Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  Ravi pulls his knife. The meatball throws his arms up in defense. Ravi would puncture the BC to secure the safety stop. The lost BC can be charged to the meatball’s credit card. Maybe. Or maybe Ravi Rockulz will be looking for a decent boat in Cucamonga or Timbuktu, where crews snigger over a load of tourii, bent and drowned, ascending from ninety feet on a sixty-foot plan and lost at sea, where some may still be, in parts or globs of lumpy shark shit. The blade flashes. A BC can be stitched over a new bladder—who cares? But the meatball kicks away and shoots to the surface. The group settles back to fifteen feet, hugging the anchor.

  Soon all are on board, murmuring over the shark and mantas and the safety stop that wasn’t so safe. Most keep an eye on the thick fellow who mopes and the lean fellow who sits beside him and speaks. “That was great. Wasn’t it?” Moeava translates. Most mumble agreement. Ravi tells them what happened. “We got out of our plan. That’s never good. But look—” Reaching for his gauge, he points out maximum depth, ninety-three feet because a challenge will come down to facts and witnesses. “Our dive plan was to sixty-five feet, but we got in a current with manta rays. Ninety-three feet for twenty-four minutes calls for a safety stop at fifteen feet. Three minutes would do, but we stayed five—all but one of us. So we’re within safe limits, and I anticipate no problems. But we take precaution. Okay?”

  He waits for the translation then turns to the thickset man. “I will report you to the police for terroristic endangerment of every person here. Good luck with that. You’re at risk for decompression sickness. Are you stiff or sore yet?” The big brow bunches. “You’ll know soon enough. Remember, no exertion. No beating off in the shower. Okay?” The bigger man is subdued with concern.

  A woman leans in. “Can I walk on the beach?”

  Ravi shrugs. “You should know. You may have nitrogen in your system. Stimulation can be tricky. How much stimulation? You tell me. Maybe you can stay calm. If your blood pressure goes up on too much nitrogen…” He shrugs and pouts. “Capiche?” He moves to the helm. Moeava regards him with a glance and steps aside, relieved that there’s more than one fuckup in this outfit. The second dive is shallow, brief and boring, ending their first day at the office.

  At the dock farewells are again perfunctory with forced humor; and no, the frogs don’t tip. Ah, well, the crew laughs at any rate when the meatball lumbers up, pausing to lean on the handrail, mumbling Slovakian. Moeava says, “That guy. Do you think he will bend?”

  “He could. Fifty-fifty.” Ravi turns with a game question: “Would you like to find out?”

  So they put the boat to rights, hose off and drive twelve miles around to the hotel facing the channel near the motus. Over a few beers in the bar, they review the depth and godforsaken current that somebody local should have known. Moeava recalls what went right, and they determine sites for tomorrow.

  Three beers in, the heavily rouged woman from a few nights ago slides in at the bar. Ravi gets a receptive smile for his stare, so he signals the bartender. She orders “the usual,” which looks like the working girl’s toddy: top-drawer vodka, make that a double, straight up. It may be prearranged, with the bartender serving water with a kickback, but who cares?

  She agrees to perform as requested for fifty thousand francs, or five hundred dollars. Okay, three hundred—okay, one fifty because Moeava is too big for a discount; come on. But this is for Oybek, her recent date. She relents on a pledge of more work in the future.

  At the sundries shop nearby, Ravi buys two bottles of sparkling wine, La Vie en Chartreuse, bottled in Cambodia, and a small container of cobra liniment because stimulants trigger the bends. Charisse will visit Oybek, get the bubbly into him and do him up like no tomorrow—“Like a bronco buster, baby. Can you do that?”

  “I am professional. You don’t know what I can do.”

  “Good. He’s depressed. We want to snap him out of it.”

  “I don’t finks he is depressed. I finks he is… malade.”

  “Tonight is our special surprise. After the hoochie-coochie get him into the shower and rub this stuff all over. Make him a pussy cat.”

  “Oui, mais ze pussy cat c’est moi, Monsieur.”

