Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  Or maybe he was wrong—willful and vindictive, caught in an undertow. But some guys need webbing so they have to hang out the window so everyone knows of their bad behavior. Ravi stood up to it, not as a reaction but for truth. Okay, maybe a little bit reaction, but nobody was perfect. Like when a guy came out for a dive and pegged Ravi’s accent. “Israel!” Ravi nodded. The guy said, “I got nothing against the Jews. It’s the Zionists I hate.” Ravi stepped up with his back scratcher, and the guy ducked and screeched, “Crazy fucker!”

  “I think you have a problem. All Jews are Zionists.”

  “No, they’re not. You think the Jews in Damascus are Zionists?”

  “Is this your mask?”

  “Yes.” The guy peeked out for his next lesson in politics.

  Ravi tossed it over. “You see? You think that mask has value. I just proved that it doesn’t. Don’t worry. I’ll get it for you.”

  So the guy couldn’t dive and got a refund. Ravi paid it because the guy couldn’t dive from a Zionist boat anyway. The guy said he didn’t need any charity from a you-know-what. Ravi stepped up again, this time with a fist and question, “No, what?” But everyone aboard stopped the detonation.

  The mask, a Sea Hares Deluxe with fancy icons favored by divers who go rarely and want to look good, was lost. Cruising at eighteen knots left a huge area to search. Ravi won, kind of, pointing out that the mask was a toy, not quality goods. Besides that: The guy was a Jew-hating son of a whore. So what? I should apologize? I should pave the way for this hate-mongering bigot? I will not.

  Ravi got probation, termination pending, for three days, to calm the customer, who called the Department of Commerce and Consumer Affairs—groan. Who cared? The hiatus allowed for composure rejuvenation on a man worn thin from hard work and personal issues. With many errands complete, he returned to work, no hard feelings. The boss reminded him that the tourist went away, but the issue might not go away. Ravi said, “So what? I’ll call the ACLU or the Anti-Defamation League. Or B’nai B’rith, or Hadassah… Might not go away? Fuck, man. Wake up and smell the halvah.” Then he walked away because it’s a free country, where anyone could kiss his tuchus if they insisted.

  But Ravi’s fuse had always been short, and it glowed. His own mother—she who would lay down her life for her only begotten child—admonished long ago: “Nobody gets revenge. That is not what we do. Revenge is not justice.”

  She had a point: a Jew is not a Christian to turn the other cheek, but if taking a punch or two can lead to peace, then why not? But some people don’t like a punch. Or two. Especially from punk idiots. Better to tap their windows to slow them down in their hateful ways. Squint through this, you inbred midget.

  Ravi laughed because satisfaction is a terrible thing to waste. Besides, he would grow out of this foolishness and mellow out. In the meantime, a youthful prank didn’t hurt anyone.

  Well, he wasn’t as young as he used to be and the fun seemed less lovable than it once did. And his fuse felt longer. Sometimes he waited for days to get revenge—make that parity among assholes, which often requires patience, just like love.

  •

  Epiphany in series can be overwhelming, like glimpsing the face of God then turning abruptly to Satan’s grim puss. In staggering succession, answers came to a hapless waterman who could not remember the questions. In ghastly perspective, he grasped the window shade and the tortuous nature of paradox. Like the smartest fool on earth, he saw that love is willful—and uninformed. The squat fellow waved a gun in the air. The object of marital devotion squatted between them for a peek at her cousin Darryl, armed and dangerous—and comical. Cuz Darryl looked like the spawn of Yosemite Sam and Cheetah the chimp. What a joke, but looking funny was not humorous. Ravi longed to rejoin the laughing.

  “What a fool,” Minna said, grinning up at her husband, as if the moment would be remembered for fun. Ravi gazed in disbelief and pity—in pathos and best wishes for her future. “He goes to all these hearings and what not, where people want to stop this and that and what not, like gill nets and aquarium collecting and everything. Darryl guys go out all the time. He can make six hundred dollars in four hours, so he goes to these meetings where these pussy haoles cry and moan, and he threatens to shoot them, and they shut up.” She giggled at the notion of educated white people afraid of her cousin Darryl. She watched out the window.

