Flame Angels

by Robert Wintner

  So the dream ends on suffering, on sun and salt exposure, shark fear and death by bleeding and drowning, with regrets all around except for one diver who is fulfilled by killing the reef killers with himself.

  One scene bobs to the surface like flotsam from the hulk. The crew is sitting around the galley settee in rolling seas. A young member of the dive team slides in beside the fish guy with a manila envelope of prints, close-ups of fish that need no explanation. Quality, color, focus and artistic composition provide fresh perspective on the young diver. “You shot these?” Ravid asks.

  “Yes. They’re not as good as yours. Nobody gets as good as yours. But I thought I’d show you. Do you think they’re good enough for a book?”

  “Why not?”

  The young diver shrugs. “They’re aquarium shots.”

  “These are aquarium shots?”

  “Yeah. I collect and photograph and then let them go. See: it’s the same corals. I rearrange the backdrop.”

  So the dreamer wakes in a cold sweat with the shakes and, alas, more regret. Justice only begins with revenge. But revenge is worse than jealousy and just as destructive. Revenge led to attempted murder of Oybek, who brought me out of the land of bondage. Well, it wasn’t bondage; the tropical life had a charm that I miss and would like to regain, but never mind — just desserts will be in order for these scum sucking...

  Wait a minute! God damn, you’re a tough nut. Are these guys any worse than Oybek? Some of them? Would you kill Oybek by mayhem?

  No, you would not. Whatever Oybek and these guys warrant is not mine to enforce — or receive.

  Well, it’s 5:45. No way I’ll fall back to sleep with only forty-five minutes to go. What the hell, I’ll lay back, close the eyes and breathe slow...

  The second dream is a brief sequence of a man walking into the ocean, then swimming a good way, then descending. Oh, he’s wearing a tank — or is that a set of tanks? Scuba gear will give him two hundred feet without too much weirdness, while a rebreather could get three, maybe three-fifty. But what’s the diff? He’s headed out and down — and out and down and so on as necessary, till this dream can blow its last bubble.

  That’ll teach ’em to mess with the fish guy. He’ll drown himself, though the deed is more lyrically phrased in terms of down and out, or maybe out and down, because he’s not broke and can make plenty more money any time he wants. He’s headed out and down in disregard of depth, distance or current that picks him up to three knots and then five, his life sweeping past like debris. And down, down, down, which has a certain attraction but also fails to satisfy, especially in view of the inevitable choke and glug coming right up.

  Dream three drifts like plankton with unknown potential, feeding and growing in the current. Any given speck of it could be a tiny copepod or giant cephalopod. Some crustaceans are tiny at maturity, while giant squid reach forty feet in two years. Both begin microscopically and feed all the time.

  Ages ago — in showbiz time — the fish guy was a hit. Moreover, he made an impression. Given were his striking good looks, natural flair, decent language skills and excellent manners. He came with tall tales of personal contact with primal forces. He didn’t repeat his stories on the circuit, where tried-and-true thumbnail tales best fill the three-to-five minute anecdotal interview. Sure, those tales retold are instant re-treads to anyone seeing more than one interview, but fresh material can be risky — can lead to a ho-hum. The stuff already tested is much safer. You want them groaning, or thinking, clapping and laughing?

  But Ravid has gone over the rail into unknown seas more often than he’s told a story to a national viewing audience. Which one is scarier? Ravid has intrigue. His humility can quiet a room. He has more tales of depth and encounter than his audience can imagine. His calmness mesmerizes as stories evoke narcotic seduction. Water covers most of the earth — he makes it warm and fuzzy, enticing as a shallow reef.

  The funny guys felt it, more than one saying, “Hey, it’s been great. Stop back any time. Let us know what you’re up to. I mean down to.” The overhead signs for LAUGHTER and APPLAUSE lit up with mild laughter and hearty applause — cut to commercial and prep for the next segment, when Dave or Jay or Jon, Stephen, Conan and yes, the great one, herself, recognized a glitzy life devoid of tropical beauty. Or maybe they only blew smoke up his ass, offering sincerely: “I mean that. You hear?”

