Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  The other guests share her annoyance, and so does Ravi because every surprise party victim finds out. Nobody enjoys the ride because it’s stupid, everybody pretending they don’t know about the birthday because they don’t care because the victim is nobody, really. It’s meant to show how they really feel: surprise!

  For he’s a jolly good fellow…

  Ravi found out when Hereata shook the phone bill in his face, asking how he could spend forty dollars on a phone call—a phone call! And to whom, might I ask—et à qui je demande—was you calling, anyway? But it wasn’t him who made the call, so he couldn’t very well know whom anybody was calling, as if she didn’t know. Ask Moeava.

  So she asks and finds out and grows despondent, holing up dans la salle de bain, moving from the mirror to the toilet to see and to think, to strategize a plan as it might relate to a woman’s needs, a real woman with plenty left to give, if only a man could be man enough to stand and receive. With practicality as her co-pilot, she invites a guest of her own, an admirer of proven zeal, whose many ovations may warrant a response, even if his phone calls get tangled in Slavic knots. But if it’s love, or could be, the truth will out. At least Oybek’s intentions are clear—or apparent.

  On the eve of this fortieth birthday, Ravi reflects on the start of his fifth decade. So what? More importantly, it’s a night for image enhancement, so he escapes to software, where an hour or three can vanish in no time. He hasn’t asked Moeava about the call to Hawaii because he recognized the number and thinks it was a call returned. How else would Moeava get the number? He thinks Moeava has done something stupid, but he won’t ask if Minna is on her way. He fears bad news, and the idea will not settle. He’ll soon see Minna or not. Either way, the next forty years will start clean, starting tomorrow with a lawyer. There: it feels good to resolve what’s waited too long. They both deserve it and are far enough removed to see it through. He sets thoughts of Skinny aside, till tomorrow.

  The day shapes up for resolution, with an annoying gathering later in the afternoon. It’s not so bad, with a fat manifest and the vigor to lead the dive of a lifetime—or point them in the right direction while he experiments on telephoto with intentional noise. Telephoto? Underwater? He comes closer than ever to a troupe of garden eels swaying like ballerinas and might be getting the perfect shot for yet another breakthrough. He would rather hit the software for more perfection after the dive. He’d rather be alone and mostly content. But a man has to do what he’d rather not do, so he hoses down and cleans up and with a poker face strolls to the front office with a grin. Monique does not yell surprise! She’s not there. The place is empty. He misread the clues—what a relief. How much better the afternoon and evening will be in solitude with what he loves. It’s fun to get it right, given raw images so close to the mark already. And here they are, downloading in a choreography by Neptune himself. One frame to the next, garden eels arch and shimmy, moving to the music they share.

  It’s a beautiful and eerie thought—good thing since eerie beauty is the point of technical obsession. A technocrat is not an artist, but technical excellence is a basis, really, when you…

  “Surprise!”

  Interruption is the artist’s nemesis. And through the door to commemorate his birth, a promenade sallies forth. It’s Monique and Cosima with Moeava in tow. Hereata follows Minna, who chats with Oybek Navbahor, who could have croaked but obviously didn’t since here he is. But he must be très pissed; his pig eyes slant inward, squinty and mean, yet he seems serene and… Sociable? What’s wrong with this picture? Hereata might be open-minded with Monique because she can’t be jealous of a big-hearted, scrawny woman so kind to animals, after all… But Minna is a challenge of a different stripe. Just as summer heat and winter cold can’t be fully recalled in their opposite seasons, so has Minna’s beauty lapsed in the memory of her chosen one. He sees her fulsome self and feels her fill the room and remembers yet again. Sure, she’s faking through the awkward moments, yet she brings the old allure—the mystique that won’t go away. He wasn’t alone in love, though he alone was blinded.

  He flashes back. Minna and Hereata chat like girlfriends, avoiding the difficulty between them. Hereata leans on Oybek playfully but cannot hide her apprehension. She should win by rights, and Minna seems to agree. But memory defaults to an air of renewal. It’s another first encounter with repercussion coming on. What can he do? Options pass before his eyes till the old aloha comes out. They approach warily yet according to custom. Joining hands, they embrace with a kiss on the cheek and faint breath exchanged. He says she looks well. She says he’s staying fit, too, for an older man.

  And they know it’s over—that two people forfeit their chance of revival on the first utterance of suburban nicety with a dash of canned humor. Hereata shifts to the other foot. Forcibly happy for the reunion she urges old friends to drink and eat. Did Minna tell Hereata of annulment, and that puts Hereata at ease? Or is Hereata… with Oybek? He’s a strange one, though closer to her age. They met when she escorted him to the boat on that eventful morning after the night of…

  “Oy!” All roads converge at the summit—or the canyon. “Nyet. Oy. Bek. Bek. Oy-bek. Zank you so big for save life of me when I die from conwulsion and you roll me so I breathe. You, I owe.” He bows as if in a head butt to the chest but then stops to gaze at the monitor, where garden eels pose in plié et pirouette, in synch with random fluidity as yet unimagined. “Achh! Is this you?”

  “No. It is not me. It is a photograph of garden eels. I took it this morning, but it’s not corrected.”

