Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  Not that a year-old baby, or the one in the oven, gives a rat’s patootie about the view, but they may one day, realizing that they need more out of, you know, life.

  •

  The kids love the yard on the bluff—not to worry; the fence keeps them and Little Dog from going over. Skinny gives them a turn one day, showing up outside the fence, near the edge, stalking something, casual as you please, till she stops. “Meow!” She’s stuck or lost.

  And who goes slinking to the rescue, supple as a geriatric cat? “You tell me what else? Off the cliff I should let her fall? The cat is like family. Family!” Basha Rivka could have spared Skinny’s walk on the wild side by putting out cat food as instructed. Nobody suggests neglect since it wasn’t willful and all’s well. Natural buffering occurs on said family relations because contrary to the common wife/mother-in-law rift, Minna and Basha Rivka have achieved symbiosis, with mutual benefit and respect and appreciation to boot. Seldom is heard a discouraging word.

  Harmony came easily. Basha Rivka anticipated a shiksa: upper-middle-class, cheery but snooty, socialized in a country club that doesn’t allow you-know-whom, where big-boned bores stroll fairways or chat over drinks. She was wrong. The new mishpocha are Buddhist, without dogma, inquisitions, pogroms, or snobbery. She is intrigued, then relieved, possibly exhilarated.

  Minna is merely practical, in tune with LA, where Jews and Buddhists abound. She embraces the concept of a live-in babysitter. “I love her. She maintains my sanity.” Never have two women so diffused their typically adversary roles in the care and feeding of the man between them and the infant offspring.

  •

  Skinny suffers no trauma at the edge of the cliff. At fourteen she forgets where and who and sometimes what she is. Hunger is an instinct, free of rational thought. If not fed, she wanders in search of food. If alone, she might howl. But she still jumps up for a meow and a sniff before laying her head on the pillow to sleep all night without snoring, though a finger on her chin gets her purring.

  Minna sometimes asks, “Do you mind?”

  In daytime she, Skinny, sits on his desk to watch, sometimes batting a pen or swatting a fly. Ha! What an amazing cat.

  Malibu becomes routine, with friendly neighbors and the fabulous tastes they share. Money is the denominator. When it breaks in waves on an Oscar, a Tony, or a Grammy, a lovely entertainment may commemorate our good fortune. Neighbors convene like normal people with Olympic pools, Roman columns, champagne fountains, lavish eats, servants, caterers, acreage, valet parking, Maserati, paparazzi, and glitterati.

  Money is life. Expenditure reflects performance. Performance measures success. Money can pour like Niagara, flowing to the greater body of good it might do. It can accrue interest or yield dividends or appreciate in commercially zoned lots. Young folk new to the area may experience something of lesser magnitude, like a breach in a levee with serialization, foreign, paperback and DVD rights, action toys and film options. But then come endorsements, and the levee breaks to let the mighty Mississippi flood the bottoms. Ravi Rockulz ponders philanthropy.

  Equipment was never easy for a humble dive leader. Plunking six grand on a housing or three on a camera and four on lenses and hundreds here and there on the extras so vital to each outing was like sending the kids to college. He couldn’t do with less, so he ponied up in faith, and the future came to pass. But it seems ironic when a manufacturer offers a housing that sells for twelve grand with the 3x viewfinder, the dome port, flat port, port rings and extensions, the strobes and arms, optical interface, and backups. Why? Never mind. “Nah. I’ll pass.”

  Oybek rejoins, “Wha? Nah?” Oybek is fluent in the kvetch common to Hollywood and may not realize that this jargon is not actually English.

  Ravi shrugs. “I don’t need those things. In fact, I want to get my next shots with entry level equipment.”

  “You won’t get better shots.”

  “Or maybe I will. I might encourage young divers by using basic stuff. They should go deep, but not into debt.” Oybek tamps a bowl of hash to support our troops, just back from the war for democracy with duffels of the stuff; it’s like 1969 and a win-win with everybody getting by and feeling better. Ravi takes the pipe to do his part. “I want to take the technical aspect out of artistic excellence. I want to sculpt with a stone ax or paint with a big brush. Can you see the value in that?”

  “No. No value. What if you get a hundred grand for your pocket with this twenty thousand dollar setup?” What’f get you hunderd toozundolla fuhpocket you wis tvintyzoozundolla cumra?

  “Why would they do that?”

  “Why not? You on. You it. The fish guy. They make it back and more. Don’t be simple. Okay?”

  Okay. And okay for the wetsuit, BC, reg, and dive computer endorsements, and another half mil for shaping fashion trends, what they call the new look. Boxers are out. Briefs are back. The money can make the world a better place. Besides, here comes season three, with four and five on deck, each year making more, and for what? For wearing scant skivvies that outline his cock on camera is what.

  Ravi ponders Congress, but first: the stock market.

  He is not obsessed with more but is grateful for what he has and loves his prospects for free time, for art. Humble origins, a tough go of it, and character intertwine. Hardly big enough for the A-list inner sanctum, he makes it in anyway on charm, humility, courage, terrific stories, and a beautiful wife. He misses the old haunts and reefs, but the shallow scene in LA can also be garishly dramatic and predatory.

