Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  Ravi did not know, but he quickly understands. He can’t crunch numbers that fast but has a sense for magnitude. The money stratosphere is a mere suburb of deep space, his rightful domain. What can he do, hire a lawyer? Richard’s a lawyer. “No, no, no. It’s not right, and you have a case. That’s what you pay us the big money for, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying…”

  Ravi comprehends, maybe. It’s time to begin again.

  Hey, where is Mano? In the brief moment of wondering Ravi gazes on Richard’s toothy grin, feeding up, as it were. Richard hates to sell himself short, but he knows he hasn’t a chance with Ravi… Ravi laughs. Richard doesn’t. Richard says goodbye and shuffles off.

  “See you, 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 some people labor for money or love yet others work for the jackpot. The jackpot rarely comes, but oh, baby, when it does… Meanwhile, a little forbidden fruit platter would be nice, in a hotel, so comfy cozy.

  La La is on the make everywhere and all the time, and it’s cool, but the jackpot and forbidden fruit tray may never come. At some point the pursuit is called stalking or failure. Which is skewed and sometimes laughable, but a friend shuffling off in a terminal can cause gratitude when least expected. Richard has granted insight to a disturbance of days—he fades to Vegas or Palm Springs or any available glimmer in the haze. Ravi calls, “Love you, Richard!” Richard won’t look back but flops a hand overhead. Ravi hits his cell and watches, out of body from above, as a reefdog far from home swims against a heady current. Jostling back to the entrance, he reaches George, the broker’s receptionist. “Put him on!” He waits to reach George’s secretary and waits again for George, to ask how easily he might get out.

  George enumerates holdings and assessments of liquidity. He assures that impressive returns are now projected at twelve points in the next six months, putting Ravi up twenty-two points on the year, which is “…not too shabby, my friend, and I’m glad you called because we got a…”

  “George. I want out.”

  “You want out? Out of what?”

  Ravi wants out of the stock market because he dreamed of a shark—not a shark, really. “I mean, it was a shark but not a… I know this shark, and it was a message…”

  “Are you shitting me?”

  “No, George. I’m not shitting you.”

  Of course George knows better, not that Ravi is shitting him but that something is amiss. He insists on time to think, to let the drugs and/or liquor wear off, so reason might stand a chance. He wants to know why. Ravi says it’s because. George concedes that yesterday’s news might be a concern or even an alarm, “but I’m telling you. I’ve studied this stuff for years and seen it many times. Many times. Sure, it’s gonna whipsaw, Rav. It might get nauseating on the drop, but it’ll come back up, and if you’re on the sidelines, you’re fucked! You must stay in! It’s the only way out!” What is Ravi on? He’s obviously on something because he’s not all that crazy and certainly not himself. George insists but stops. “Wait!” Ravi waits for the brief moment it takes George to rustle stuff on his desk and come back to officially disclose that this call is being recorded, for the record. He will initiate the sell order, but only against his advice to stay in.

  “I said sell, goddamn it!”

  “It’s your funeral, brother.”

  Timing proves propitious in a wake for the dearly incautious. Free fall begins three hours later and does not bungee back but drops with sickening speed for five days until the Feds lean on the brakes to soften the crash. Trillions vaporize. Ravi avoids loss by getting out and nets four point eight, after commission, which hardly exceeds dinner and wine with a spectacular view—and maybe a few friends, or maybe a group of friends, but what the fuck. Marginal loss is chump change compared to a total burn. George projected twelve percent by virtue of being, or twenty percent for being better. Ravi was better than that at zero percent less commission. Losing four point five would have left him rich, rich, rich if he still drove a Tercel beater and led tourist dives. But he doesn’t. He keeps an eye out for Mano because he senses her near, but she remains in the murk, to his relief and chagrin.

  •

  And so again, a narrative weaves to a finished edge, a wisp or chafe here and there fitting nicely into the perfectly imperfect artistry of the piece. Tying loose ends on ever-loving moments, Ravi sees, knows, and feels good.

  The aging mother can return home, relieved at her son’s success—not with the bubble-blowing shmegegge but as a world-renowned marine photographer, and two exceptional grandchildren enhance the glow and leave her speechless when they promise to come for summer work on a kibbutz. They actually only goo goo and drool, but Minna translates. Basha Rivka embraces her, seeing her skill in mothering and cooking. Who knew?

