
But it felt like a losing case, with the prosecution closing in. Hand-to-mouth existence was not a victory over wealth but was perceived as such to bolster the case. Living close to the ground had its perks—many mainland tourists envied the vibrant context as far superior to material gain and the urban commute—Ravi Rockulz lived the spirit. Many reflected on their own dull lives while flying home and through Monday morning. Just as speed and comfort counterbalance each other in most boats, so did security and adventure require a choice.
Ravi chose long ago. But something came up like a blemish on a soft complexion—troubling and hard to reckon. Was it midlife time when men panic in the DMZ between boyhood and its inevitable destination? Each day moved inexorably onward, even as the boys dragged their feet. Most men would rather lead dives than sell insurance or shoes, equities or annuities, or swing a hammer or shuffle paper in a stifling office on the thirty-third floor where the windows won’t open and the ceilings have no rafters because you must wear a tie…
Maybe that was the rub—that a Hawaii dive instructor topped the heap and craved more, like a profession or artistic endeavor. Maybe this restlessness came from the beauty abounding, from unrequited love that needed sharing, so he and society could better appreciate it. Tourists valued his stories on the way to the reef and on the way home. He told them what to watch for, then pointed it out, then told what species and habitat meant in the scheme of reef life. He had learned and absorbed these things, and guests felt the kinship. They loved what he freely gave, and they tipped generously in return.
Maybe a bigger audience could ease the pressure. Maybe he could paint. Or something.
Well, it was a fine, pretty picture, but who could think of art and culture on such a rigorous schedule? Daily demands, with the aerobic output and relentless schlep were enough to tire a younger man. On top of that, a man in his prime wants a normal social life, which wasn’t the easy pickin’s that met the eye, except for when it was. But luck was fickle. Ravi did not get laid at will. No men do, except for rock stars, some professional athletes, and a few politicians. Those guys get hot and cold running leg anytime they want it, but the rockers, jocks, and pols get mostly high-mileage, skank leg with frequent-fornicator risks of frightening potential. Or mental leg that graduated from Hollywood High Omigod! Or they get it retail.
Tourist fare, on the other hand, included upper-echelon females of spiritual, physical, intellectual, and economic development, many of whom lusted for the simplicity of long ago. They’d worked hard to get ahead, trim down, and firm up, sacrificing desserts. They’d gone vegetarian. They exercised and lived right. Most hard-driving women suffered the same stress and compulsion their male counterparts had suffered for ages, leading to the same question, Why do I work so hard, eat so right, and stay so trim?
Arrival at the boat provided some of these women with an answer. They worked so hard at self-improvement so they could catch the eye of the soulful dive instructor with the outrageous body. Ravi’s mystery unfolded in layers, beginning with a paradox. How could a man so thoroughly defy containment in a three-piece suit, a shirt, and a tie, yet an ounce and a half of nylon splendidly covered him?
Other layers were revealed directly. He was great at his job, in love with his workplace and committed to freedom. His water skills, rust-bucket car, beach shack, scraggly but cute cat, reef wisdom, and gentle confidence made an appealing package optimally wrapped for the short term. Revisiting the first layer—his skimpy Speedos, so snug and compelling in their underscore and highlight of the flat stomach and love missile—a woman might well gain insight to the hopeless cleavage stare she’d suffered for so long.
Maybe his exotic, happy niche was also part of the problem. His happiness had been real, with natural aptitude applied to highest and best use. But like all things seeking perfection, the path fades. Ravi was not ready to die. So what might come next for a man in his prime? What was he missing? He’d seemed to have it all. Maybe he did and would again. Could it get any better?
A steady diet of sweets had seemed like a natural value, but maybe the sweets should be set aside. Maybe it was like the movie where Nicolas Cage was a Wall Street tycoon with these knockout girlfriends, but his money and women didn’t matter because life was
cold and sterile. The guy didn’t even have any art on his walls on account of the great leg and money rolling in. Then this black angel guy sent him back to an old date he’d stood up at the altar, and in one of those Hollywood flashbacks, showing what would have been on the other road taken, he married her. What was her name? Don’t tell me—incredible rack but much more homey than the Wall Street women with a warm smile instead of a leer. Anyway, they had two kids on the road not taken, and one was cute and smarter than Solomon, and precocious enough to make you gag. She spoke pathos and irony in every line, and the other kid was an infant who cried and shit and peed all over the place until Nicholas Cage realized how sad he’d been with only big bucks and terrific snatch in his life…
Nah…
That wasn’t it. That movie was dumb. That guy had no love in his heart for the snatch or the money. I just don’t have the money. What that guy needed was a rough cottage in the scrub on the beach and a ratty couch and a TV and some decent snacks in the fridge. Some brewskies and buds. That’s all. And a few friends instead of the money-grubbing parasites that guy had all around him.