  Or: “I envy you.”

  Or: “We’re lucky to have you.”

  Or: “I’d like to trade with you — for a while.”

  Or: “Any time.”

  A Dream Come True ... or Pursued At Any Rate

  So Ravid wakens on an impulse that may contain its own small dose of adrenaline but feels different than fight or flight. It feels more similar to the challenge at depth, of facing conditions no person could ever control, conditions demanding that the diver relax or die. He flies back to LA that night, assuring Minna, the kids and the cat that he’ll be home for din, not tomorrow night but surely by Tuesday night.

  He’s not known in LA like he used to be and really can’t tell if people are actually recognizing the fish guy or have become friendlier than they used to be, which doesn’t seem likely, but still.

  The late night talk shows are filmed in the daytime. Ravid knows where and when. He enters the NBC studio like a kid home from school. “Hey, Roland. I’m back.” Roland smiles with a return greeting and checks the clipboard. Ravid says, “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 Ravid says, “Roland, man, I got to take a whiz. Do you mind?”

  Roland minds and could lose his job by letting anyone through without clearance. But the fish guy remembered his name, after all; now who remembers the name of a no-consequence schmuck working a clipboard and a door at middle age? Nobody who’s anybody, that’s who. Ravid helps him connect the simple dots by nodding just up the hall to the men’s room door. The fuck? It’s right there. What’s a fish guy gonna do, sneak in to the studio? With Meg standing by?

  So Roland, like a fish who sees, knows and feels — a bottom dweller to be sure, maybe a bi-valve crustacean — 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 — swinging in to Stage One and the brave new world of cameras, kliegs, mikes, drama, melodrama, monologue, dialogue, inspired antics, zingers, one-ups and the very elements of greatness, where celebrity is born.

  The swinging doors open on old home week with pats on backs and whispered greetings. Where you been, man? What are you up to? Hey!

  The fish guy is back in khakis and flops and a Hawaiian shirt with flying fish, and he’s walking onto the set in the middle of an interview with that hot new starlet with the cleavage to die for but the halitosis to die from, but nobody knows that except the crews backstage who make foul jokes about its source, speculating on pornographic behavior instead of bulimia and gastric malfunction resulting from chronic tension, what they used to call stage fright, what’s her name...

  “Hey! Looka this. The fish guy!” Ravid waves to the audience, who follow the lights with APPLAUSE. “What? You’re in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes. You said stop by. Anytime.”

  “Yeah, uh...Rave...”

  “Ravid. Rockulz. The fish guy.”

  Well, it’s disappointing to see nervous eyes in a seasoned host. This has to be quick — and good — or it’ll cut to commercial and die in security.

  “Okay, fish guy. Uh, you know Marci...”

  “Hi. It’s a pleasure. I’m so sorry to interrupt, but I have an urgent request for the fish.”

  Well, maybe that was a lucky phrase, a conceptual twist that opens adequately, so a seasoned host can move in. With his face flopping quizzically, he falls into step. “Okay. I’m game. What is it that the fish need?”

  “They’ve been kidnapped and are being held prison
er.”

  Not such a good line — over the top. The host grabs the laugh for himself. “Do we need to come up with a ransom?”

  “No. You need to empty your aquarium and smash it.”

  This could get ugly — no laugh line should be followed with a call for violence. Changing pace with the alacrity that made his mark when he was a far younger host, the host asks: “What do I do with the fish? In my aquarium. I mean my aquarium is smashed, and the fish are flopping on the rug, which won’t stay wet forever, I might add.” LAUGHTER.

  “Smash the fish tank outside. But first give the fish away. Take them to the pet store and give them away.”

  “Okay. Wait a minute. I had fish for dinner...”

  “Not those fish. You should think about not eating those fish. But now I mean the aquarium fish.” The host nods, maybe fishing for another laugh line. “Many thousands are in a warehouse near here. One warehouse out of many. All the colorful fish that should be on reefs.”