  “Yes. But he broke up with his girlfriend—didn’t he tell you? Such a martyr. She looks like you.” Charisse is confused, till Ravi assures. “This is what he loves. He’s a wonderful fellow.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I finks one hundred fifty will not—”

  “Okay, two hundred. But, when you get him in the shower and get him rubbed all over, then give him the…” Ravi jams tongue to cheek, pursing his mouth on the imaginary shaft, in hand. Charisse needs no charade. Nobody doubts her skill, but Ravi stipulates a hundred now and the rest later. And it’s off to see the wizard. It’s only a prank, and it’s good to act out.

  Oybek is difficult at the door, not in the mood and not hospitable, but Charisse coos that she can’t stop thinking about him and his grandeur. He demurs in Slavic slur. She eases in.

  Ravi and Moeava lean on a tree near the louvered window in back. Ravi whispers that she’s either offering the freebie or a discount.

  Moeava laughs. He hadn’t thought of that but thinks he too would maximize profit if he could sell pussy. “Why not? I would fuck every night if I could get paid. Why not make more?” As a boat whore, he can only charge once. They stifle their giggles, bonding as men, and Moeava pulls a joint from his pocket. He lights up and inhales a third of it before offering. “You like marijuana?”

  “I believe I do.” Corks pop inside and soon begin the grunts and groans and yes, don’t stop, yes, there… La petite mort is silent, till Charisse wants a shower. He grumbles to go, let him rest. She smears hot sauce on him, and he moans. She titters. She finks she can get him up for another go, over here. Bring the bubbly.

  Very stoned, Ravi wonders aloud if they have wasted their money on a menace to society. Moeava shakes his head. “Not my money.”

  “Maybe it’ll be a good lesson for a reactionary prick.”

  “Yes. May be. He is a prick.”

  “Not him. Me. It should teach me to lay off the revenge and spend my money more wisely, like on pussy and liquor for me.”

  “And me.” They laugh again, until the lament. They peek in as Charisse leaves half dressed, carrying the rest of her things.

  Moeava turns to go. “Wait.”

  Ravi ducks between bungalows and around to the open door. The big man on the sofa doesn’t quite convulse but quivers on the verge. Steam pours out the shower. Moeava steps up. Ravi says, “Medium case. I’ve seen worse. I think he won’t die. Unless he’s got other problems. Hard to say. Muscle guys show it worse. Come on.”

  “Should we call somebody?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  Oybek mutters what could be gibberish or the Ukrainian national anthem. Then he yelps. They roll the hulk to his side, so his face is into the sofa to muffle the sound. They turn off the shower and head out to Moeava’s small truck. On the road, Ravi suggests another beer. Moeava says, “You really something. You get that guy. For good. Now you want more beer.”

  “That guy got himself.”

  “I like that. I like how you do that. You all American.”

  “No. I’m not American. I never was. I like what it stands for. What it stood for.”

  Moeava slaps the wheel and says he wants to be more American, like Ravi; it was so fucking perfect. C’est fucking parfait!

  “It’s not great. It’s a personal problem. It’s never been great.”

  “Whatever you say.” They ride in silence, till Moeava slaps the wheel again. “Man!”

  “I wish we hadn’t done that.” It’s bad enough behaving like a psychopath, let alone teaching someone else. Regret sinks in for a few more miles.

  •

  “You know what I think?” Moeava is reflective.

  “No. Je ne sais pas quoi tu penses.”

  “Pas quoi; ce que. Je ne sais pas ce que tu penses.”

  “Mai
s oui. I don’t know what you think. But I wonder.”

  “I think you got no regret. I think you say regret, so nobody think you crazy. Nobody but me think anything anyway. Je pense que tu es mal, et tant pis. I think you crazy no matter what. That guy got the bends is crazy too. Everybody un peu mal, but he much worse crazy. Il est trop mal. Il est mal, froid. I think deep down, dans ton coeur, you want to hurt that guy. You need to hurt that guy. Maybe kill that guy. You say, il est mort, peut-être; tant pis. I think you would not be so good at hurting him if you did not want to hurt him. It was good. Man. It was very good.”

  “And why do you think I need to hurt people?”

  “I don’t know. But I think I find out pretty soon.”

  “I think I need help. And pretty soon you will too.”

  “I think you help yourself. Don’t worry. We don’t need no stinking regret. Ha! Hey. You see that one, with the guys all farting?”

