Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  Ravid sensed his greater problem, of an internal fuse kept dangerously short. He doubted himself when his own mother expressed her doubts — his own mother, who would lay down her life for that of her only begotten child, had declined to defend him on hearing of his vindictive behaviors. He had beat another boy for name-calling. He had committed acts of vandalism for what he called “cultural vandalism.” He had earned his mother’s disappointment. “Revenge is not justice,” she’d chided. “That is not what we do,” she would say to nearly anything he did, reminding him that a reactionary is not a judge, that revenge seeks satisfaction and justice becomes compromised.

  Maybe she had a point: that a Jew is not a Christian to turn the other cheek, but if soaking up a punch or two without throwing a punch in return can lead to a lasting peace, then why not try that? The obvious answer was that some people don’t like soaking up a punch. Or two. Especially from punk idiots at the bottom of the evolutionary totem.

  No.

  Better to tap their windows with a backscratcher to remind them how wrong they are in their hateful ways. Squint through this, you haole suck bait.

  Ravid laughed, enjoying his own stubborn character, because it was fun, because satisfaction was not a thing to avoid, because it felt good. Besides, this was foolishness, and he would grow out of it and get mellow some day, and in the meantime a little youthful prank wouldn’t hurt anybody.

  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 a bit longer; sometimes he waited hours or even days to get revenge — make that justice — make that parity among assholes, which sometimes requires patience — like love.

  Epiphany in series can be overwhelming, like glimpsing the face of God then turning abruptly to Satan’s grim puss. In those staggering moments, answers came easy to the hapless waterman who could remember none of the important questions. With ghastly perspective, he grasped the window shade and the tortuous nature of paradox. Suddenly feeling like the smartest fool on earth, he knew that love is blind — and uninformed.

  Peeking around the shade, he saw the squat fellow waving a gun in the air. Glancing back inside, he felt the chaos balance, as the object of his devotion and indifference also squatted for a peek under the bottom edge at her irate cousin/former boyfriend Darryl, armed and dangerous — and comical. Cuz Darryl looked like the spawn of Yosemite Sam and Cheetah the chimp. What a joke, but Ravid grunted, because looking funny was different than being humorous. He longed to rejoin the laughing.

  “What a fool,” Minna said, grinning up at her husband, as if the moment verged on something else, say, fun and laughter and good times. Ravid gazed down in disbelief and pity — in revulsion and best wishes for her future. “He goes to all these hearings and whatnot, where the haoles want to stop this and that and whatnot, like gill nets and aquarium fishing 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 come up with this scientific huhu, and he threatens to shoot them and stuff, and they shut up.” She giggled at the notion of educated white people going mum in fear of her cousin Darryl. She watched her former boyfriend out the window.

  Then came the crux, full circle from only last week when Ravid got struck by love lightning. This next bolt was not love but blinding truth, turning the frieze to ash. Objects held form, even the fleshy one of his dreams, who chattered on, unaware that she would soon crumble. Except that she knew. How could she not know? How could she be blind to love departed?

  As odd looking as her former boyfriend/cousin, she grinned, her lipstick smudged with a streak of man snot clinging to her jaw. To hurry the ashes in crumbling, he said, “You look like Monica Lewinsky.”

  She felt her jaw. She wiped it, wiping her hand on her shorts. She half laughed again. “She’s my hero, I mean, not my hero, but 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 whatchacallit, you know, analysis and whatnot.”

  “You want to do that?”

  “I just think it would be awesome to have people listening to what you say and everything. I mean, for one little blowjob? I don’t know. I was too young then. But maybe.”

  Ravid’s kaleidoscope turned again, way past la vie en rose to perversion in purple and brown. Belaboring the imagery was unnecessary, because he couldn’t stop seeing it. He’d fancied himself 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 of his girlfriend’s beau — make that husband — but he’d successfully rocked Ravid’s world. Ravid sensed this fellow’s need, so the images rolled and squished, moaned and slurped, drooled and spewed as the little ogre blasted away from the hip, chipping a rotten fascia, taking out a window, and yelling, “I know you, muddafucka.” The jilted cousin gave no quarter, except briefly to reload.

  Actually, the ruffled boyfriend was not acquainted with Ravid Rockulz. Maybe he meant I know who you are, or I know what you’re doing, but not I know you. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered, not life itself or two lovelorn men jilted on their notions of sweetness and light, or whatever notion the son of Sam and Cheetah nurtured. The scene was too much to sort, jealous pangs ricocheting like stray bullets. Did she giggle and wipe her chin for a small crowd of former beaus?

