The housing, strobes and other crap are mangled to an amusing mess that shows up on the back cover, photo by Oybek. Most amazing, however, was that the digital data card remained intact, so art and art history could be made. “Is all good,” he chortles. He opts for a peg leg because, “it feel like right for me.” He tries an eye patch in the mirror—left eye, right eye, strap straight, strap cocked—and settles on a roguish blend of Moshe Dyan and the Hathaway shirt guy with singular intensity. A firm specializing in market response measures the peg-leg/eye-patch combo in a few focus groups willing to relate to that sort of thing. The stats seem comprehensive but inconclusive but promising but not quite yet. The most lucrative strategy will apparently be the peg leg for a year, with a revival round of interviews to release the sequel, Oybek Is Back. At that point the eye patch will renew interest. Plenty of time to come up with a riveting story on the loss of the eye—which should also convert to performance, given proper crafting. What’s inside Oybek, The Chosen One? A hundred twenty amazingly candid shots show the most amazing people in the world posing with you-know-whom.
With interest fading for what’s-his-name, the fish guy, Ravi’s sales dwindle. Calendar sales cease. Book sales stall on a failure to renegotiate, but a small book publisher reads of the stalemate and comes forth to offer Ravi a fifty-fifty partnership on new titles with lithograph prints for pages if the reefdog is willing to keep going.
He’s willing, and it feels good and looks better than ever and makes more money than a dive leader could bring home. Oybek, The Chosen One gets rave reviews right out of the chute, showing what a few hundred grand can do for art in America. Sales fall flat by the time Oybek is Back. Nobody knows fickle markets and lubrication better than Oybek; just read the book! But his bid for a round-two revival hits competition on glittering fish with a twist. Noah Greene takes the showbiz name of Rufus T. Watermelon with racist innuendo to make a splash but explains that he is black, after all, and he loves watermelon. “Now do you or do you not have a problem with that?” The jury is out on that one, with the media waiting for leadership—self-correcting between black and African American.
But then Oprah features Rufus T, asking her viewers, “You want fish pitchers? I got a fish pitcher for you.” She tells them to buy the book, Fish Pitcher from Way Back, for a riveting, blockbusting, change-your-life, no-holds-barred account of a black man from South California making his way in the alien north country—Seattle, that is—where he gets on as a fish pitcher at the open market downtown. The sequel anticipates Rufus T as a catcher—with his hands! And these salmon run slick! At twenty pounds or better!
Ravi turns the TV off and wishes he didn’t have one but knows he will as long as he can because, because… He recalls the olden days when a nice skull webbing would correct this unholy mockery of nature’s noble beasts. Or slow it down, maybe.
Homeward Bound
The old neighborhood is gone. Next door used to be a thicket, home to songbirds and strutting mynahs. How sweetly it lingers in recall of a gossamer complex, X-spiders weaving their scrim over a houseless person or two and the occasional mongoose. But it’s hardly the same—no more sunbeams in foliage; it’s opaque to the south, in monolithic tribute to the will and bankroll of Stan Goodman, who made it very big in waterbeds, liberating a grateful nation from box-spring sag for a market share to bankroll twelve thousand square feet of stucco, granite, marble, glass, and steel. The front deck could be a bowling alley, and waving off the end a portly, silver-haired woman calls, “Hell-oh-oh!”
Getting to know the neighbors doesn’t take long, and some of the old crowd turn up at the grocery store or the beach or out and about. Talk is warm but sparse, what with everyone aging and the old crowd thinning, mostly returning to America or gone to more practical economies or just gone.
Gene is around, getting by on coffee and nicotine. She says she’s happy enough, after damn near crying on seeing Ravi and going whole sob on seeing Skinny. She takes walks along the road, now that it has a sidewalk. So she stops in, or he visits with flowers or something good to eat. It’s not like it was, practical and soulful, but it’s something.
Crusty Geizen keeled over about a year and a half ago on the way home—opened his mouth and bulged his eyes halfway in from a second dive site on flat seas under blue skies, on a day recalled for clarity, with viz running two hundred feet like nobody could remember. Crusty tensed up and toppled, not to worry—gone before he hit the deck, coronary thrombosis.