  •

  Moeava is a contradiction, an oaf on the one hand, insightful on the other—as if the one is a ruse, a clever pretext to highlight the other. Maybe he’s stupid like a fox. Lingering doubt compels Ravi to double-check most of his work, especially where life and limb are at risk. Other doubt lingers on personal assessment: Ravi is a known commodity at home, but he’s far from home. So what has he become? What’s become of him? What still wells up inside? Home can be anywhere with friends and a family forming up, and maybe this is it. Or maybe he’s doomed to repetition. He thinks himself a regular guy who swung at a curve ball—make that a meatball out of nowhere in a screwy world calling for screwy response. That’s all. Yet Moeava’s correction hits with realization that he is superior at revenge.

  •

  Supple as a walrus at depth, Moeava flounders on the surface and lumbers up the dock. But he opens up to guidance. “Look.” Ravi coils a line slowly, dismissing the figure eight, to avoid tangling on a rapid payout. “Lay it flat. No tangle. It looks better, and you won’t trip on it. Look…” He throws a half hitch, a braking half wrap and a trucker’s hitch for securing with no slack. Finally comes the bowline that won’t tighten under load, advising his boss to practice till it’s mindless, till the hands can tie it without the brain.

  Ravi swims alongside and dumps the big man’s BC by half to settle him a few inches deeper. Moeava strives for coordination. On the bottom, he can move the anchor and twenty-four feet of chain easier than two smaller men, moving ground tackle away from coral to sand, preserving livelihood.

  When the big shark stays gone, Moeava swears she came twice in the week before Ravi arrived. Ravi takes it as a compliment and says a tiger shark will stay near a food source till it’s gone—or will come around with a message. Does Moeava feel it, the kinship? Moeava laughs. “Je ne sais pas, mais… je sais qu’il n’est pas Ma’o.”

  “Pourquoi pas?”

  “Because. She scare shit from me.”

  Ravi nods. “Me too, but…that’s the test. If your spirit guide is the Easter Bunny, you’re a pussy. You get money under your pillow for teeth falling out of your head. Is that what you want?”

  “That would be la petite sourie. Et oui.”

  “Same difference. It’s warm and fuzzy, great for kids, but not for men. With no test, you get no faith.”

  Moeava ruminates. “Why must I be afraid? I like Easter Bunny.”

  “Easter Bunny is a rabbit. He hides colored eggs.”

  “What is the problem? I was happy. I want to take Easter Bunny for a boat ride. Not Ma’o. Fuckeen’ haoles. Always tryin’ change things around, with fear and guilt… Hey. No offense.”

  “None taken. I’m not haole; I’m Jewish. And this isn’t my idea.”

  “Pshh…”

  “You scoff. It wasn’t the Jews who came to steal resources or convert people to the correct religion.”

  Moeava stoops with a grunt to open the cooler. “Jews did something wrong. You know this. Everybody pissed off at them.”

  “Not everybody. Only those in need of a scapegoat.”

  “I don’t know. I think it has to do with the money. You know how everybody talk about getting Jewed.”

  “Are you getting Jewed?”

  “Hmm… I don’t think so. But I don’t know. Am I?”

  “I don’t think so too. But don’t worry; you can’t help yourself from offending me. So I take no offense. Haoles. Jews. It makes no difference who you blame for your troubles, as long as it’s not yourself. Right?”

  Moeava chews this bone and finally agrees. “I think you are right. It is the others who are to blame.” His final dive of the day is under the ice and colas to the bottom for the Hinano six-pack sunk there hours ago. Done with glad-handing, clearing and rinsing, sorting and stowing, he pops two and offers one. “It is good that you see this. I can say many things to offend you. But you will understand.”

  They drain two-thirds on a synchronized glug and sigh in harmony. “I understand,” Ravi says, ending the ceremony on a baritone belch. Moeava ups the ante on a scale and two chords. They laugh like men, bonded stronger still. So friendship forms on the stone-ax simplicity of their forebears.

  Moeava woofs fried bananas and farts out loud. Ravi calls him disgusting and dribbles poisson cru on his T-shirt. Moeava says, “You eat like an animal.”