  Then came the crux, full circle from only last week when Ravi got struck by love lightning. The next bolt turned the frieze to ash. Objects held form, even the fleshy one of his dreams, who chattered on, as if unaware that she would soon crumble. But she knew. How could she not know? How could she be blind to love departed? Odd looking as her former boyfriend, she grinned. He winced at her smudged lipstick. “You look like Monica Lewinsky.”

  She felt her jaw and laughed. “She’s somebody, you know.”

  “What is it that I know?”

  “I mean, like the president. How awesome is that? I mean, yeah, it was gross, but now she’s a household word. She can do anything. Jenny Craig, political whatchamacallit, analysis and what not.”

  “You want to do that?”

  “I just think it would be awesome to have people listening to what you say and… I don’t know. I was too young then. But maybe.”

  La vie en rose faded to gray. He was a modern man, free of jealousy. And so he would be because this woman, Minna, was so thoroughly…soiled.

  The fellow outside would not step up and knock on the door, but he’d rocked Ravi’s world. Images rolled on other needs at play, as the little guy blasted away, chipping a fascia, taking out a window, yelling, “I know you, muddafucka.” Cuz Darryl paused to reload.

  Actually, the ruffled boyfriend did not know Ravi Rockulz. Maybe he meant I know who you are, or I know what you did, but not I know you. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered, not even two men jilted on their notions of love or jealous pangs ricocheting like stray bullets.

  As a realistic man, Ravi knew where experience came from, and it wasn’t the tooth fairy. Cousin Darryl appeared to be swinish and psychotic, and not just some of the time. Darryl combined the worst traits imaginable in a true love’s ex. Then again, the poor fellow was equally pained. How likely was he to get another date? Then again, wild imagery stung like a branding iron.

  Of marginal consolation was the old world waiting, without the turmoil. Soon he could reclaim a demanding but satisfying schedule, good work, good friends and good times. Time heals, and that would be the key. In a few weeks or months, a stable man could stabilize, leaving so much flotsam in his wake. An appetite would return in a day or two, or five, anyway. In the meantime, falling free of emotion already felt better. So what was the catch? For one thing, no more heavenly Minna—not that she was still heavenly; she only looked that way, and memories would linger. She tricked him—him, the willing fool. She told him nothing till they were married, then she swamped him on one wave, a breaker out of nowhere. She played him for all he was worth, which wasn’t much on the material side, but as a beacon of light, he shone somewhere.

  Hey, who was kidding whom? What difference did it make? He could never see her again as he’d seen her before—no makeup and mussed hair was nothing compared to this. Sinking in quicksand, he reached for vines that snapped like false happiness every time. A fool rushing in doesn’t take the time to learn because he’s a fool. So the images broke with pain and loss no matter what angle the camera took. Love could fool, and a fool is most easily fooled.

  At least Ravi Rockulz would never feel so certain again—good thing, maybe it would be the big benefit of this whole nasty affair. Let’s face it: women are no different than us, with the sexual drive and pornographic needs, except for the aftermath when they want to have babies and convenience instead of fun, as life goes to seed.

  Worse yet was the certainty of never getting laid again, not really laid by a woman he cared for. How could he care after this? The angry fellow outside muttered epithets and whose bitch was whose. H
e shuffled off to leave before the cops came. Then again, that would be rational, so maybe he was only tired. At any rate, Darryl climbed back up and left, leaving no doubt that the havoc had only begun and that he would win her back with his unique attributes.

  He’d get no challenge here. Ravi slumped onto the couch and stared at the walls, still as an empty bucket. Skinny jumped from the dresser to the chair and over to the sofa to sit and stare and then walked onto his lap and purred because the crazies were beginning to end. He said, “I want to be alone and what not. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure.” She stepped clear of the shambles like a witness at the scene of a tornado. This burg was leveled.

  Already out the door, she stopped when he called: “Minna.” She waited, bracing for the executioner to speak the finality between them. “You have a child?”

  She turned back. “No. A miscarry. Darryl still… I told you, nothing. He’s a lolo head. It was you.”

  He didn’t belabor but rather wondered how the pristine situation between her legs could be so picture-perfect after so much… traffic. He nearly asked how that could be, but no. Her magical snatch was another trick of nature, to which he slowly nodded comprehension.