Crusty met his match, which seems a blessing in hindsight. He’d confided to a group of doctors, game fellows up from the dive of a lifetime, ready to deepen the bonding process. He said he’d reached that point in life where a perfect day was four hours of work, maybe a dive trip like this one, nice people, yadda yadda and so on to the image of a crusty geezer getting a blowjob on a dash of curiosity as to who might be delivering, and the punch line: “I’m not doing not too bad. I got about two more weeks of yoga to stretch my neck.” Uproarious laughter broke like a wave on cue.
Crusty might have looked a little queasy as he gave up center stage to a surgeon from Portland, who said Hawaii is such a wonderful place, so full of surprises. “Why, I was in Waikiki last week—and I saw this hooker. Beautiful woman. She was everything you might want in a woman, physically speaking. She’s standing on the corner with this cat under her arm, and I was checking her out, thinking man, she looks good, but I got closer and saw she was holding this cat backward. I had to look twice because she had the back end up and was licking this cat’s asshole. Beautiful woman, so I says to her, I says, ‘What in the hell you wanna do that for?’ And she says, ‘Oh, that. I just blew a lawyer and I want to get the taste out of my mouth.’”
The next breaking wave took Crusty on a guffaw, what was easy for everyone to call the way he would have wanted it.
Maybe. Crusty was sixty-four. Ravi wants it some other way, wants to find a friend to sit with and talk about things and what to do. He knows what to do, but viz is down around twelve feet, so he isn’t clear on how to do it.
Three Dreams
Calling it a mid-life crisis would over-simplify; Ravi Rockulz is materially set and does not lack in self-esteem. He’s seen more adventure and romance than a convention of dentists or insurance agents, yet he feels bound as Icarus in his reach. So why is he sleeping, all the time sleeping? Because refuge occurs where it’s found. A shrink might call him depressed, and sleep is a form of self-preservation, but that analysis would explain the mechanics of the process rather than the cure. He sleeps more than he should, grappling with what he can’t quite bring to the surface.
The first dream seeks justice. Ravi reconciles with Oybek, a misguided, misunderstood friend who brought security and comfort to Ravi and his family. It begins on a visit, with the children jumping in childish glee at the peg-leg thump announcing Uncle Oybek. Oybek comes to make things right. Oybek usually brings something for the kids, but he forgot; he was so distracted by falling out with his friend. So he peels a twenty for each kid because a ten won’t get you too far these days. Nearly toppling, he swears off the Long John Silver show he inflicted on himself. He’ll go today for a modern prosthesis. The crutch bruises his ribs. It’s painful but doesn’t hurt as much as Ravi leaving without a word. “You would not say goodbye to your friends?” You wooduntz a leave and no goodbye frienzyu?
Oybek shrugs. Ravi shrugs as well and says that a house on Maui will take time to pay off, and a man needs money. “You said forty-five dollars per fish.”
Oybek laughs, “That is still some very many fish, my friend.”
“How many fish is it?”
“You must pay for the fish first, and many die in transport. The bastards who want to shut us down have no idea how hard it is. You average only thirty dollars each after some die—sometimes only twenty dollars. You go ahead and ship the dead fish too, but it doesn’t always work. That’s why I say charge money for the fish guy photo and give fish for free, no guarantee. See? If
fish die, is not on us.”
“Look at this. Have you heard of masked angelfish?” Ravi shows him a photo of a pale fish with subtle trim on the tail and a golden mask. “Five thousand dollars each, wholesale. Ten thousand retail. Thirty thou for a mated pair.”
Oybek stares at the fish, then at Ravi. “Where you get?”
“We catch.”
“You catch?”
“Look.” He pulls another photo, from which the first was a detail. It’s a coral head with dozens of masked angels. Some are mated pairs.
“You know this place?”
“I took this picture.”
“Where is?”