  “Hey. Stick around. We gotta take a break, but we’ll be right back with the fish guy, who just dropped in.” Host turns, profile left. “Hey. Are the fishnappers in a Ford Bronco?” LAUGHTER and APPLAUSE and...

  Cut to commercial.

  Here comes security, stopping short for the host’s raised hand. He leans near like he did a long time ago. “Hey, fish guy. You stopped in to tell people to empty their aquariums?”

  Ravid nods.

  “You got a new book? A movie? A toy? You had toys, yeah? Anything?”

  Ravid shakes his head. “I’m here to sell an idea.”

  “Yeah. That’s tough. Look. Sit down here by Marci. You know Marci?” She holds her breath, assessing him sexually. “Other side. Okay? Marci has a movie. We got a young comic in the green room we’ll bump to next week. We’ll have a minute or so with you. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay?” The host asks the producer, who throws his hands in the air and walks away. The security guys fall back.

  And three, two, one...

  “Hey! Marci Marceau opens Tuesday at the Wireless. And the new movie is The Deadbeat Goddess. It looks fantastic, and so do you.” She writhes subtly, her cleavage twisting like a sleepy snake in a pleasant dream, rolling to the other side. “Give it up for Marci Marceau!”

  APPLAUSE!

  Marci exploits the short shrift with a slow rise to stardom, profile left, right and frontal with a leer, some sizzle and a slink. The host gazes along with the rest of the late night crowd at her luscious ass in retreat. Then cut to Camera 2 as he resets to personal confidence. “Okay, we got broken glass out in the yard. We got nothing for dinner, because we had to hurry up and get the fish off the rug and back to the pet shop...”

  “Not necessarily back. Many were bought online. Just find them a home. Don’t worry about the money. Smash the tanks.”

  “You know, I gotta tell you, I never saw this side of you. You’re Mr. Deep Blue Sea. Mr. Cool, Calm and Collected. You got yourself worked up here. What happened?”

  What happened? A man found himself at sea and below it on the reef, where he made close, personal friends and got lucky with a camera and a few contacts and made it, maybe not huge but big, maybe even very big for a while there, and then he stumbled onto what he already knew but declined to focus on it till it went toe to toe, front and center and wouldn’t go away. The old neighborhood is dying because the garish innocents are being sold for money. “I woke up.”

  The host shares his famous clownish incredulity. LAUGHTER. “Fish guy. Work with me here. You woke up, what, from a nap?” Mild laughter.

  “Yes. A long nap. A deep sleep. Now we wake up. You know a dream can feel the same as underwater. Have you tried running through a dream? You can’t. So, you slow down. You drift through a dream. I dream of a reef with thousands of fish — have you ever seen a reef in abundance? Have you ever seen a reef?” Mild laughter.

  “This is the fish guy I know. So why the smashed glass?”

  “The glass is our confinement. Look — why would a man want a job as a prison guard? He gets to go home every night, but he’s tired. He spends his days in jail, like another prisoner.”

  “He probably showers at home.” LAUGHTER.

  “Yes. I’m sure. But I’m making a point. If you have an aquarium, you put yourself inside it. You won’t die there like the fish do, but you shut yourself off...”

  “That’s interesting — life in a fish bowl. Why does that sound familiar?” LAUGHTER. “Hey, it’s always great to see the fish guy again. We gotta run. See you tomorrow, when it’ll be Anna Indiana and Bones Morrow...”

  “I’m not done.”

  “Come back. Can you come back?”

  “Yes, but...”

  And so it would end — the dream, the story and all its endings, wishes, will and consequence. So the average home aquarist, a thirty to fifty-something hobbyist focused on personal amusement, would remain oblivious to reef decimation. Ravid must think and act rather than react. Rising slowly as his slowest bubbles, out of the small talk and into the credits, he steps to the little red light on camera one and beseeches, “Mr. Gorbachev! Tear down that aquarium!” LAUGHTER! APPLAUSE! Pull back. Finish credits. Sustained APPLAUSE! The fish guy stands firm, eye-to-eye with the late night crowd.