  Marine photography morphs, like life, on new angles and drama. Outings are fewer, as a body rounds the bend, with a fraction the shots per outing, showing a keener eye.

  The fan base has leveled its rate of growth, but who sustains the steep curve? Still it grows on book and peripheral sales. Ravi signs autographs at LAX and is in demand with college crowds and highbrow conferences to bemoan reef death worldwide. The booking agent announces arrival at a discretionary plateau, where they may choose the most productive events.

  Relaxing on an overstuffed sofa he bought for eight grand new, Ravie recalls an identical unit at The 2nd Coming Furniture Outlet for eight hundred, slightly used with a burn hole here or some cacka there. He scoffs at a fly-away ember and the hole it singes, not too far from some cacka, either vintage baby puke or splooge from after hours long ago when the babies were in bed. He remembers when, more or less. What would he have done with the money saved buying a used sofa? Surely the new sofa is far worse for wear than the used one was. And who needs two-hundred-dollar slacks with twenty-dollar khakis hanging in the closet?

  For that matter, why does he wear boat shoes? And what might amuse a man for the balance of a sunny day? He’s in a mood, verging on a funk—oh, he can sense it coming on. A little more dope would help—help him feel even more dumb and dazed. So he brews a double latte to wake up and takes ibuprofen for the headache.

  He sits, as a man may do. With a devoted wife, millions on hand, two healthy children, the best little dog and cat in the world, a satisfied mother, a terrific house with views to match and rich memories, what more could there be? A scene comes up, in which he’s picking wild tomatoes for dinner at the top of Pu’u Olai after snorkeling the grottos and ledges at Oneuli at dawn in flat water with sunbeams slanting onto the reef. He walks a road on a blustery night in French Polynesia with an older woman and rolls back, over the rail into a current. He hitchhikes down the same road with his dog and drifts the pass at Rangiroa at a hundred feet and pegs two-eighty on a rebreather. He remembers uncertainty as the basis of life as he knew it. It’s faded gradually for years but with no complaints. The wife and kids, income, recognition, and fan base form a legacy. Except that I am here, wild caught, observable in this, my captivity.

  Four volumes in five years is a fair run, with pocket guides, reference guides, posters, slogan/photo shirts and caps, toys, cards, and calendars. And it’s over.

  Oybek stole a few points. Who knows how much? Millions? He has enough to retire anyway. Not that working is bad. Could the day form up again? Not likely—French Polynesia still has quarantine on animals from the mainland U.S., and Ravi will not put Skinny or Little Dog through that any sooner than he’d let them lock up Leihua and Justin. But Hawaii ended its quarantine.

  Minna has always believed that LA is only a matter of time. She can still get on at the hospital—on a shorter schedule with the kids. And her family begs her to come home, and bring that haole boy went all rich and famous. Never mind. Ravi can’t return to Hawaii, because he can’t, or won’t, because he doesn’t want to. She says he can if he will. But it’s built ou
t beyond recognition. Then again, it’s still quaint, compared to LA.

  So Ravi flies to Maui on impulse that afternoon for a homecoming of sorts and drives casually to the south end to reckon where his soulful shack once stood. It’s deluxe houses in a row that came on the market at eight to ten a few months ago, before the mortgage market went huli and the stock market kapa kai. The agent sitting an open house thinks the owner would entertain eight or even seven point six. “I bet he would,” Ravi says. “I bet he would wine and dine eight. Or six. I used to live here. Before.”

  “Yes!” the agent laughs, recognizing an old salt who made it, “Mr. Rockulz. Yes. Offer him… offer him five. Oh, I’d love to take him a five. Can you imagine the look on his face?”

  “I can, and I bet you would. Tell me something. This house came on the market at eight point nine. Why wasn’t it eleven point thirteen, or twenty-one point zero?”

  “Good question. I can find out if you want me to.”

  “Nah. Take him this.” So Ravi feels the power of a lowball in the strike zone at 2.2 with twelve hours to accept. What the hell; that’s hardly a half mil down and eight grand a month. He can make that on one lecture. Monthly might be a bitch, but bringing Minna and the kids back to neighborhood would be something.

