Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  Then again, that tack could land him back in localville, with the picket fence, the pit bull, and big-wheel truck. Escape from America seemed best for all parties, but he did want to avoid the pesky deportation process, with all those forms and phone calls likely to take the staff past four, what with required clearances from the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, and so many new departments mandated to keep America free. He did not want to return to the Middle East, and he could buy a ticket due south. So maybe they could ignore the visa violation and help the alien onto a flight to French Polynesia.

  Ravid Rockulz qualified for immediate removal from US soil despite his affinity for Hawaii reefs and for his service to society, his photography, artistry, and lovable traits—which should qualify him for a ration of aloha, if you don’t mind. Maybe marriage would count for much. Where was the wife, anyway? Or the marriage certificate? Was this trip of a commercial nature? And whereas the destination country requires a return ticket, in this case the country of departure requires it strictly one way. INS knew the tricks of strangers marrying illegals for a few grand then thumbing their noses at a bureaucracy that busted its chops to keep America free. Worse yet, a marital audit could reveal the shallow brevity leading to matrimony. Was the marriage a sleight of hand meant to slip an alien in? Or was this love?

  Married in two weeks?

  Ravi and Minna’s marriage paled next to the magnitude of their love. Does that sound convincing? But it’s fact: Ravi and Minna gave in to social contrivance in a spirit of cooperation. They had done the right thing in a context of non-stop kinky sex. They did not rush to the altar. The marriage was not to make Ravi legal. It was for love. Since then, things changed.

  In one more week?

  Yeah, well, it’s like the bumper sticker says: Shit happens.

  He found out she’d dilated indiscriminately for weirdoes. She took refuge in pidgin with prideful ignorance in her semi-retarded delivery to claim a spurious identity: local. What could a citizen of the world do, stay married? The INS should send her back. She was like the alien who jumped out of that guy’s rib cage. Why would he stay married to her?

  He wasn’t too sure how to untie the matrimonial knot. But they have ways, annulment or no-contest. A lawyer would know—a good Tahiti lawyer. Besides, what do these lolo bureaucrats care about my marriage? They don’t. Sundown and payday—they care about that.

  So with discretion as the better part of practicality, Ravi took control. “Hey! I just remembered. I’ll be right back.” And he walked away from the ticket counter, a free man on the move.

  Minna could not compensate the damage but seemed intent on trying. So he shuffled out to the curb where three security guys blew whistles and yelled to move. She got out to open the trunk, but he called, “Wait!” Wait because he couldn’t get a ticket without a special visa—without a trip to Israel, LA or San Fran at six hours each way plus airfare, cab fare, hotel, and meals, plus the vagaries of a foreign consulate in California and unbearable fatigue. He’d look like a world-class schlepper at every security shakedown.

  “I might have a way,” she said, as he pondered rushing the last hundred yards onto the airplane.

  “Almost noon already. Tomorrow is Saturday. What can you do?”

  “I can call my auntie today, and maybe you can go tomorrow.”

  The day was hot but coldly practical. Minna’s Auntie Velma had not spent the last thirty years running a federal judge’s office fa notting. Velma had also been classmates with Kevin Kaneshiro, with whom she shared a career path and a joke that the judicial and legislative branches would always communicate on their watch. Besides that, Kevin was Velma’s fifth cousin. Auntie Velma and Kevin Kaneshiro had another cousin Kiki Hironage who worked as receptionist at an Asian consulate in Honolulu. Kiki was mahu, a friendly fellow whose occasional boyfriend was U.S. liaison at the same Asian country’s consulate in San Francisco, next door to the Israeli consulate, where another gay fellow… Five phone calls can move the world in an hour on proper connections.

  In this case, ohana Somayan needed removal from the fractious folly of its n’er do well nubility, Minna of the woeful judgment. She what? She marry one haole, and now he get all itchy for leave already? Well, whatchou going do?

  Auntie Velma could also help with annulment if the ex could come up with a permanent address where documents could be sent.

  Who said things couldn’t happen for the best? By early evening, Ravi and Minna shared a new satisfaction. She’d secured his exit. They rode back to the south side. He got out and leaned back in. “Your mother doesn’t seem to hate me. Not like Aunt Velma.”