  Well, a realistic man ought to know where experience comes from. Certainly not the tooth fairy, but reality needs filtering through reasonable manners and taste, and don’t forget the etiquette. Cousin Darryl appeared to be swinish and psychotic, and not just some of the time. Darryl combined the worst traits imaginable for a true love’s ex. Then again, the poor fellow was equally pained. How likely was he to get another date? Then again, sizzling chin spunk stung like a branding iron.

  Of marginal consolation was that the old world awaited, without the turmoil. Soon he could reclaim a demanding but satisfying schedule, beautiful work, good friends and good times. Because time heals, and that would be the key. In hardly a few weeks or months, a stable man could stabilize, leaving restless nights, preoccupation, craving and longing in his wake. An appetite would return in a day or two, or five, anyway. In the meantime, falling free of heartfelt emotion already felt better. So what was the catch? Well, for one thing, no more heavenly Minna — not that she was still heavenly; she only looked that way, and the memories would linger for a while.

  But why would any man so devastated still taunt the gods of foolishness?

  Never mind. She was very good. But she tricked him, which was easy with such a willing fool. She told him nothing — till they were married; then she swamped him in debris. It was devious, calculated and methodical. She’d played him for all he was worth, which wasn’t so much on the material side, but he was a titan of spiritual light, which counted for something in many places.

  But who was kidding whom? What difference did it make? For starters, he could never see her as he’d seen her before — no makeup and helmet hair was nothing compared to this. Like a man 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 and know, because he’s a fool. Who has time when the quicksand is in the middle of an open space and lightning strikes? So the images contrived toward pain and loss no matter what angle the camera took. Love could fool anyone, and a fool is most easily fooled.

  At least one Ravid Rockulz wouldn’t feel so certain ever again — good thing, maybe a steep ascent on the learning curve of love would be the big benefit of this whole nasty affair. Let’s face it: The women are no different than us, with the sexual drive and pornographic needs, except for the aftermath, when they want to start having babies instead of fun and ditch the old life for the oppressive suburban conveniences and life goes to seed.
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  Worst of all was the certainty that he would never get laid again, not really laid by a woman he truly cared for. How could he care for anyone after this?

  The angry fellow outside muttered parting epithets on racial deficiency and superiority, following up on whose bitch was whose. He shuffled from the door, perhaps motivated to leave before the cops came. Then again, that would be rational, so maybe he only tired of this game. At any rate, Darryl climbed back into his truck and left, leaving no doubt that the havoc had only begun, and that he would surely get her back because of his unique attributes.

  Well, he’d get no challenge from the most recent ex-boyfriend who slumped onto the couch and stared at the walls, lifeless as an empty vase. Skinny jumped down from the dresser to the chair and over to the sofa to sit nearby and stare at him, then she walked onto his lap, sat and purred, relieved that the foolishness was beginning to end.

  Ravid said, “I want to be alone and whatnot. Okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” she said, stepping clear of the shambles like a first witness arriving on the scene after a tornado. This small town was leveled.

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

  She turned back to face him. “No. A miscarry. I told you. Darryl still... I told you, nothing. He’s lolo. It was you.”

  He didn’t question her denial or belabor the immutable change between them but rather wondered, to press a delicate point, how her vagina could be so picture-perfect after so much...traffic. In fact, given her forthright stance and the apparent honesty of her confession, he nearly asked how that could be, the pristine situation between her legs, but no... Her magical snatch was only another trick of nature, to which he slowly nodded comprehension.

  Then, like an injured songbird who can’t understand why nature was no longer balanced, she struggled for the old magic. As if digging out from a sordid mess under blue skies and seas, as if a little tune and a clever lyric would best highlight the tears in her eyes and so ease her to the next sunny moment, she sang, her voice breaking on stifled sobs.

  She smiled sadly, turned away again, and left.

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

  Then the practical, emotionless world made its equally difficult demands. Ravid got word from the sullen captain, who murmured like a lost spirit, “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 that he, Ravid, was illegal? Maybe he meant illegal as in off the books, but he said illegal was the reason why the payroll came in cash. But Ravid was no longer illegal, since he’d... But then...

  “The boat. The boat got audited. And Steve.”

  Steve was the owner. Steve was beyond sullen. Steve was despondent. From the gloom, Steve spoke with difficulty, explaining the State’s demands 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 lien the boat, which would ease the debt on paper but would also 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 the money to make its payroll. “Look. You guys keep working the boat. I’m going to be busy with this for a while. Anybody comes around, just grunt. You don’t know shit. Ravid, I can give you two weeks — unless the state guys come around.”

