Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  Ravid laughs.

  Minna smiles at his laughter.

  Oybek consoles, softening the situation with his own bedside manner; they won’t need to stay there forever, though many artists do, because of the wonderful social life and the artistic and intellectual stimulation. Duration can be decided later, though a few years will be necessary to get things going.

  Ravid feels foolish, asking the obvious question: “If it’s that easy to make millions, what are you doing here?”

  “I discover you! You make millions, yes, with a property. Without a property, you make nothing!”

  Ravid still feels foolish as he explains the obvious, that an underwater photographer living in LA will take no more photos underwater. He feels more foolish conversing with a man who last year was a foe and this year has done little more than blow smoke up his ass. Make that smog. Or was that the year before last already? At the foolish summit is the ridiculous subject of LA itself and the pros and cons of living there as requisite to artistic fame and fortune. More to the point, LA is a joke or a curse or a laughable, pitiful reality.

  Oybek says that Ravid will take plenty more pictures and not just in French Polynesia but also in the Andaman Sea before it dies completely, in the Maldives and Truk — ooh, and the Red Sea. “You have been there?”

  “I am from there.”

  “Iloji yo’q! I knew it!”

  Oh, man. This guy is strange.

  The day before returning to LA, Oybek hands Ravid a check for twenty thousand dollars. Ravid holds it gingerly, while asking about a contract or some assurance that this is not a debt.

  Oybek laughs too loud and says not to worry, that he knows the difference between an advance and a debt. He promises a contract forthcoming, and it will be satisfactory to all parties. If you don’t like it, don’t sign it! In the meantime, spend the money. Enjoy.

  And don’t worry; the money will be made back, because Ravid has been officially recognized for genius, which is what Oybek does for a living. Do you understand this? Could a seasoned professional be wrong? Yes, he could be, but he’s not been wrong yet, and some of his picks were far less certain than this one.

  “Look this!” Oybek beams, pointing at an octopus peeking electrically over a boulder.

  Well, yes, the octopus shot is remarkable, so Ravid accepts ovations for his greatness. Who knows? Maybe success can be guaranteed. Twenty grand is more than Ravid ever made in one day. He can’t yet retire, but he rests easy. Such is the power of a solid C-list operator.

  The next month passes in reverie, what younger lovers envisioned only two years ago. Ravid dives and shoots in the mornings. Minna helps at the animal hospital. She notifies her family and the other hospital that she’ll remain on extended leave, and that the annulment is off. She won’t spell it out but leaves it to them. Better they figure it out than hear the bad news.

  She checks into a medical care facility to see about a job and hits the language barrier. She begins French lessons and attempts the new language in her daily life.

  She’s getting it when Ravid announces they will live together as a married couple — in LA, to gain a solid footing in marine photographic art, but only for a year.

  Or two.

  Or maybe not, except that it gains momentum and feels like it’s on, even as the smoke billows up their collective ass; they giggle, as if at the wispy tickle. Oybek’s revenge would be huge, if that’s what this is. But Oybek is a self-made man — in show biz, which is also known for hugeness. So?

  Why practice French if the show is moving to LA?

  Don’t worry; you can practice anything you want in LA.

  Does a Mother’s Opinion Count for Nothing?

  Well, yes.

  And no.

  Of course Basha Rivka’s two cents is worth every penny, because she is the mother after all, and let’s face it: you only have one mother, and if you don’t factor her views and assessments into the big picture, then her wisdom and experience are wasted.

  Wasted!

  Your choice.

  Yet in the practical sense, what difference can it make at this juncture? On the bright side, Basha Rivka is pleased; LA at last, where at least a young man can be with his own kind, even if a proper wife is temporarily beyond reach.

  Okay, so he married a sh... a lovely girl who just so happens to be go...not Jewish. If she makes babies and is good to Ravy, then they should both live and be well. Besides, once she sees the light, she may well convert, for the children’s sake.