  “She is nice. My mother.”

  “What did she say on the way out?”

  Minna shrugged. “‘Cute da kine.’”

  “Thank you,” he said. “I owe you one.”

  “Nada mucho,” she replied. “You don’t owe me.”

  Maybe not, but still. “How come your aunt and cousins got names like Kaneshiro and Hironage?”

  “Poi dogs. Velma’s parents and grands worked the cane fields. Now everyone cousins and in-laws.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “She’s okay. She just doesn’t want to hear it from you.”

  “Your family pulling strings to make it happen. Impressive.”

  “You should see what George Bush’s family did.”

  The laughter felt spontaneous but faded fast. Would she pick him up tomorrow at one thirty? She would. “I’ll call when I get my seat assignment. Then I’m kosher, I mean legal…”

  “I know what kosher is.”

  “Oh, yeah? What is kosher?”

  “It’s like, you know, da kine.”

  He laughed again and stepped back to wave as she drove away. Inside, the scene of his life was an empty set. He went back out and up the beach to buy sardines and crackers and a bottle of water. Back inside, he lit a candle and sat on the floor to eat lower on the food chain. Back out for a quart of beer, he returned for the last time and slept to the wee hours before heading back up the beach in moonlight to Gene’s house. Gene and Skinny would be sleeping unless Skinny ran off, feeling abandoned after giving her love that was supposed to be returned forever. How do you explain life to a cat?

  Stars beckoned again as a better place to be, till he stopped to feel the place—his place. He wasn’t leaving the tropics. He was only changing latitudes. He would only change a pattern gone bad. Things were working out. He would wait on Gene’s porch for daylight, to tell Skinny again of life’s changes…

  But the little orange cat waited, front paws tucked in moonbeams. She called, “Meow!” So he held her to weigh his greatest loss: pure love. What the hell was Gene doing, letting her out on her first night, in a new neighborhood with unknown hazards? But he shuddered with relief; no dog, no collar hooked on a fence, no nothing. Skinny purred: This is what we’ve come to.

  “I know. I thought I’d hang out. Why not?”

  He sat against the wall and she curled onto his lap, where they drifted into slumber the few hours till dawn. At the edge of the lot he set her down for a leak and joined in. They watched each other and the breaking day, knowing it was different. She cried, so he picked her up and walked back to Gene’s porch, where Gene waited with coffee and two dishes, one with water and another for shrimp, which Ravi called extravagant till Gene assured him the shrimp was too old to sell, but Skinny loved it, and it was cheap next to psychiatric care.

  “Who needs psychiatric care?”

  She lit a smoke and gave him the look. “You need coffee?”

  “Yeah.” They sipped. “Why did you let her out?”

  “She got out. I couldn’t find her. Where was she? On the porch?” He nodded. “She knows. She’s fine. Don’t worry. She’s eating.”

  “Yeah. Shrimp.”

  He peeled his shirt and arranged it in a corner, where Skinny curled again, and Gene pulled him in for a hug. “Take care of yourself. I got Skinny.” She went in to get ready for work. Rav
i watched his cat another minute then left quietly, except for the heaving sobs.

  He packed and called for a seat assignment. The airline agent reviewed the file and confirmed the unusual visa status, not allowing continuing stay in the US, but he was free to exit on special provision of the Federal District Court of… “Federal Court?”

  That was none of an agent’s business, and if you want to go ahead and assign a seat, then everything will be okay. Okay?

  The exchange felt locally vetted and secure.

  Minna came early. He was ready. On the way he asked that she check on Skinny—alone, please—and see that Gene stays okay with the situation. A question lingered in the air: Why? She gave him a card with her mailing address for news of arrival and whatever he might want to report and what not. Neither one mentioned his mailing address or what it would enable on the man-and-wife situation.

  At the airport, she honked and waved at friends, remarking how much fun Leila used to be when she was drinking. “Twenty-five and no more for her already.” She called it terrible, pulling to the curb in a better mood, again praising his water wisdom. He sensed another wisdom, displacing the difficulty. They should say goodbye like friends who had taken care of each other and not mention the promise they’d shared before witnesses and the state.