  Ravid chewed on what had come up, verging on a hurl. Did Steve mean two weeks, as in notice? Ravid looked at Steve. 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 seemed sincere, hardly expecting Ravid to hang out with no job for six months, legal or otherwise. Ravid had been counseled on annulment, but that might annul his legality too. Who knew? His counselors were boat crew who weren’t lawyers, but a few had been to jail.

  Ravid shrugged, a man in a bind, resigned with his mates to another round of adaptation. Then the passengers arrived for the adventure of a lifetime on such an amazingly beautiful morning with plenty of good cheer and big aloha.

  Hey!

  Ravid’s distraction could not reconcile with a wonderful time on the water. Events played back in sickening detail. The handful of days since a casual evening to plan his future swirled in a vortex of hearts, emotions, delusion and failure. He’d held up admirably till his mood and the sky went cloudy, and the adventure of a lifetime got mechanical — 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 showed his forefinger and thumb forming a circle to indicate okay. “Or no, not okay.” He shook his head and drew a slice across his throat. “Or eh, maybe.” He held a hand out horizontally and tipped it side to side. The tourists laughed, though nothing was funny; “eh, maybe” was a legitimate answer underwater, meaning that it wasn’t time to abort, but it wasn’t okay. They knew this, or should have known this. They were certified to know this. So why were they laughing? Never mind. As he spoke, his mind tallied two more weeks, twelve more days of pay added to his savings before he would need to...

  To what?

  To begin walking across the desert is what. Another thousand dollars clear shouldn’t be too difficult. He wouldn’t need any groceries. He could eat the canned stuff he had stocked up. Pick a few avocados and papayas.

  Then he jumped in. The tourists followed. Everybody responded okay, and down they went, perhaps relieved that under water a dive leader wouldn’t seem so morose, because the mask hid his face, and his bubbles seemed to fill with happier thoughts. So they cruised the coral-encrusted lava and outcropping boulders, through the nifty arches and along the steep walls, each tourist stopping here and there to check things more closely, one or two kicking someone in the head. Ravid watched his air and kept an eye on a tourist who profiled as likely to suck his tank dry. Intuitive skills came from leading dives and seeing bad stuff shape up. Profiling was based on body language, body fat and water comfort. It was like rock, paper, scissors, with any of the three components able to cancel one of the others. A skinny, nervous man with no dive experience and apparent fear would suck a tank dry in forty minutes, or fifteen, depending on warmth and movement, while a plump woman with seasoned dive experience and visible relaxation could go ninety minutes on the same tank that any shop would rate at sixty minutes.

  Hardly rocket science. The formula worked every time, though it was rare that all three factors went the same direction in a single diver. So it was easy to spot the guy who’d go empty first, a skinny guy flailing and kicking, a guy named Ray who tipped his hand side to side when Ravid gave him the okay signal. As Ravid reached for Ray’s gauges to check Ray’s remaining air, Ray reached for Ravid’s octopus — a panic move that every dive leader knows to counter. Ravid did not react, but let Ray breathe on the dive leader’s spare regulator.

  Except that Ravid saw that Ray stil
l had a thousand pounds in his tank, and looked up to see Ray moving Ravid’s spare regulator in and out of his mouth in a suggestive fashion that was compounded by Ray’s bulging eyes and apparent grin. Ray offered Ravid his own regulator, but Ravid declined.

  Well, it was a bad day in a bad week in a bad phase of life. Ravid gripped his octopus, subtly bracing a heel against Ray, and yanked his octopus from Ray’s mouth as he pushed off, tossing Ray’s regulator back at him. This parting felt like one more in a series of departures from gentle understanding. Ray wasn’t the first man or woman tourist to suggest intimacy with Ravid, but the timing and place were unfortunate. Ray seemed to have had the air kicked out of him, as he gave in to melodrama on an emergency free ascent, surfacing with threats of litigation for incompetence and...and assault! You saw it, didn’t you?

  So the morning adventure of a lifetime became another round of foolishness, in which fools were fooled and behaved foolishly. Ray was finally squelched on board by another tourist who told him to be quiet — 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.

  As if cued by the common mood, partly cloudy skies went mostly cloudy to gray scud and a squall line. All eyes watched the little weather tantrum threaten to pounce. The ride got wetter and bumpier. Mutterings between wave crests filled in with spurious good cheer, with inanities like:

  Good thing we went early.

  Yeah, good thing.

  Yeah.

  Glad we’re not headed out now.

  Hmm. Yeah.

  All of which underscored the inconvenience stacking up against the once jovial service-oriented dive leader, whose heart echoed simply “Hmm” because he was headed in from mostly cloudy and bumpy seas, then headed out to a mostly cloudy and bumpy world threatening gale winds and showers.