  Then, like an injured songbird with a broken warble, she struggled for the old magic. As if digging out from a sordid mess, in which a little tune and clever lyric would ease the tears in her eyes, she sang on stifled sobs, “Your love was my relief…” She smiled sadly, turned away and left again.

  •

  The days following would have been good for work, to forget. But images buzzed like mosquitoes till he swatted them away. The crew traded glances over the pitiful remains. A woman who worked the deck of another boat came over to Ravi’s the following week to help. He said no, but she tried anyway. Alas, she could not help and, in fact, heard Ravi sob as he rolled away.

  Then the practical world made more difficult demands. Ravi got word from the captain, “We got audited.”

  “We?”

  First mate Randy said, “Not you. You’re illegal. That’s why you get cash. They don’t know you exist. You can’t get audited.”

  How did Randy know Ravi was illegal? Maybe he meant off the books, but he said illegal was the reason why the payroll came in cash. But Ravi was no longer illegal since he got married. But then… “The boat got audited. And Steve.”

  Steve was the owner. Steve was despondent. Steve spoke from the gloom, explaining the State’s demand for unpaid taxes, even though the taxes had been paid. The State wanted more taxes, ninety-eight thousand dollars more because Steve had called himself a consultant on his tax return, so he owed four percent on his income, even though he’d paid four percent on the boat’s revenue. The State was willing to put a lien on the boat, which would ease the debt on paper but make the State a partner—a partner pressing for liquidation to clear the debt.

  Hawaii has had more state employees per capita than any other state in the United States since it became a state. Steve said the state needed money to make payroll. “Look. You guys keep working the boat. I’ll be busy with this for a while. Anybody comes around, just grunt. You don’t know shit. Ravi, I can give you two weeks—unless the state guys come around.”

  Ravi chewed on two weeks. Did Steve mean two weeks, as in notice? Steve shrugged. “I been paying you cash. That’s illegal. You got married, so now you can come on the payroll, but I got to let you go for a while. Maybe two months—but maybe six. We have to see.” Steve didn’t expect Ravi to hang out with no job for six months, legal or otherwise. Ravi had been counseled on annulment, but that could annul his legality too. Who knew? His counselors were boat crew, not lawyers, but a few had been to jail.

  He also shrugged, a man in a bind, resigned to another round of adaptation. The passengers arrived for the adventure of a lifetime on a beautiful fucking morning with plenty good cheer and big aloha.

  Hey!

  Ravi could not deliver a wonderful time. Events played back in sickening detail. The handful of days since a casual evening to plan his future swirled in a vortex of broken hearts, delusion, and failure. He’d held up admirably till things got cloudy, and the adventure of a lifetime went dry—no anecdotes, jokes, repartee, site review, nothing but booties, wetsuit, BC, reg, mask, fins, snorkel, weights. Oh, and tanks, with the air turned on and the pressure checked.

  Got that?

  Yes?

  Okay?

  Okay.

  On arrival at the dive site, he said, “Okay, stay close by me. Watch my signals. If I ask if you’re okay, you say yes, okay.” He made a circle with forefinger and thumb: okay. “Or no, not okay.” He shook his head and drew a slice across his throat. “Or eh, maybe.” He held a hand out flat and tipped it side to side. The tourists laughed, though nothing was funny; “eh, maybe” was a legitimate answer underwater, meaning things might not be okay. They knew this, or should have known this. They were certified. So why were they laughing? Never mind. As he spoke, he tallied two weeks, twelve more days of pay added to his savings before he would need to…

  To what?

  To walk across the desert on a horse with no name is what. Another thousand dollars should clear. He wouldn’t need any groceries. He could eat the canned stuff. Pick avocados and papayas.

  Then he jumped in. The tourists followed. Everybody signaled okay, and down they went, perhaps relieved that underwater a dive leader wouldn’t seem so morose because the mask hid his face, and his bubbles could fill with happier thoughts. So they cruised the coral heads and boulders, through the nifty arches and along the walls, each tourist stopping to check things more closely, one or two kicking somebody’s head. Ravi kept an eye on a tourist who profiled likely to suck his tank dry. Profiling was based on body language, body fat, and water comfort. Like rock, paper, scissors, any component could cancel another. A wiry, nervous man with no experience and apparent fear would suck a tank dry in forty minutes, or fifteen, depending on warmth and movement, while a plump woman with experience and comfort could go ninety minutes on the same tank.

