Oybek is a seasoned C-list technician who knows the score, starting with the value of a million bucks, which ain’t what it was; come on.
Ravid can’t believe; the guy is so smarmy, so strange looking and talking, so egregiously smutty, so low. Unfortunately, he can’t stop hoping. He’s heard the rant and promise of money and power — it comes to zero every time, finito, rien, caput! Only a bona fide loser wears his wherewithal on his sleeve. Yet Hereata’s slow motion nod says something else, like she checked this guy out. Like she knows. How could that be?
Well, she has an ear for his thick talk and translates when nobody else can. His pig eyes smile on her, and so do Ravid’s. He may never sample her wares again, but he’s off the hook, and maybe he will, and in the meantime she won’t wear out like a bar of soap. Will she?
Minna sees. Minna knows. Minna stores for later use as necessary.
So the party begins, with misunderstanding buried like a hatchet so new understanding can blossom like sunflowers; they laugh at what has happened and what’s to come. Yes, Oybek’s general demeanor is threatening — he admits that he also winces when passing a hall mirror — but it’s the threat of no threat and honestly facilitates success in the entertainment industry. He still feels terrible for pushing the wrong button on his BC inflator and putting all those people at risk. He felt worse spoiling the gift sent to his room, but the epilepsy was in remission for many years, so he was surprised at the symptoms on top of the surprise gift — and here he is relating his two surprises at a surprise party!
The good cheer is followed by poisson cru and ahi tartare made by Cosima. Moeava supplies beer and marijuana, and the festive air is soon unavoidable.
Except by two former loves, who take time outside to confirm status. Ravid is content and enthusiastic. He says Monique thinks he might be cracking up, but his mental disturbance is focused on art, what he wanted all along. The path is beautiful and revealing, and he thinks the direction correct.
Minna got her nursing degree. She quit the gift shop and volunteers at the hospital and will soon become full-time staff and got recommended for intensive care. She loves the recognition of her intensive skills and may take the job. It pays more but not so much — surely not enough to make a career. Besides that, the ICU guys are really crazy; it’s so much life and death on a bunch of TV monitors with lights and bells like Vegas, and it’s all night and all the time and whatnot, and you can hardly blame them for being crazy, because they don’t call it intense for nothing. The crazies actually balance the crazy scene.
But something about that floor, the need, the rush and the satisfaction pulls her in for now. And the service — you would not believe how lame the hospital is, leaving the poor patients completely out of the decision-making process, leaving the ICU staff to console and counsel, though they’re not supposed to because of the liability, but sometimes you just have to offer a comforting word. So, yes, she might do it for a while. For the experience. You know?
He knows, sensing an emotion from the depths. This highly regarded birthday on which his life will begin begins with pride for what she does, who she is — or rather who she has become. In trying to convey his pride for her he chokes up. He can’t tell why. On a new tack to clear the airwaves, he assesses medical services here in Paradise. Or would that be here in the moment? The airwaves won’t clear.
Why are you here?
So he defaults to the predictable charm of the gathering, by telling her he’s proud of her and letting it go at that, except that, too, sticks like a bone in his maw.
She gets him off the hook with the assurance that Skinny took to international travel like a fish, napping on her chest or staring at the clouds and whatnot.
“Skinny?”
She thought he knew. It’s only natural that Skinny sleep it off. But he doesn’t know, because it’s a surprise. She leads him to the front office, where Skinny sits in a kennel, nose to nose with Little Dog. Little Dog whines.
Skinny hisses.
“Little Dog.” He points to the far corner. Little Dog retreats. He pulls Skinny from the kennel and holds her eye to eye. “Skinny.” She meows, beseeching an explanation, after the things he said and so many sweet nothings. He slumps with regret for what feels like the neglect of a loved one. With his face next to hers he breathes her scent. She purrs. He cries; it comes so easily and he’s not sure why, but of course he knows why.