  “But tell me something, Ravy. Aval tagid li, hi be-herayon?”

  “No, Mother. She is not pregnant.”

  “Why not?”

  “Should I put her on the line?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Maybe she’s a virgin.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised. Yes I would. Tell me when.”

  “When what?”

  “When I can come to LA to visit my grandchildren.”

  “It will be at least nine months from now.”

  “God willing.”

  “At least.”

  “From your lips.”

  “We’ll begin right away. Make your reservation.”

  “I knew you would make me happy. Some day.”

  “You did?”

  “Well, I hoped for the best.”

  And so he tells his poor, lonely mother of his productive efforts in Tahiti, where he developed into the foremost marine photographer in the world. One of, at any rate.

  “Foremost, no less.”

  “That’s what Oybek says. He knows. He does this for a living.”

  “So now you might make a living too, still with the bubbles but with some shekels too. Did you cash the check yet?”

  “Not yet. I don’t want to put it into a bank here and then have to get it out.”

  “How do you know it’s good?”

  “How do you know it’s not?”

  “When will you listen? Will you do me a favor? I don’t ask for so much.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Cash the check.”

  “Why?”

  “So you know. So you’re not such a schmendrik all the time, bouncing around like a... like a what?”

  “Like a rolling stone. No moss.”

  “You said it.”

  “Okay. I’ll cash it.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  “And please, let me know when.”

  “Yes, I’ll let you know.”

  Little Dog Laughed

  Ravid’s first trip to LA is not theoretical, nor is it burdened by the speculation so often required of young, emerging artists with worlds to conquer, beginning with LA. Ravid Rockulz will land on solid ground, arriving directly from the exotic reaches of the great wide world with mysteries to share.

  The flight itself is surreal, perhaps the greatest of mysteries. It’s like giving up Tahiti as a home in exchange for LA, except there ain’t no like about it.

  Los Angeles is a sprawling overlay of horrific excess — cars, billboards, lights, noise, filth, perversion, cement, garbage, chrome, glass, disease and human people in the millions upon millions. The people move most visibly, delivering themselves and their wares everywhere all the time, rendering the place barren of organic innocence and natural order. This is where freeway gunslingers try to soften their rage by shooting commuters in the next lane over and fail. Six more lanes feel crazy, wild and free; it’s a shooting spree on the freeway, and erratic violence does make more sense if seen in context.

  With azure blue still warm in the brainpan here comes LAX and the very best in hospitality Inglewood has to offer, as long as you stay inside the airport boundary while on foot, you honky white devil motherfucker. That should be easy; Oybek is sending a car, so never mind the yellow brown cloud covering creation like a dirty blanket or the masonry cap on everything or the teeming ambition or general neurosis or specific psychosis oozing out of the skin of th
e place with enough sweat, grit and desperation to make a tropical waterman shrink in profile.

  Oh, and the chemical shit smell.

  But give peace a chance; LA is not an open sore that makes French Polynesia a different reality. It looks yellow-gray over a scabby crust coming in to LAX, but then you’re in, so to speak. LA is actually a vibrant urban center with many major sports teams, millions of fans, a dynamic cast of characters, billions in net worth and of course much, much more. LA gets a bad rap on population density, road rage, homicide and homosexuality, but that’s normal if viewed in proper format. These eccentricities are merely pivotal to an enduring showbiz industry. Hey — any species will behave like rats in a cage if population growth goes unchecked, if its individuals out-need the resources at hand. That’s only growing pains. People always find more of what they desperately need, given time. Don’t they?

  There they are, Oybek’s greeters; what a joker, sending these playful party girls with their forty-eight double Ds, dragon tattoos, six-inch heels and gregarious cheer, three women looking as good as medium-budget hookers ever did. Well, Ravid isn’t into that sort of thing, because he doesn’t need it, never has, and these days is pleasantly distracted along those lines. And he’s enjoying the matrimonial scene, realizing the comforts available with one true love. Then again, practicality is primary in this town, and gratitude is a fundamental building block. So he’s willing to be amused, especially in view of his nearly fatal misjudgment of Oybek. So it seems prudent to view a show of indebtedness as the better part of discretion to ensure a gilded future — his benefactor did this and can do much more, or less. So he goes along with the spirit of the thing, though four of these six tits are big as soccer balls and just as firm, and I think Earlette is a guy, or used to be.