  It went okay, hoisting bags, finding his itinerary and passport, down to the easy farewell. He feared an embrace and a wrong message but couldn’t just walk away. Teetering between wrong messages, he got stuck, till she came in to whisper love forever. So he gave in, though he longed to forget. He said, “Thank you,” and her sad smile quivered.

  He turned without looking back. “I don’t mind,” she called. “Don’t forget.”

  He raised a hand to affirm his knowing or in farewell or maybe wishing her peace.

  •

  Okay, once more, from the top, with feeling:

  •

  And so our story begins…

  We Will Begin Regular Boarding in Just a Few Brief Minutes

  Modern times present a sensory overload thick as white noise in a fog. The electron melee numbs a modern person who must insulate the self from the onslaught. That person might seem “out of it,” as reclusive intervals allow deeper access to a singular place of meaning, to sort valuables from junk in a crazy, mixed-up world.

  Reflection commonly occurs at the gate, between check-in and boarding. Ravi Rockulz wonders with faint jocularity if the airlines hire psychiatrists to enhance the travel experience so the adventurous, uprooted, disenfranchised, and homeless might take inventory of their hurried, empty lives.

  Let’s see: This item used to be happy, so I’ll lean it into a corner with these other tidbits I once thought were good. While this, that and those other items are sad, very sad, so I’ll stack those on the middle shelf, next to the huge shelf already sagging with tragedies.

  Ha. Ha, ha.

  Very funny. Why am I not laughing?

  Ravi Rockulz would have called anyone crazy—or in need of a scratch on the head—for suggesting that he would abandon Skinny. Well, not abandon. Not really. Gene loves kitties; she said so and has three of her own, and it’s the same neighborhood, so she’ll know where to look if Skinny goes home. Or what used to be home. It’s still home in many senses. And a fellow can always duck back in for his cat, once he gets settled in his new home, in Tahiti. Maybe. Maybe they have a special three-day visa for pet rescue. Or a half-day visa to salvage the last vestige of love in life. Maybe an in-and-out Skinny visa? A fifteen-minute quickie on account of she only weighs seven pounds? Who knows? Maybe Hawaii will get easier on the tidal wave of construction and the forced march to convenience. Maybe Aunt Velma will agree to something or other, and the old place will be up for rent again, and he and Minna can be friends with some personal friction now and then for understanding. Why not?

  But speculation on the old neighborhood and salt-o’-the-sea soulful living one more time is a symptom of happiness going away. Old neighborhoods do not shape up again. Wishful thinking is a last gasp, especially with former happiness front and center on life’s lazy Susan. You can watch it go round, but you can’t reach it any more than bringing money home from a dream. They fade away, the moments, the wish, the happiness, the life. For that matter, what’s the diff between a moment and a memory? Each is illusory, giving way to new moments and memories in the making, until they too…

  Fuck that. You’re so full of shit. Happiness in the moment is fun. It feels good unless you’re a nincompoop schmendrick who needs to call it illusory—a bump on a log who never cut loose and let go headlong for no tomorrow, for a million moments in a row, like from jumping off a perfectly good boat down to a hundred and forty feet, where reality can’t get any more real. That is, with tanks and daylight and magic, not tied up in duct tape at night.

  Fuck that, too. Let it go.

  Except that letting go might be the new buzz phrase for modern people processing the overload. Except that cliché is often grounded in reason and necessity. Like now when a man of fortitude can let go with alacrity—except for Skinny. She’ll likely leave the body in this life before he does, and that’s a consolation—a difficult scenario made worse by departure. But enough of that. All people and cats must take the journey sooner or later, always alone.

  Enough.

  Put your mind elsewhere. See the future as an oasis, beyond the shimmering heat, forming up and solidifying.

  Hey, I told you to ditch that illusion noise. Horizons are good because life can be dynamic, and mobility can balance the view with cross-cultural experience, not to mention the interconnectedness most integral to the yadda yadda, hitherto and forever more. Outer-connectedness? That’s good but can’t very well be integral. Outegral?