  He and Minna have acquaintances and friends of friends in a big, vague network. They see a few regulars at parties and events and in passing. Familiarity is nice, but friendship and trust are secondary to potential—for huge deals coming together. Opportunity is brief, action fast. Life is bad or good, depending on available budgets. Spending must be free with faith in smashing success. Jimmy the tennis pro said: Become the hugeness then go for it. Jimmy shares many chestnuts and may be the platitude guru. Potential is awesome!

  Ravi sees potential in a reefer and a couple beers and sex with the wife. She’s a hottie—Minna, the fish guy’s wife, aka a fine fillet o’ perch. Often spotted out and about and shot at ten frames per second in hopes of a nose pick or crack adjustment, she remains poised in the pose. Cautious and private, two of Hollywood’s most beautiful don’t make friends so often. How can they? They gravitate to Oybek; he is such a fabulous man.

  Ravi shares his Oybek foibles with a friendly couple, Stuart and Richard, at a lavishly casual cocktail party at their home, just minutes up from Ravi and Minna’s. The hosts are showbiz cogs, Stuart a producer and Richard in entertainment law. Poolside buzz is that both Stuart and Richard should be nominated this year—for the same movie! Richard can’t be a film credit for executing legal docs or get an Oscar unless they come up with a special category to appreciate his marvelous contribution to art cinématique, and they should. Why not? They’ve done it before—for lesser talent, no names, please. Stuart regards Richard as a colleague, professionally, artistically and domestically, and Stuart’s the fucking producer!

  Stuart and Richard are keen on Ravi: has he ever worked in front of a camera—underwater? He has not, and the hosts share a telltale glance. How did he meet Oybek? So Ravi tells of miscue and rescue on Oybek’s epileptic recurrence, which has not happened again since, thank God or Whomever.

  The two hosts wait for a moral or a punch line. Richard finally says, “People see him as threatening. I think his amazing looks got him going in the first place. What keeps him going is another story. More on that later, if you know what I mean. But he’s one in a million for getting things done.”

  Ravi has nothing to add, no wit, insight or elaboration, so with a bumpkin smile he confirms that Oybek sure has done things for him. Less sophisticated hosts a few minutes down the freeway might say, Duh. But Stuart and Richard rarely dally in the colloquial, so they respond more astutely, without audio. They look disappointed or bored, and wit
h no pithy quip coming over the net, they flee, as if to catch a call from Morty, David, or Sol. Ravi missed a shot and doesn’t care, but then he does.

  Richard finds him again later to ask in confidence if he, Ravi, would do a test, underwater—a screen test. Ravi is comfortable with the gay lifestyle and senses nothing, as they say, inappropriate. Why would a lawyer want a screen test? Then again, Richard is big. “Sure. Whatever.”

  But just as Richard suggests a time and place, Stuart calls over the crowd, “Busted!” Stuart’s rant is shrill and embarrassing. He calls Richard a slut and says he knew it all along. He smashes his glass and storms out. People try to carry on as if nothing crashed, and everyone is happy to have the scene on file. Ravi commiserates with Richard that jealousy is 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 Ravi for months. Turning suddenly to seek his colleague and partner, Richard calls across the patio foyer. “You’re wrong, Stuart! It’s you! You’re the one and only one!”

  Stuart waits deep in shadow, apparently consoled.

  •

  More affable by nature and fluent in girl talk, Minna eases into a klatch that keeps up with new colors, products, 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. Busy is good, and one day we’ll look back and laugh. Maybe one day soon.

  But she plays a lead in the big picture. Fitting in with the girls is cast to type. She’s open to discovery and goes along with pop culture, with trendy new things and a few old things, like Japanese cooking. She takes a course. It’s okay but not the real McCoy. Still, she makes friends who love her background and Hawaii. She likes tennis and the terrific court complex only seven minutes away. Regular players pick up games. A woman there is taking French and says it’s fabulous, and another woman is French and concurs. So Minna revisits French; it’s chic, and the three often practice after tennis, talking French over a low-fat croissant and a double decaf skim macchiato grandé with organic carob sprinkles, hold the foam.

  She takes a few lessons from the pro who goes eighty minutes to the hour on Minna and would like to go another hour or three, but she begs off because the girls are waiting.

  That’s life in a moneyed suburb, where tennis pros have been banging housewives through the ages. Not a chance here. But here too a sign comes by chance. It’s nothing really. Jimmy sends a note. Jimmy’s wavy blond hair with highlights in a campy pompadour recalls Troy Donahue with a dab of Tab Hunter, or he could be a ringer for the CREW catalog guy. People double-take and ask: “Did you do CREW? The catalog?” Jimmy smiles with sculpted indifference, snugging his V-neck sweater sleeves around his neck. Shades on top hold the coif in place and frame his piercing blue eyes. What a hunk, though he could also play a sensitive supporting role, with the right script. Would he play gay? Is he? Hey, why speculate? Talk to my agent. Make an offer. Then we’ll see. Jimmy loves Minna and says as much, “your backhand, I love it.” He calls her “attractive and intelligent” and shares “a strong desire” to know her better, maybe over lunch at his place, “say one to four on Thursday if that’s good for you.”