  “I am an animal.” They agree, drink beer, and tell jokes. It’s easy, until Cosima comes lolling, casual as Ma’o but more posed, possibly angling. She’s an eye-popper but not a bonding event; Moeava laid claim; Ravi acquiesced. But it won’t settle. Ravi has a woman, a zesty wench with zero inhibition. Yet he salivates at the dish nearby. Who but a fool would risk everything and hurt a friend? Not that a dive job is everything, but it’s all he has. And for what? Some parsley? Let’s face it: parsley is best in butter, oozing, bitter and chewy, a perfect garnish for baby red potatoes or life. He ignores Cosima in a sheer blouse for the good of his friendship with Moeava and for fun. Moeava grew up with topless women but squints like an astronomer at a little man on the moon. Ravi works on, cleaning regulators.

  She approaches her admirer, scratching an itch on a breast. “Have you been swimming lately?” She turns to Ravi, “Not you. You don’t have to swim. Just him because he can’t.”

  Ravi won’t look. “Why is that? Do you want him to drown?”

  She thinks it over. “He can drown in water, or I can drown in blubber. He has a better chance. No?”

  “So what? I get a freebie?” She giggles. “I thought it was a magic spell, and you are the prize. If you give it away with no swim, the big winner only gets second. Not so good.”

  She hurries off like a waterspout but more huffy. Stuck on a shrinking view, Moeava concedes, “Second prize. Not good.”

  “Wouldn’t be bad. She’s plenty prize to go around. Besides, she’s crazy. You don’t want to be number one if she’s crazy.”

  Moeava wants to be nothing but number one, so he fetches another beer. “You girlfriend or wife, whatever she is, got used up by a… malade before you met her. You don’t mind? Why you here?” He lumbers off to avoid the friction. Ravi tinkers with a reg. Did Hereata tell him everything? Does he doubt that Ravi could pluck and eat this little peach in a blink with no regret? Loyalty goes so far, Mssr Moe. You pay an honest wage for honest work. I throw a lifetime of experience into the bargain. At my age with my know-how, Mssr Moe, which is mechanical and nautical and social and touristic too. I throw in some loyalty, no extra charge. But we have reached a point. You can’t swim the bay, night or day, so why worry? Why taunt me?

  Except that it wasn’t a taunt. It was self-defense. Ravi would not regret eating Moeava’s peach, but he’d hate the sticky aftermath. Still, it’s easy to ponder the skittish woman. He blows out the reg, screws the case back on, shags another beer, and sits. Day is done, not a bad day and not so different from the old days, except for missing the old crowd and options forming up. But slow times are part of transition, settling in, getting connected, enjoying less as a means to more. He’s not l
ooking at death or dead ends, and a sixty-watt bulb is enough to read by. Or he can walk up the road in the dark. Or have some sardines and head over to Taverua for another beer and perhaps a recent divorcée in reasonably good shape. Or he could sit right where he is, into the night and following day, waiting for the future to begin. He recalls a similar funk, in his beater Tercel. That was worse, with the girlfriend, make that wife, and her crazy woes. That funk led to scar tissue. This one is nothing. Things are working out, shaping up.

  He perks to a scent and sees boys under the tree by the picnic table, laughing and smoking like a small factory. He moves slower than only a few years ago—maybe twelve years or fourteen. But he’s spry enough for a hit or two to pad his cell. The boys are game, passing to the new guy—the old guy—who steps into the circle of universal language. Soft as cashmere, time slows…

  He drifts back to securing things and looks up to where he wouldn’t look before. She’s back to tell him there’s no show tonight so she’ll work in the gift shop. She removes her blouse and skirt to change into her pareo for work—and to steal his better sense. She says her job is menial and pays a pittance.

  He shares his hope to build the dive business with Moeava and engage his camera soon. They trade details on identity and goals, like urban professionals in a chic bistro, clearing the way to sex, to uplift a day or an hour. But this is tropical and remote. She repeats her special dispensation that he need not swim the bay because she knows he can. He’s very stoned and can’t tell what comes next. He’d like to duck in for quick sexual relations and pretend it never happened, which seems easy. But he reminds her that giving herself without the swim would undermine the spell. She says he would not be excused but would make the swim later.

  “How about now?”

  “It’s not dark.” He laughs again, as if laughing at her, and so he is. She’s so serious and nutty, and a quickie seems like a terrible hurry on such a feast, and he feels the crosshairs on him, as if he learned nothing. Moeava is no whacko cousin. He’s a harmless blala who may be a brother in need. But the devilish rack is ready to poke him in the eye…