  And so it comes to pass. Minna and Ravi put their affairs in order and pack to leave the glitterati coast. Oybek arrives unannounced, though he is most surprised. “Moving? Wha?”

  Farewell, if not gratitude, forms up but comes out wrong—unless it’s right: “You fucked me.”

  Back-quoting to gain a few seconds to think and move, Oybek says, “I fuck you? No. I never fuck you.”

  “Seventy-thirty? I’m walking bowlegged and don’t even know it.”

  “That! Is nothing—okay, I fuck you little bit, not too much. Hey, you are a wealthy man.”

  “I am not a wealthy man.”

  “You never have work again.”

  “You mean I won’t need to work again.”

  “Yes. Is what I say.”

  “Yes. Is what you say. Is okay. Okay?”

  Oybek shifts. “You are right. I fuck you.” Oybek laughs.

  “You think this is funny?”

  “No. Is not funny. I laugh because we have saying swear words: I fuck your sister. I fuck your mother is not so good. Better, I think is I fuck you. No? Is funny. I am sorry. You are right. You know me from the time you see me. You are right all along. I am bad person.”

  “You’re not bad person. You’re greedy. Unfair. Dishonest. Yes, you are bad person. But I accept you. I accept what you’ve done. I can’t accept you as my manager any longer. But that’s okay. We’re leaving.”

  “But we enter phase two. Phase two switcheroo. Thirty-seventy. I think you like that better.”

  “What other agent gets thirty percent?”

  “I make you rich.”

  “Oybek. Is okay. Thirty-seventy. Get the documents over to my attorney. You know Richard. We change the residuals, royalties, benefits, and accruals. Yes?”

  Oybek hangs his head. “Please. My friend. Come.”

  “Come? No. We go. We go home.”

  “Yes. Good. I am happy you go home. Is good for me too. But you think what I do for you. Now I want ten minutes. Not ten minutes. Thirty minutes. No more. Is too much?”

  •

  Twenty minutes later, they pull up to a nondescript building, ugly even in that section of town. With no signage, the building gives away nothing but dirty beige around two sliding doors. Oybek leads the way to interior shadows. “Voilà! My friend: phase two.”

  Ravi gazes on three thousand square feet of aquariums end-to-end and stacked on steel racks three and four tiers up around the perimeter and in from there. Most of the tanks swarm with movement, though some are conspicuously still. Puffers segregated into eight species hover, fin-to-fin, gazing out, asking why. They seem to recognize and call out: Ravi!

  One row of tanks is eels—dragons, pencil eels, juvenile snowflakes, and giant morays, big and restless as young watermen, though they mourn. Oybek prattles about China and so much money you can’t imagine how much, and the unbelievable premium on big fish—they demand giant morays in the living room, overlooking the lights of Hong Kong! “Like this big, mean motherfucker!”

  Ravi takes it on the chin. Oybek dives into the new package deal, a custom print with every fish. “A fish dies. You know what I’m trying to say? All people die, sooner or later. Fish too. Okay? So, maybe it will die later or sooner—like the fish you had for lunch. Hey! You got the picture on the wall, so you don’t feel so fucked so bad because you still got the picture! We can frame it for them if they want. It’s another fee, and so is the freight!”

  The top tier on all sides is yellow tangs.

  “Look this.” The second tier is flame angels. “Look. Forty-five dollars. Each one! I got idea. Custom print from original fish guy, one hundred dollars, get fish for free! You like?”

  But the fish guy is mum. From a dim cubicle a Chinese man strolls to meet them. He offers no name, handshake, or business card. He recognizes Ravi by type and turns to Oybek. “Why you do this?”

  Oybek shakes it off. “Don’t worry, you. He will love. You wait.”

  Ravi walks out. He looks in Oybek’s car for the keys. No. The curbstone is bolted to the asphalt, but a trash drum hefts easily on adrenaline to fly into the windshield and roll back over the hood. He can’t lift it again so he kicks the door panels but knows he can’t total it on a few dings. It’s a fucking Bentley for Christ’s sake. Ah, well, let ’em putty and paint. He tweaks the mirrors and wipers and says fuck it and heads toward home, till fatigue and a cab take over.