  It was hardly rocket science. So he spotted the guy who’d go empty first, a wiry guy flailing and kicking, a guy named Ray who tipped his hand side to side. As Ravi reached to check Ray’s air, Ray reached for Ravi’s spare regulator—a panic move that every dive leader knows to counter. Ravi did not react, but let Ray take it.

  Except that Ray still had a thousand pounds in his tank and moved Ravi’s spare regulator in and out of his mouth in a suggestive fashion. Ray offered Ravi his own regulator, but Ravi declined—on a bad day of a bad week in a bad phase of life. Ravi gripped his octopus, bracing a palm against Ray, and yanking it from Ray’s mouth, pushing off and tossing Ray’s regulator back at him. It felt like one more exit in a series of departures from gentle understanding. Ray wasn’t the first man or woman tourist to suggest intimacy with Ravi, but the timing and place were unfortunate. Ray seemed to have had the air punched out of him, as he gave in to melodrama on an emergency free ascent, surfacing with threats of litigation for… assault! “You saw it, didn’t you?”

  So the morning adventure became another round of foolishness. Another tourist on board told Ray to shush—to no avail till the follow-up: “I’m a lawyer and a material witness. Anything you say can and will be used against you.”

  The ride back went from glum to glummer. Partly cloudy skies bunched up in scud and a squall line and a weather tantrum drew nigh. Moist and rhythmic went to wet and bumpy on mutterings of spurious good cheer.

  Good thing we went early.

  Yeah, good thing.

  Yeah.

  Glad we’re not headed out now.

  Hmm. Yeah.

  They huddled and shivered. The dive leader smiled forlornly, his heartache fitting into a world of gale winds and showers.

  Then came farewells, “See you next year. Gee, it was great.” A scowl implied threats of legal wind and showers, followed by no tips and offloading twenty tanks. Comfort came cold, on faith that life’s milestones
can be for the best and nearly always show up in hard times. Like a critter in winter finding a few breadcrumbs, Ravi nibbled on faith, muttering yes, all for the best and tomorrow. Well, next week at any rate. Or next month. Or year.

  Steve advised after the tanks were humped and pumped that today would be Ravi’s last because, because…

  Never mind, Mr. Steve. Finality was expected and understood. You can’t punch the customers, even if they deserve it.

  Glum was the balance.

  That his car wouldn’t start seemed consistent with life’s new message, whatever it meant. Long a source of fond association—Ravi and his beater—his Toyota Tercel nearing its fourth decade showed more rust and webbing than not. Massively non-existent on the inside from saltwater dripping off scuba gear, it was hailed for excellence in ventilation and drainage capacity—and its superior view of the road between your feet, no matter where you sat. If the seats had too much cacka for your lily-white bottom, no problemo: Just peel off the towels for a wash and lay them back down on the springs. Ravi’s beater was iconic to an era, the Time of Ravi, when fun, adventure, random love, and transport on the lowest possible budget equalled happiness. Then it ended, as if scripted by chance.

  So Ravi at the wheel went nowhere, a driver of stillness in the aftermath of the wheezing death throes of the vehicle of choice.

  Hail Atlantis! It’s a fockeen car! A material object gone the way of all else, proving that we win again!

  Or something.

  Seeking meaning or coherence as feebly as his tired car tried to start, he too sighed and wheezed, as if he and the car had thrown off the yoke together, cogs missing their niche, metal clanging, teeth chipping, springs chirping, stuff breaking up to the last belch and dying breath as the spirit left the body. Metal, rubber, flesh; all slumped to eternity. Sitting still in his still, dead car, he wondered and waited to see what would die next. Perhaps his own frail pulse would cease, making him part of the pile, ready for the scrap yard. He felt comfortable with that, and relieved because some days must be endured, and tomorrow would be a brand-new start—and the shit stacking up relentlessly could be sorted with fresh energy. Oh, boy.