Minna hugs them both but the sobs build to a tumult, too much for Skinny, who wiggles to get back into the kennel. So the two former loves entwine and take cover till the bad part goes away. Minna’s bedside manner is not what it was. Well, maybe later on that issue. For now they struggle for absolution with more seasoned ministrations.
But the difference between them is deeper than surface skills can absolve. Her speech is still too fast with too many clichés — never mind. It’s her touch that has changed, tapping into comfort, easing the discord, letting guilt, loss and pain sort out and go away. She talks about the old neighborhood. “What a scene. Man, that Gene. She refused to move from her beach house, even though she was only renting and couldn’t stall forever, because they brought in the court guys, but she needed more time to find a condo that would allow a cat. Because she promised, and she really loves you. I’m not sure why, but she thinks you’re the greatest guy who ever got roughed up on South Maui. She loves Skinny, too. Man, you think you’re all broke up and feeling huhu; you should have seen Gene carry on. And poor Skinny — she didn’t know whether to be happy or sad. She traveled like a pro. I think she’s happy now. I don’t know how you do it.”
He laughs. He touches her face. He sees what happened to her and to him. It should be back on. Why not?
She doubts it. How could it be? We don’t need another knock-down drag-out of the rough stuff or the bumpy aftermath. It was bad enough one time. Neither one rushes into legal needs, but that doesn’t mean it’s a romance revived. So it’s a push, on the fence, teetering this way and that, and that’s where it sits by tacit agreement, as if avoidance of tough issues is what they lacked all along. Of course any modern counselor would diagnose repressive denial, and that might do in the short term but can never be the basis of a successful relationship, much less a marriage.
But these two veterans of the headlong rush don’t need a counselor to know that they can’t salvage a life together with a few hours of footsies. So they set life aside for the few hours ahead. They seem to accept the outcome, one way or another, which a different counselor might diagnose as advanced behavior, allowing an issue to be resolved by time and manners, by distracting themselves from the potential pain with more productive behavior, in this case setting Skinny up with water and a piece of poisson cru rinsed and cut into bits. Because the best remedy for most ailments is giving to a cause greater than the self, and Skinny is the perfect greatness — so small, so expressive, so fuzzy, demanding and cute.
They watch her eat.
Ravid arranges a shirt as a nest in her kennel. She curls up and watches them back. He puts a hand on her head and she meows, then purrs. Then she sleeps. Holding hands again like kids sharing an adventure, they let go and return to the party. The gathering has gained momentum, loosening up from its initial stupidity and stiffness, becoming animated and interesting.
What harm in holding hands? Or resting an arm on a shoulder or around a waist? Or allowing fingertips to lightly brush the other’s skin? No harm at all, and it adds dimension to the soirée, challenging the audience to observe obliquely and murmur discreetly. So the narrative plays out to an audience enrapt, waiting to see which ending the players will choose.
An equally compelling subplot is Moeava, professional diver, sharing life and times with two women who listen attentively while watching each other. Cosima and Monique must be acquainted but behave as if just introduced. They scan each other while touching the man between them, fondly or vicariously; who knows? The giant diver regales them with know-how, close calls and sea beasts, his she
er size the perfect protection all women crave. Don’t they? Curiosity demands discretion here too, though conjecture is rampant. Who will go home with whom, and who will be on top?
Ravid stares from within in his own sphere of doubt and wonder till he sees Hereata surrounded by others. She also sees and knows, her sad smile an epitaph to what might have been — or, more precisely to what has been. The strange new guy is on her like a shadow, like he knows from experience. So Ravid approaches to put an arm around her and tell Oybek she is among the wonderful people of the world. Oybek’s agreement is hard to watch; he assures that he is well aware, fully informed, absolutely apprised, sated, glutted and yadda, yadda, yadda, licking his chops like a giant monitor lizard over delicious duckling snacks. Oybek is not your average friendly fellow. Ravid wasn’t entirely wrong to draw the line and stand his ground, but a dash of self-redemption is in order. They may become friends. Who knows? Stranger things have happened.