Not so fast, my fine, fat friend, but the images lead to a plan: Ravi can charter a lobster boat for the trip. It’s only a few days out of Honolulu. Boats are available and cheap since the Northwest Hawaiian Islands got fished out. And a lobster boat has holding tanks and seawater pumps. No more lobster up north, but plenty of masked angels. The Northwest Hawaiian Islands were unprotected when the lobsters got wiped out. That starved out the monk seals, so the Feds budgeted millions to protect the biggest marine ecosystem in the world. Not to worry—protection is mostly bureaucratic, leaving the ocean free for poaching. It’s patrolled, but they can’t possibly cover twelve hundred miles by whatever.
Call it an adventure. Patrol vessels are rare. Besides, flying a Korean or Taiwanese flag makes a lobster boat look foreign. They won’t pursue to the west, to avoid an international incident.
The dream roils when the Chinese guy at the warehouse in Southern Cal argues that angelfish can’t take the slosh and roll like lobsters, and most will die. And he sure as hell can’t send out most of them already dead.
Oybek says a little bit dead won’t matter at five or ten or fifteen grand each. You take a few more to make up for dead. Fucking fish bringing this kind of money? Fuck. And the potential for a book—and a movie!—on such heroics, bringing fish to where people can see and raise their awareness should be worth as much on the back end.
The Chinese guy cannot resist the logic of money but soon pukes over the rail and is led to the lee side, where puking is more acceptable.
The others are glum, as seas build northwest of Honolulu with Ni’ihau an intermittent speck off the stern. They want to know the target and why only one fish? Why can’t they know? Why is it fixed pay with no bonus for three weeks at sea? Is it masked angels? Nobody can catch that many of a single species, so maybe bandit angles, too, and dragon morays. They only bring a grand each but sometimes aggregate, so maybe bandit angels and dragon morays are part of the plan. Like sailors through the ages, they demand to know and have their say. They’re more confident at sea, less sensitive to language skills. They can ride big waves and gather gems that would go to waste otherwise. The Chinese guy handpicked these guys, rebreathers no problem. So? How much is the best team worth?
A rebreather allows dramatic depth and downtime, reducing nitrogen and reverting CO2 to oxygen. A rebreather can accommodate tri-mix—oxygen, nitrogen, and helium—to eliminate narcosis and maximize workload. But chemistry can be hazardous, and oxygen changes at depth. Too little O2 causes hypoxia, also known as suffocation. Too much O2 causes hyperoxia or convulsion, which is easy on deck but causes drowning at depth in 100 percent of incidents. At seven grand each, rebreathers seem premature. Oybek says chickenshit on the front end gets chickenshit out the back, and this should be the first of many great outings for dollars at depth—and more dollars at greater depth. But rebreathers will come later for this bunch. Better to dive three, five, six times a day for now. “Get a little bit flowing cash, you.”
You want the big bucks; you soak up a little more N.
At long last they suit up. The helmsman enters the waypoint on the GPS, and Ravi calls, “Oh, shit!” He’s knockin’ on cotton but don’t worry, this won’t take long. He goes below but passes the head on his way to the engine room, where he takes two turns on the stuffing box nuts, increasing the drip to a flow. Back in the head he opens the seacock along with the intake valve, filling the toilet for another flush and a few hundred flushes, or a purge—or an exorcism. He comes on deck relieved, and over they go.
Surfacing from a hundred feet, they see the vessel riding low and listing. The helmsman in a life jacket works on the life support unit that won’t inflate because it’s punctured.
Adrift, the divers ditch their tanks and inflate BCs manually. Their eyes burn from salt and glare, except for one, who brought sunglasses and a hat. The fuck? How did he know?
All day and night and day and night again, the tiger chases its tail, as Little Black Sambo watches the butter churn with blood. They hold hands or tie off till strength and bindings fail, and they drift apart. Sixty masked angels with a few bandits and dragons in a catch box are tethered to the lead diver and wants to sink, heavy as gold. He scans for a bottom and when a pinnacle comes into view, he opens the catch box on a downward flurry and a murmur, “Papahānaumokuākea.” Masked and bandit angels and dragon morays writhe free of market value to blend with the blue haze and another coral home. Other oneness is brief and merciful with Mano’s help and gratitude.
The dream ends on blessed suffering, on sun and salt, fear and death with bleeding, drowning, and regret—and fulfilment in one who gives life.