And don’t get started on the lust and love confusion either—everyone in Ravi Rockulz’s water world was clear that it was all love and got lusty because of it. Your very best love started with lust, and vice versa. One set up the other, and the other confirmed the one. Sure, things got melodramatic on the coconut wireless, buzzing by brunch on who was doing whom, with regrets or congrats at last. Sure, the goings and comings and secret liaisons sounded like low budget scripts. As the Anchor Drags was the neighborhood soap opera, and it was funny, but love happened, sometimes.
Sure, the one and only love anybody actually witnessed in Ravi was for the orange cat, Skinny, which some women on the way out called misguided, unfortunate or somehow wrong, which is what they used to say about all the cute, sensitive guys being gay. But Ravi wasn’t gay, and the women criticizing his interspecies relationship didn’t know about love’s many forms, didn’t know Skinny, not really, nor would they.
Skinny came as a tiny pup—she so behaved like a dog—sitting on the threshold, an orange fuzz ball with eyes in the center and whiskers longer than her body, till she stood up, painfully thin. She meowed for yesterday’s sashimi, and a few minutes later, with her belly bulging, she found the warm spot for a nap on the feeder’s chest. He called her Itchy for a few days but then sensed the long-term effects of a name on a personality—not to mention social consequences. A flea bath and brushing got the itch out, so she graduated to Skinny. She gained weight, but the name stuck in tribute to her simple needs.
She followed him around. A few feedings gave her hope, but she watched him from favorite vantage points. A cat so bereft of love may reach, as many people do, for what’s been missing. She lay her head on the pillow, reaching over to rest a paw on his shoulder. She made an impression, but when he pressed for specifics on where they stood, she remained indifferent; the pillow and paw were merely convenient. As patterns became routine, she purred often. She woke him up, “Meow,” because morning was only three hours ahead. She shared with no reservation and became his friend and confidant. It began with practicality and led to familiarity, with needs met. Could it be purer? He didn’t know, but the thing called love returned every time to a little orange cat.
Like when Skinny was grown, and a woman came home with Ravi to engage in the romp most people find only on the Internet. Skinny watched, though her true focus was Ravi, no matter what he did. The woman bore amazing similarity to Annie Lennox on the Medusa CD but with the white hair. Call it synchronicity—the concept coined by Carl Jung and adopted by the ethereal set—or sheer dumb luck, but Ravi had that day splurged on a disc by Annie Lennox. So similar was this new woman, with her ivory crew cut and sleek body of astounding length that Ravi called her “Annie,” which the woman didn’t mind. Ravi loved Annie Lennox—okay, he loved her music, but who could separate the music from the woman?
So he closed his eyes as Annie Lennox poured warm honey in his ears and new Annie whispered sweet nothings. Her name was Carol or Stacy or Janet or something, but he called her Annie. Didn’t mind? She loved it, wrapping herself around this sweet anonymity, as if love could never be named. This must be a win-win situation, Ravi thought, so well could one Annie writhe while the other Annie crooned as only she could.
A fellow could bring down the eyelid movie screens, and who showed up, lithe and dykey blonde? Yeah, well, with such a lyric and score in the background, new Annie maintained the same high standards in the foreground. Just for fun, he opened his eyes on the refrain for real reality as juicy and sweet as a virtue ever was. New Annie’s hair was just as spiky and the buzz cut heightened the drama. Oh, new Annie was a keeper, with her amazing posture and wondrous tits—naturals! I’m sure of it! Wait a minute. Was Annie Lennox lesbian? Well, whatever. She’s so lovable; I can swing that way too.
Meanwhile, new Annie’s beauty was only par for the course; which wasn’t to say Ravi was lookist, fatist, or sexist. It was simply that new Annie was merely beautiful, that she lacked a certain elusive kink captured so perfectly in Annie Lennox. Who ever looked at Annie Lennox and didn’t want more?
Not to worry: Things worked out with a dollop of imagination, and don’t forget the fun. New Annie was a standout beauty with searing smarts, so the ride was crisp and invigorating. Quick as a whip with the sassy quip, she opened fire on any and all, but not on Ravi. He tingled at her soft touch and exquisite good taste.
So she wasn’t Annie Lennox. We’ll make do.