  Let’s face it: Until the last hundred and fifty years, a trip over fifteen miles took a whole day. That was on land, and a seafarer could cover what, a hundred or two hundred in a day? That doesn’t count here because life on board in the olden days was a commitment of no return, for a year or two anyway.

  Now a traveler can span half the globe in a day, ostensibly adding years to normal life span in time saved. Besides that, jet travel adds scope to life, with access to exotic places formerly reserved for intrepid or wealthy adventurers.

  Except that time saved is not time earned. Frequent flyers actually get less return on effort than their ancestors, who seemed happier on fewer miles and no amazing free gifts. They lived free till the end—free of surrogate adventurers in oppressive density chattering tediously about physical contact with places never understood, never lived but merely visited on brief reprieve from personal ruts. Like now, in the gridlock of vacationers at a gate, suburbanites, pedestrian masses yearning to be free, sighing in wonder at the fabulous sights and sounds they will soon own by virtue of physical presence. I was there. I did that. Count me in for six days of it before returning to the job—or the position—where promotion and a decent market share mean more of the best of everything.

  Then comes supplemental acquisition, a third car or an extra TV. You can’t beat the newer, bigger screens with hi-def, hi-tech. New wall-to-wall carpet a few years ahead of schedule might be nice, along with new appliances or a nip and tuck. Like that couple on the far side of sixty: Her cereal bowl tits and his drum-tight neck make them right for a zombie thriller from Hollywood. How much better could things get for people like that? Well, they’re headed to Tahiti for starters, or finishers. Who cares? They’re not hurting anything. Unless he’s an industrial asshole hell-bent on killing nature for personal gain, like the billion-dollar developer on the Westside who lives in Europe but insists on fouling reefs in the name of livelihood—for the people, don’t you know? Still, the tits and neck are enough to make you wonder where we’d be without growth.

  “Mark my words,” says the disheveled man in the seat beside Ravi. “One day soon, this will be the Executive Club.”

  “What?”

  “The Executive Club. You know what that is, don�
��t you? You pay a few hundred bucks a year, and they treat you like a human being, like they used to do for free—like washing your windshield and checking your oil. You’re old enough to remember that. You look old enough—no offense, but you been run hard, huh? Anyway, now you pay extra. A few hundred and they give you cold soda, air conditioning, pay phones, and magazines.”

  Ravi nods, hoping the man won’t go berserk, though events of recent days and nights have fairly inured him to hazard. The gate area is choked with more bodies than seats, with people squeezed in, sitting on the floor, mulling, lingering around the counter, where they are reminded to stay in front if they’re in line and somewhere else if they’re not. We must follow these rules for security.

  To keep America free?

  Nobody listens because no place else is available. Still, reminders defer to rules—more rules for more people doing wrong things. But what can they do? They could stand on their heads or lie down, but that wouldn’t free much space. They could vanish into thin air…

  “You see what’s happened? That building shields the sun on half the gate area, but the rest gets direct sunlight. You think you’re hot? You’re sweating? You think it’s beading up between your eyes and rolling down your nose and your neck and ribs? Me too. But I got news for you: We’re in the—pardon me—fucking shade. Ten degrees hotter over there. We got the good seats. I’m telling you: this’ll be the Executive Fucking Club.” Ravi swelters but feels grateful for marginal shade. Wiping his forehead, he ignores the fellow next door.

  But no—“Okay, we feel it. They feel it. You watch. Next thing: They’ll see what we see. It starts small—up-charge on Executive Seating. That’s shade. You got what, two hundred seats on this side? They’ll start at five bucks. That sells out; they’ll test the market on ten or twenty. What the hell—you spent hundreds on the ticket, so why not start cool? Not cool, but not so hot. Get it? I’m in business. Tourism. That’s business. That extra twenty bucks adds up to what, say, two grand on a full flight? And most flights are full. That’s pure gravy. Two grand could make the difference between profit and loss on some flights. You’ll see. People crowded tighter than a gnat’s asshole in the not-so-fucking shade. Make that cool, soothing shade. Or you sit with the poor grunts sweating bullets on folding chairs, no foam, in the sun. Sweating. What they do best. You wait.”