A scene bobs to the surface like flotsam from the hulk: At the galley settee in rolling seas, a young diver slides in beside the fish guy with a few fish prints. Ravi takes a look, as the kid says, “Not as good as yours, but… Do you think I can make a book?”
“Why not?”
The young diver shrugs. “They’re aquarium shots.”
“Aquarium shots?”
“Yeah. I let them go. See: it’s the same corals in the backdrop.”
So the dreamer wakes in a cold sweat and, alas… Justice becomes difficult. It’s always been difficult, and this kid who let his fish go is imagined, not real.
But are these guys any worse than Oybek? Would you kill Oybek by mayhem?
It’s 5:45. No way I’ll get back to sleep with forty-five minutes to go. But I’ll lay back, close my eyes, and breathe slowly…
•
The second dream is a sequence, beginning with a man walking into the ocean. He swims out. He descends. He’s headed farther out and down, till he blows his last bubble.
That’ll teach ’em to mess with the fish guy. He’s out and down, not down and out because he’s not broke and can make plenty more money anytime he wants to. He welcomes depth, distance, and current picking up to five knots, good thing because down and in are coming on strong. The dream fails to satisfy, given the choke and glug coming on as well. A dreamer can breathe between the water, with care and caution. Still he wakes with a half hour to go.
•
Dream three drifts like a speck. It looks like a copepod or cephalopod. Some crustaceans are tiny at maturity, while giant squid grow to forty feet in two years. Both begin microscopically and feed all the time.
Ages ago, in showbiz years, the fish guy was a hit, with striking good looks, natural flair, compelling communication skills, and manners. His tall tales of primal forces felt honest and richly filled the anecdotal interviews. Ravi back-rolled into unknown seas more times than he told stories to a national viewing audience and isn’t sure which is scarier. Yet his calmness attends him like a narcotic. Water moves fast and turns dark, yet he makes it enticing as a shallow reef.
The hosts felt it, more than one saying, “Gee, it’s been great. Stop back anytime. Let us know what you’re up to. I mean down to.” Signs overhead lit up for LAUGHTER and APPLAUSE—cut to commercial and prep for the next segment, as Dave or Jay or Jon, Stephen, Jimmy, or the great one, herself, recognized the fish guy himself, right there on the sound stage, as a thing of beauty. Or they blew smoke up his ass, offering sincerely: “I mean that.”
Or: “I envy you.”
Or: “We’re lucky to have you.”
Or: “I’d like to trade with you—for a wh
ile.”
Or: “Anytime.”
A Dream Come True
So Ravi wakes up on impulse and adrenaline equal to a challenge in daunting conditions. He flies back to LA that night, assuring Minna, the kids, and the cat that he’ll be home for din by Tuesday.
He’s not known in LA like he used to be and can’t tell if people recognize the fish guy or have become friendlier than they were, but why would they do that?
Late-night talk shows are filmed in the daytime, and he knows where and when. At NBC Studios he’s like a kid home from school. “Hey, Roland. I’m back.” Roland smiles with a return greeting and checks the clipboard. “I’m not on there. I just got off the phone with Meg. Call her. It’s a walk-on.” So Roland makes the call, as Ravi hopes Meg still works there, as Ravi says, “Roland, man, I gotta take a whiz. Do you mind?”
Roland minds and could lose his job by letting anyone through without clearance. But who remembers a security guy on clipboard drill at middle age—by name? Nobody who’s anybody, that’s who—except for the fish guy. Ravi helps connect the dots between old friends on a major whiz with a nod up the hall to the men’s room. The fuck? It’s right there. What’s a fish guy gonna do, sneak into the studio? With Meg standing by?
So Roland returns the nod, authorizing the unauthorized whiz.
It’s the old duck into the head, count three, two, one and out and farther up the hall but not by much to the double swingers—doors, that is—to Stage One and the brave new world of cameras, kliegs, mikes, drama, melodrama, monologue, dialogue, antics, zingers, one-ups, and the very elements of greatness, where celebrity is born or fades away—or comes back as invited for a surprise visit. The swinging doors open on old home week with pats on backs and whispered greetings. Where you been, man? What are you up to?
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