  But it’s only harmless fun, and it’s easy too; these people are so game, so energetic, so eager to please and appreciate and encourage. How could anybody help but like them?

  Besides, Skinny, Little Dog and Minna won’t be along for two weeks.

  Besides, the work ahead is not work at all but goes along with the fun program. Ravid’s first few hundred photographic selections have been laid out in three products: the coffee table volume is over-produced in grandiose format, about two feet by three feet for the surround sound feel of the thing — and yes, it comes with its own CD, Sounds of Deep Blue Sea. Richly processed colors practically exude texture and pulse. The heavy-bond, plastic-coated pages are in fact finished lithographic prints suitable for framing. What if you love two fish on the same page, back to back?

  Buy two books, you cheap fuck.

  We’re talking fucking art here!

  Fuck.

  Oybek writes the flap copy, where he calls the book, in loose translation, a reef seduction, Hollywood style. He privately predicts that this motherfucker will perform. Executive Producer Solomon Silvergold takes exception to the performance thing — that is, if it’s volume fucking sales you’re talking, because a fucking fish book running two hundred fucking clams is not — not — about to fly off the fucking shelf — not even with that shot of the flying fucking fish! How the fuck did he do that?

  Anyway, who gives a fuck if it gimps off the shelf, what with us controlling distribution and internet sales so margins can run the two hundred, two hundred fucking fifty percent they ought to fucking run? Unless we have to discount it sixty percent. Fuck.

  The second product is your quick-reference guide in standard format with color plates and myriad data on each fish at a lower price point to reach a bigger market. “Yeah, the cheap motherfuckers. Gotta love’um. And I’ll tell you what: this motherfucker will ring the fucking bell. Twenty-nine ninety-fucking-five? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  The third product is the calendar, rounding out the fucking package with twelve shots from the mix, because that’s how it’s done these days, in packages, like we’re Sony fucking Viacom or some shit, which is about the best way to goose your margins overall and pick up the chump change by the wheelbarrow on the back end with the fucking calendar. “Oh, don’t get me wrong; fucking calendars — they got more calendars than a dog has fleas out there now. But this calendar is the lowest price ticket to the show. Get it? Now this motherfucker will perform. And, when we start giving it away free as a premium when you get three of the standards or one deluxe edition, you’ll see the numbers jump. You watch.”

  And so the attentive staff — Tiffany, Blaze, Dexter, Auriel and Edgar — watch Mr. Silvergold elaborate on performance and returns. “I’m telling you it can’t look any better than a package, and packaging gets no finer than such as the excellence before us, unless of course you can get to monthly billings, but we haven’t got that one dicked yet. But we ought to be close. What do we got, maybe fish of the month?”

  “No, sir, we didn’t feel strongly enough that fish of the month would warrant capitalization. It’s a great idea, but we just couldn’t peg a medium.”

  “We were considering, Mr. S, a Tahitian-beauty-of-the-month calendar, mixed in with the fish, two products actually, in male or female as an option, or perhaps an upgrade, with gender mix as a standard order. We have a supplier from Brazil who guarantees the finest lift and spread in the southern hemisphere, but it feels like too many moving parts for a start-up. So we tabled the tits and torsos for now.”

  Well. What the fuck. The package is in production, target-marketed, focus-grouped, revised, tweaked and ready to roll. This is timing. This is synchronicity, with Ravid’s visit putting him in the flesh on The Tonight Show — “Are you fucking kidding me? We got Leno? What did that cost?” — where Jay Leno will hold up to the camera, also in the flesh, the goods, while introducing a new phenomenon in photography and art and fish and...