They could share hormones and intellect so thoroughly that a waterman could feel, in a word, inexperienced. It was new Annie putting Ravi in the catbird seat, making good fun of the whole wide world with incisive irony between bouts of sweet succor, each cycle rejuvenating its alternate in a whirlpool of bodies and minds.
The vigor new Annie brought to the table and the bed felt like an awakening. Like a cool breeze in July, she alerted the senses with chilling repartee and willingness to please. Who was this woman? Did the gods send her to taunt and tease, to show perfection that no man could ever possess? Better yet, she reigned in her rapier wit in deference to her date. Nobody wants to be ridiculed—a woman once called Ravi a macho pervert, a sex machine who wore his spray-on swim skivvies like a billboard. Who needed that?
He did no such thing. He preferred a basic nylon swimsuit, so that’s what he wore. The rude woman who’d made that accusation was on the way out. So it didn’t matter, and she left satisfied, like in customer service, kind of.
But new Annie was different. New Annie lived above that petty stuff, scoring at will in every category, till the toughest macho nut could feel his shell cracking. She caught him staring within minutes of her arrival and asked for his thoughts. With a blink at her extraordinary hair, so dazzling and erotic, he asked if the carpet matched the drapes. With a soft leer, she gave him the news: “This is the nineties, baby. There ain’t no carpet.”
Ravi laughed short—the nineties ended years ago. Were they down to hardwood? But he couldn’t press the odd humor before she ditched her bikini and helped him follow suit. The farmer’s market never had produce so fresh and abundant.
Love germinated a few days in, sprouting and bursting forth. It felt like love forever, even with hormonal depletion finally settling in, which took longer than usual, which indicated something else, something more, something beyond. The music was so good and the likeness so striking, he just wanted more. And so did she.
Yes, his concerns grew as his heart opened. Surely she would move to Maui; it was warm, sunny, dry and more fun than Portland. She could move in to his place, or maybe she’d find a job and they’d get a new place, maybe a rental condo with a communal barbecue pit and a swimming pool. Then again, she loved Ravi’s place and said it many times, so maybe they could fix it up and make it work. Wait—she could just send for her things. Why not?
Well, she laughed again with sardonic wit, though it quivered. “The m
ain reason why not, buddy boy, is that old hubby boy might not send them. You know, my things. Hey, grow up. Be a man…” And so on because it gets no better than with a married woman. Talk about no baggage: slam, bam! This was terrific. You were terrific. Love your place. Your cat! Ah! Hey, see you next year, maybe, baby.
Ravi wasn’t finished, but she was. Sudden revelation and departure felt like a dump—via Mack truck through the front wall into the living room and onto his chest with an offload of monumental heartache. So it had been love. He’d been used, as he’d been used many times and didn’t mind. Many times had sexual utility been shared, a mutual back scratch to achieve relief. But this was different. Yes, some women said they loved him—lonely women infatuated with the tropical scene, the palm trees and scented flowers, the garish colors, the cat, the beach shack and, yes, the Speedos. But the thing with Annie was no scene. It was real. Wasn’t it?
Inconsolable, Ravi remained numb for weeks. The usual cavalcade was even more intrigued by the zero-body-fat guy with the incredible frontage and indifference to the luscious buffet before him. They made themselves available but could not compare to Annie. They seemed predictable, demanding, and tiresome.
But time and nature work together toward recovery, so life can endure. Ravi met Marcia from San Francisco. Marcia was smart, not streetwise and ironic like Annie, but comforting; Marcia knew things—sensed things and was there to help. Helping was her profession: clinical psychologist. Besides success and professional know-how, Marcia had a unique worldview. She understood events and the potentials for goodness and waste. She spoke of nuance in conservation politics to hide the insidious greed therein. She sensed a disturbing contradiction in the gay agenda, yet she defended anyone’s right to do anything that didn’t harm anything else. What she didn’t like was “disturbing.” What she approved was “appropriate.” The San Francisco Forty-Niners could be disturbing but were mostly appropriate. But she looked good and seemed sympathetic, with warmth and humor that made the smallest task or outing a grand opportunity for fun. Marcia’s sartorial flourish seemed a tad extravagant for Ravi’s social set, but he didn’t mind. In fact, she seemed to be what the doctor ordered. She cured his malaise with her elegant designer sundresses, her lapis and pearls, her frilly lingerie, so exotic that it didn’t exist in key dramatic areas. He loved looking at it, especially where it wasn’t; it so perfectly framed her most exotic sampler. He loved removing it. Besides that, her seasoned slowness facilitated each favor with the meticulous deliberation of an older woman. Marcia was forty-five—and counting.
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