  •

  Within the week Oybek leaks his decision—via an exclusive interview in Variety—to leave production for now because the creative side is calling. He’ll dive for reef artistry because he knows the magic down there every bit as much as the next guy and can bring it home better. After all, consider his gifted eye. “Can you imagine? I will communicate like you have never seen. I am very excited about the new magic I will make.” …Can imagine you like it’s never seen…

  Oybek flies to Papeete and takes the Moorea Ferry to greet old friends. Hereata avoids the show because nobody likes to be left behind on a broken promise. He waves that off because he’s back to make good. Just you wait. He’ll show his stuff with amazing new equipment and talent. Then you’ll see.

  Moeava will not muster the boat in the afternoon, not for anybody, no matter how many crumpled hundreds fall out of his pocket. He has a trip tomorrow and two women tonight, which service includes the trash, sweeping, laundry, and general clean up. Fantasy is kept in reserve for a special occasion and sometimes holidays unless he’s tired and stoned. That’s when they love him, which isn’t fair and may be devious and unkind but is also so much better than it was.

  Oybek plucks a C-note and grabs a tank and gears up on the dock where his baggage sits. Why not? Slipping in from the end of the dock, he swims to the drop with his very first camera and housing and is amazed at how easy it is. It’s a deluxe rig with “all that crap they put on there.” Really, anyone can do it; it’s the credentials that make the sale. He’ll sort the buttons later; for now, he needs only the shutter release and power switches for the camera, the focus light, and strobes. All on, and they don’t call it automatic for nothing.

  Oy, fuck! No, Oy-bek. Ha! Just checking—lens cap off. Ten four, Walter Bilko, over and out. And down. Glug glug glug. Fish guy my asshole. Move over fish guy. Big fish guy is here.

  Oybek’s underwater photography career is as spectacular as anticipated but shorter-lived, beginning and ending in three shots. The first is murky with haunting familiarity in Mano’s approach. Impromptu and implacable, she insists that she and Oybek do lunch.

  Lunch is not fois gras but foible au gratis for a showbiz wizard seeking reef magic. It’s hardly filling for Mano, who only takes a taste, to see. Unfortunately, she samples a leg at the knee.
Oybek senses something less than smashing success but shoots from the hip like a trooper because the show goes on! He nails a predator profile in the brief moment between life and death.

  Open wide is shot two.

  Mano chomps precisely at femur/tibia joinery, crunching the patella, which seems superfluous at that juncture anyway. Oybek’s friends and staff will attribute the cosmically clean cleave to good karma. They’ll call it Oybekian and chuckle with confidence. A Cedar Sinai specialist will admit, “I couldn’t have amputated this leg any better than that shark did.”

  Oybek will tell the doctor that the lost limb is in storage—don’t worry, on ice. The doctor will advise that limbs sometimes come to him for miracle surgery as seen on TV, in a cooler, but it’s not going to happen. Oybek waves him off—

  “Nyet! You can’t put it back. But I want you see for me what will be wery waluable to know…” That is, he wants the leg examined for tumor growth because a tumor would prove divine intervention by the Spirit of the Deep. Ramification on secondary markets will be profound. The doctor ponders Oybek’s cosmic salvation, briefly, before taking a call to confirm a tee time.

  Meanwhile, off the end of the dock down in French Poly, Mano has the culinary discretion to discard the appendage but comes on, out of character, for another go.

  What’s got into her?

  Oybek’s second stroke of luck is timing, one of his specialties, in this case on an offer to a higher power. He gives up the camera and housing, the strobes, cords, and all that crap they put on there.

  Mano accepts.

  In coming weeks Oybek will learn that veteran divers of olden times in unlimited oceans—black coral divers, spondylidae collectors, and all that lusty crowd—carried broomsticks. Sharks don’t like bones, and biting a stick might discourage more bad behavior. Oybek will claim this knowledge as a survivor in the face of death. He will tell his tale on the late-night circuit, promoting his life and times and his new book, Oybek, The Chosen One. The amazing cover shot is close on Mano’s molars and tonsils, shot three.