  “What? Fish?” Jay can’t believe the prompter actually says fish, and as his amazing lantern-jaw drops, and his goofy eyes offset his wide open grin, as if to ask what the fuck can you do, and he says, “I kid you not, it says photography and art and fish, right here. Come on, Zig, swing around and show it. They don’t believe me. Look! Right here! See it! Okay — hey! Ravid Rock...ulz. Welcome!” So proclaims the oracle of late night to the viewing world.

  And so begins the miracle of birth, by which a revelation of beauty and artistic prowess reaches sixty million people in sixty-two countries! This objet d’art in its varying incarnations is made to exist in the minds of one tenth of one percent of the viewing audience. One tenth of one percent of those retaining the image go out in the next three days and buy one or more components of the package...

  Wait! What is that sound...that sound in the distance? Is it the tintinnabulation so warming to the soul of art in its ultimate performance? Do I hear the angels in their sweetest refrain: cha-ching cha-ching?

  Oh, baby.

  What appeared at first blush to be a large book, a medium book and a calendar is actually a social, cultural event — an artistic breakthrough and spiritual attainment that may well rock your world, if you buy it. To call it the next big thing would belabor the obvious. Never before have so many failed to imagine so much — until now. Now they see.

  Many people in the studio and in subsequent studios along the path to media-event significance tell Ravid, “Wow, that’s really something,” which is code for smashing success, blockbuster, bell ringer, cultural phenomenon and yes, the next big thing.

  The package tracks more profitably than a third world dictatorship. Staggering returns soon lose meaning. Revenue becomes a number on paper. Then come the peripherals — the lifelike action figures at twelve dollars each for the individual fish or a more economical fifty dollars for the reef fish community, though the community is actually in segments, with separate economies available for the wrasses, angels, damsels, puffers, eels, butterflies and invertebrates. The Ravid action figure is only thirty dollars, with accessories that cannot be economized in a package, because sometimes an artistic aesthetic requires à la carte, in case a young Reef Ranger — the lifetime membership club the kids lov
e — will begin with the snorkel ensemble action toys and work up to the scuba ensemble action toys — with separate strap fins for Action Ravid!

  From there, the truly committed kid can get the rebreather ensemble action pack, with peripherals available to match any kid’s imagination, like a little decompression chamber for when the Action Ravid doll gets bent, or a portable marine surgery unit with tiny instruments when Action Ravid needs an embolism removed.

  Surgically?

  Oh! Or the authentic Reef Ranger medivac helicopter or the dive boat or the video games, which sell like crazy, though everyone agrees that video alone won’t capture the essence...

  Performance goes from staggering to numbing, and, though taken in stride, it makes for a few wobbles. Ravid declines the praise and congratulations of so many well-wishers who simply love a hero, even if it’s the hero of the hour, because this has gone on a few hundred hours, and he’s also numb! More impressive praise comes from the technicians at the core of every appearance.

  The support crews — those tiny names at the end of every show — sense a phenomenon with more shelf life than your average media product line. These audio, video, techno pros seem less needy than the on-camera “talent” or administrative others appearing higher on the credits. They praise and thank Ravid for taking things to a higher level. They tell him their magic is easier to make with his magic to build on — easy, friendly, anonymous people, since nobody really reads the tiny names. They credit him for making their work happier, and so they show their stuff.

  Does a vibrant waterman really need makeup? No, but an hour of dabbing, brushing, lining and so on looks like nothing to the average viewer, unless the untouched, fabulously handsome before is compared to the electrifying after.

  The Ravid syndicate enjoys studious management, but even a wizened marketeer of Solly Silverberg’s aggressive second nature could not foresee the secondary development in the offing. That is, The True Story of Ravid Rockulz is either leaked or talked around or something or other, till the man who saves reefs and little fishes in the tropics with beautiful women at every turn also becomes a hero, surviving death defying odds in shark infested waters.