  The note is folded in another note, her response: The admiration is mutual. He’s a great teacher, and it’s not his fault if she needs both hands on her backhand. Maybe someday he’ll know her better if they stay friends. Lunch at his place sounds like a terrible idea because she’s not attracted to him, which is also not his fault. It’s because she’s in love with her husband Ravi, the handsomest, smartest man she knows. His way with ocean critters is amazing, and she’ll be under his spell for a long time. So please don’t bother again with this.

  He can’t blame her for saving Jimmy’s note. She likely planned to throw it away after sending her response. Besides, what woman wouldn’t be flattered, even from a cardboard cut-out with a soundtrack? She has a lesson that afternoon, so Ravi suggests they meet for a sundowner. “A drink.” She says sure, but why is he being so nice. He says he’s always nice and picks her up after tennis to say hey to Jimmy and let him see her affection. Then it’s off to a posh café for cocktails and home for a lovely screw, like it was years ago.

  The following night is another dog and pony entertainment in the neighborhood 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 as he asks, Minna enters to model her new dress, an elegant number blending velvet and silk. The Lana Turner halter wraps the neck in a slim choker, and lush flounces festoon the midriff to the knees with a devilish cut to reveal a slice of firm, tan thigh on every third step and a maddening strip of thong diving between the buns. As if that isn’t enough, the sparse harness grasping the bosom is inlaid with translucent pink chiffon over the nipples, with revelations that will soon be nominated for Best Selected Short Subject. Ravi watches the little documentary and blushes. He would express discomfort, but she says it wasn’t her idea. A Night for Nipples is the latest bid for awareness and money on breast cancer. Ravi thinks it gratuitous, and so it is. But Minna’s tips are only two in a hefty crowd of nipples peeking through the mesh. Few will remember which went under what faces without a program.

  Minna is an A-list exotic known coast to coast since they got her coming off the tennis court in a sweat. Personal revelation for a social cause is a trend, and the nipple buffet includes mashed nipples, carefully swathed nipples, and a few nipples perked by chiffon chafe. Little boy nipples, so cute and naughty, fat fluffy nipples, relaxed and assured, silver-dollar pancake nipples, droopy or indented nipples; the nipple fest will be the talk of the town, hailed as important and socially significant. Could awareness get any higher?

  Best in show goes by consensus to everybody’s favorite money girl, meaning mortgage broker, Stevie Oh Monihan. Stevie beams, so lovely on the arm of Doctor Paulo Jacinto, the fabulous 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 astounding demand for his services. He’s the ultimate anywhere for augmentation, reduction, lift, spread, liposuction—and now transformation! And he’s eight months out! Stevie Oh deserves the 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—not plastic implants but real, luxuriant hips. Stevie Oh will be first, following some procedural refinements. Can you imagine, Stevie Oh with vivacious hips? In the meantime, Stevie Oh’s nipples quell all doubt on quality or artistry. Are they augmented, implanted, or donated? But if donated, what cadaver had such splendid nipples? So plump, pert, and succulent.

  Paulo is a charmer, 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 Navarro too—oh, yes! 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 a classic beauty. Ravi is her man and equally classic in the clutch. Just look what a good sport, laughing along, as everyone ogles his wife’s chest. Hmm. Nice.

  Later, she says she loved his willingness to support her and could feel the admiration of so many for his work. He says he’s happy that she’s happy. “I am. I have a great time here.” She rolls to him. “I’ll miss it. I think it’s getting time to go home.”

  A few nights later, in a troubling dream, struggling for air, he gives in to consequence and breathes. Mano hovers alongside, terrible and magnificent, till dawn when she rolls away, brushing Ravi with her chin whiskers in a warning or threat? Will
she open wide on the next pass? No, she advances with quivering lips—

  Wait! Sharks have no chin whiskers—and she makes her move!

  “Noohh!”

  He can’t tell if his yell clears the surface as he bolts…

  The kupuna teach that contact is ambient and a harbinger. So he ruminates on recent days. Insight cannot be ordered up on demand. So he meditates, staring over the bluff and out to sea, as some in the neighborhood do. Thoughts fly 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, commitment, and the extremes people pursue to find happiness, even as it mutates daily in the land of La La, where a man can become a woman for fulfillment and camera time. And camera gear and strobes and a housing for free and a cash bonus because…

  This is the showbiz place, where every ray of light hits a performance, where stability is not on Elm Street but on a sound stage with a picket fence. 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 Ravi, or raving and Ravi, or they call him Rocky Rockulz, testing the temper lying dormant these recent years.

  Tolerance indicates personal progress. 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 voice becomes Richard, who once hosted Ravi at a fabulous cocktail party at the home 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 scenes of a jealous lush: “Hey… Scenes of a Jealous Lush.” He makes a note on a possible script and stuffs it in a pocket. “My God, talk about tasteless. 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, Ravi, but he did think Ravi was so sweet when they met, that he just wanted to be sure Ravi knew about Oybek and his standard seventy-thirty cut, the way the caveats, addenda and subterfuge settles in the end.