Oybek apologizes again for any bad impression he made. Ravid says, “No. I am the one to apologize. My anger makes me a fool. I can’t bark and lunge at every stranger.”
“I am happy to hear you say this,” Oybek says — I love you say and honor you this.
“But you were an asshole. That night at the buffet. You were wrong.”
“Yes,” Oybek laughs. “Asshole me. All the time, but especially drink. Not good. Please forgive. But, please, I not asshole in dive. Only bad diver, me. But you, you good man. Thank you for save me.”
A rich and happy life has many endings, with all but one followed by another beginning. Maybe even the final curtain is another embarkation. Who knows? But that last one is problematic, with no flesh and love, unless it’s there too in a form as yet unimagined.
Well, that stuff could go either way — plenty time to worry later. What is known for now is that anybody can be happy once he’s logged enough heartbreak. Ravid Rockulz feels blessed, or maybe hopes that a blessing is on the way, as his own pages turn to what comes next.
The next chapter begins only three hours hence, when the guests are gone, each farewell accompanied by birthday wishes and love. Hereata recognizes the milestone and whispers, “You never told me she was so beautiful.”
Well, of course he did, but rather than correct her, he says, “You are so beautiful.” She blushes, and all is well, maybe. Oybek bows, shakes hands with his host, wishes him the very happiest of birthdays and leaves with his paramour.
Once the place is secured, doors and windows, Skinny is allowed to wander the room, read the scents and take note. Little Dog is allowed in with strict instructions to lie down and stay. Stay. You stay.
Then the former loves disrobe like roommates who do this every evening in preparation for sleep. Unlike most roommates, they pause before the bed. Then comes what neither can remember from the past: the soft kiss. He wants to assure her that this is going nowhere, but he can’t for fear of forfeiting the encounter. She wants to pledge that they may give of themselves with no commitment but fears he may abandon hope. So they sway on the precipice.
They recline. A few more tears fall for what’s been lost, the inevitable impasse and the chance for peace. Who knows?
So night falls on shipwreck survivors washed onto a distant shore, hugging the warmth between them.
With a whimper in the wee hours she asks if he’s in love with Hereata.
“She took care of me, and I love her for it, yes.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I am not in love with Hereata.”
She says he might not believe her, and that’s his choice, and she’s learned these last two years that she must respect his choice. But she never loved Darryl, and she never ate him. “I know what he told you, but it’s not true.”
“What?”
Never, ever — and in fact she only allowed da kine once, back when she was nearly fourteen and didn’t know nothing — I mean, anything. She wants Ravid to hear this — whether he believes it or not, because she knows how his mind works, or used to work, and how little things that shouldn’t bother him build up inside, and then they do bother him. And she doesn’t want that, so she needs to stop the pain before it starts. Because it hurt her too — hurt like crazy, because he had the soft touch of a pneumatic jack hammer, I mean Darryl did, and besides that, he was gross, dirty, with all this cheesy shit on the end, and it was bent way to one side.
She nearly puked and made him wipe it off.
He forced her and thought she loved it and was in love, because she never called the cops. “And that’s the truth. I swear it. I had to tell you. I know you think I’m evil, but I’m not. I don’t want to sound like a victim, but Darryl is nothing. He did a mean and ugly thing. It’s like when you step in dog poo, you know? You wipe it off, but it still stinks for a while. But it goes away. I mean you don’t throw your shoes away. You know?”
Ravid wonders what could possibly possess a woman — a wife — to describe another man in gross terms to her husband.
Minna knows what all men must hear in order to let a thing go — the sordid graphic detail that alone will let their minds stop churning.
Ravid takes a brief moment to sort the images, hanging up on a tough one: “What is the da kine you only allowed once?”