  Then he goes home to Hawaii on a wake of goodwill, apology and friendship forever with the TV crowd. He pledges to return with more wonderful stuff and he bids farewell to the last fan waving at LAX, because, let’s face it, the Wheel of Life spins onward with its changes, rewards and disappointments.

  Any ripple on the late night pond will reach the far banks. Thirty million people cannot exist without thought, assessment and statistically measurable response, however small or brief.

  Just so, a lonely boy in Utah wonders what life could hold with no aquarium. But he lost six hundred dollars in fish to an imported disease, and now the on-line guy wants to sell him a back-up system for quarantine, to safeguard his current fish against new fish from sick oceans. Two aquarium systems should be twice the fun of one. But near midnight the boy empties and disconnects his tank. He leaves it in the yard to sleep on the idea. But after a snack before bed, he heads back out to smash it now so he can’t change his mind in the morning, so he can get a fresh start tomorrow on his new hobby, photography, which should cost less, not more. He fantasizes telephoto and mysteries revealed.

  A forty-something woman in a wheelchair in Fresno would rather sell her tank or give it to charity than smash it. The nut guy fish guy wants it all to stop, but what a waste. What a nut, like one of those nuts in the park or in town, preaching the end... Giving it away could likely lead to somebody else setting it up, so she carefully severs the silicone seams in each corner. But then even if it leaks, it could still be a terrarium, and a little seed of liberation has taken sprout, so she puts it in a corner of the garage and fills it with garden utensils.

  A seasoned aquarist in Newark thinks it makes no sense, but by morning he’s still thinking, and so on into the evening news, where thoughts would jostle into the next news cycle, though on this night his thoughts accelerate, because...

  Turner Huldquist was only fourteen when Sumner Redstone hung on to a burning hotel balcony awaiting rescue; Sumner Redstone achieved salvation with uncanny fortitude as he achieved success in business through wizardry. Redstone became an icon to Turner Huldquist, who went on to develop a distribution company that got him far more than the twelve cents most young hustlers get by rubbing two nickels together.

  Six hundred million dollars are nothing to sneeze at, but Sumner Redstone did just that, adding 8-Arms Distribution to his list of majority holdings, under CBS, Viacom, MTV, Black Entertainment Television (that’s funny; he doesn’t look black), Paramount and Dreamworks. Nominal reorganization following the takeover left Turner Huldquist out in the anonymous cold with nothing but money.

  Soon after the takeover, PBS interviewed Redstone at home, showing his three-wall aquarium, eight feet deep with
an abundance of fish, including adult eels and brood tangs. Redstone bragged that he had more fish than they do over there in Hawaii. So the monster who ate Hollywood formally sanctioned aquaria as de rigueur.

  Not long after that, Turner Huldquist remembered and responded with an unfriendly takeover in kind, rendering faux pas what the monster had endorsed. Oh, hell, it’s only petty bickering with a dash of color — and a smidge of social bloodletting. After all, it’s what we live by, a little lower than the angels here in the city of.

  So Turner Huldquist’s camera crew arrives on the morning after the fish guy told the nation to smash its aquarium — arrives as a local pet shop delivers a three hundred gallon tank.

  But a camera crew does not a production company make — yes, he could step up for the home run with his Louisville slugger and get the shot. But maximum potential calls for Production Values Ltd., so the session can come to a boil. The tank is set four feet up and filled for the dramatic release of three hundred gallons to set our deliverance awash, along with the smashed glass — wait a minute. Get another tank. We’ll smash it dry, with glass shards flying all over the fucking place in a beautiful detonation of our oppression. Can you see it? Can you feel it? Wait a minute — three tanks? Maybe do one dry tank with the slugger and the other with a couple three blasting caps? I don’t know. But we’ll segue it all together, you know, artfully. And we’ll lead with Redstone on a short loop repetition of more fish than they do over there in Hawaii more fish than they do over there in Hawaii more fish than they do over there in Hawaii...

  Then we smash some glass. Nuance? Well, you might get some nuance in there on a, you know, shapely sliver or two flying into space on double slo-mo. You know? That’s subtle. Fuck.