“Ooohhh no — not like that. Not that. Only pussy kine.”
Which moves things along to what must be easier, the dog poo on her shoes. He sighs, with resignation maybe. “One time? And he get all strung out for life?”
“Hey. Some guys, you know. They cannot let go, ever.”
No. They can’t. Lucky I’m not one of them. I mean, I can live with that, for now, even if Darryl is jacking off so hard this very minute he’s squeezing tears out the corners thinking of Minna and his one go with love.
Ravid rolls to the side so she can see his forgiveness in refracted moonlight — even as stray pangs interrupt this program — all this cheesy shit on the end of it? But then the cheese melts away too, as all will in the watery bye’mbye.
She sees. She smiles back, wondering if he bought it, hoping that he did, and that they might finally have peace, whatever their legal status. Is that too much to ask?
Well, no, it’s not, though life and happiness present regular tests to every seeker. These seekers may now apply what they’ve learned. On the one hand, they’ll see if some attraction can be revived — not on firm bodies or lusty potential but in the light shining between them. On the other hand, they must keep a few things buried, events and regrets that will undermine spiritual growth, unless allowed to decompose and fade away, as some things should.
The first opportunity for ending and beginning comes in the morning, on learning that Moeava blocked the day off, no trip, demonstrating intuition and foresight. He may have anticipated a hangover but did not likely foresee his windfall of women. On the surface, it looks like a fling, a casual ménage, with its fun and kink, its derring-do, surprises, demands, poses and good cheer among newfound friends. Except that sunrise finds the trio waking but not moving, unwilling to untangle the fondness stumbled into.
Realizing his role as a practical functionary in the drama playing out, Moeava grows worldly wise, contrasting with yesterday, when he was merely big, longing and lonely. He offers no detail or flourish, not the first hint or tease, nothing but affirmation of his great good luck to have two girlfriends who like each other. On second thought, he corrects himself: Monique has both a girlfriend and boyfriend who get along and may someday like each other.
“But you already liked Cosima. Since before we met — long before, I would think.”
That may be, but the one-way affection of yesterday is as removed from last night as flat water from pitching seas. Cosima lacks confidence and initiative. Monique provides all of the above. Cosima does what Monique says. Monique likes to watch, and Cosima likes her watching. Neither cares if Moeava watches, so he watches for a while, but nobody minds if he takes a little snooze while they play together.
Wai
t a minute. She didn’t lack confidence or initiative with me. Let it go, again and again as necessary, though some illusory bones will shimmer for a long time.
Never mind. Monique is oldest and wisest after all and seems best suited to guide them on their tricky path, to manage inventory so that all needs are met, and let’s face it, friends bonding in love is a better event that one man’s sexual satisfaction. N’est-ce pas?
Moeava will not belabor complexities of dominance, submission or reciprocation other than Monique’s first rule of respect: that nobody require anybody else to swim the bay at night or day.
So the morning stretches to casual brunch and a spontaneous outing to Taverua reef for introductions and another day together, which is different than an old life resumed.
Minna has a week and then another. Their schedules open and merge. Common courtesy and growing affection are tempered by Hereata’s lingering regret.
Oybek grows gregarious on heightened self-esteem. He calls Hereata the love of his life. He speaks of greatness and showbiz. Ravid has had smoke blown up his ass daily for years in the tourist trade by losers flaunting their wares far from home. Influence, wealth, name-dropping and personal questions mark the common commuter in quiet desperation. The smoke billows from LA, where success is waiting around the corner. Could you be part of my new project? Fuckinay, baby, you might know Spielberg. I do. Do you?
Granting the benefit of all doubts, Ravid does not think Oybek a loser, even as Oybek talks about a decent advance, nothing too big, say twenty grand, which will be peanuts next to what they’ll soon do, but it should get the lovebirds by for a couple of weeks. Oybek next talks about immediate needs, including the move to LA.
Flame Angels Page 40