  Oybek straightens and sneers, “Have you more?”

  Ravi matches with a smirk, raising a palm like the pope to indicate the rest of the gallery and his world.

  •

  So our story ends again, insofar as stories ever end, even when the characters die, as they do that very moment, never again returning to life as they knew it.

  Oybek is urban by choice. Where Ravi feels comfort among sea beasts, Oybek also swims among predators. That is, Oybek looks piggish and mean, and may sometimes be, but only by necessity of his calling. His natural self is open, more or less, and strives for more and gains traction, tooth and nail or by whatever means necessary.

  Growing up short on looks and money but long on adventurous spirit in Karakalpakstan, young Oybek explored shipwrecks in the desert, what had been Lake Aral in Moynaq. He found happiness in solitude, away from the other children who teased and taunted the ugly little boy with hurtful names. Oybek did not allow the hurt within. He looked cruel and threatening even then, as nature made him and as a mode of self-defense. What could he do?

  He would be an ocean explorer one day. But epilepsy and a rare condition beefed him up with fleshy folds. Slogging onward as a young man must, he began the first dive magazine in Uzbekistan with photos from divers around the world. He copied the photos from other magazines till he claimed to have the best dive magazine in the region. The three divers in the region asked, “Compared to what?”

  Oybek wandered tropical latitudes making friends where he could, including women who could provide what he wanted.

  When the Internet emerged, Oybek’s magazine pioneered reef photography combined with photos of those women. Reef Art Magazine Online went global a year prior to litigation for artistic theft. But the reef shots were great, in the meantime, and so were the women. The name soon became Refart Magazine, with fart jokes to boost readership. The jokes were great too, like the one about the divers who had beans just before…

  Oybek moved to LA, where marine photographers competed, just like everyone else, for a break, which goes to show what the right address can do for credibility in art. And now you know the rest of story, so far. Oybek Navbahor is the publisher of Modern Reef Magazine. “Please. My card.” He calls the photos on these walls superb, world class, fantastic, worth a fortune, just say the word and then you watch, the best he’s ever seen, not so much technically because everybody gets that these days, but in a
nother way… a way that is… what you might call…

  “Artistic.”

  “Yah! Artistic!”

  Oybek wants exclusive rights. Ravi is flattered in a cold wash of confusion and fear. Like a factory in Novotroitsk, Oybek blows smoke up the whole world’s ass. So a tinge of buyer’s remorse and a double dose of embarrassment and humility accompany the courier delivering the message so craved. Well, Ravi Rockulz never wanted fame; he wanted a rightful audience, like any artist would. But fame precedes recognition in a mixed up media world. And so the kliegs blaze as solitude, anonymity, and youth are banished from the kingdom. Oybek finds his stride.

  He insists that Ravi move to LA, now, before his prime is over. Forty already! Because life in LA is the greatest, and living there is necessary if you want to make it as an artist. Besides that, LA is amazing, with smart people and women. Ravi must live in LA to turn his wonderful artistry into money. Who knows how much? A few million, anyway. That’s annual—did you think it otherwise? Why stick around in a place like that if you only make it once? That’s with proper management. It’s not like you can get off the plane and see the cashier for your check. Oh, it’s work, but so lovely.

  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.

  Ravi can’t believe; the guy is so smarmy, so strange and smutty. But he can’t stop hoping. He’s heard the rant on money and power—it comes to zero every time, finito, rien, caput! Only a bona fide loser wears his power on his sleeve. Yet Hereata’s slow motion nod says something else, like she checked this guy out. 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 Ravi’s. He may never sample her wares again, but he’s off the hook, and maybe he will. 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 appears to be threatening, but it’s only the shape of his face and what those muscles do. He also winces in the 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 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 and the surprise gift—and here he is relating his two surprises at a surprise party!

  With great good cheer comes Cosima’s poisson cru et ahi tartare. Moeava promotes beer and good things to eat and rolls marijuana, so the festive air is unavoidable. Except for two former loves, who take time outside to catch up and confirm their status. Ravi is content. 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 what not, and you can hardly blame them for being crazy because they don’t call it intense for nothing. The craziness actually balances the crazy scene.

  But something about that floor, with the need and the rush, pulls her in for now. And the service—you would not believe how lame the hospital is, leaving the patients completely out of the process, leaving the ICU staff to console and counsel, though they’re not supposed to because of the liability, but sometimes you have to offer a comforting word or go crazier. So, yes, she might do it for a while. For the experience. You know?

  He knows, sensing emotion in the depths. This highly regarded birthday on which life will begin begins with pride for what she does, who she is—or rather who she has become. In conveying 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 is she here?

  So he defaults to predictable charm, telling her he’s proud of her and happy to see her and this and that, and they too stick like a bone in his maw.

  She gets him off the hook saying Skinny took to international travel like a veteran, napping on her chest or staring at clouds and what not.

  “Skinny?”

  She thought he knew. It’s only natural that Skinny sleeps 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, demanding 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 on more seasoned ministrations.

  But the difference between them runs too deep for absolution in a minute of surface skills. Her speech is still clipped, too fast with many clichés—never mind. It’s her touch that has changed, tapping into comfort, easing the discord, letting go of guilt, loss, and pain in a process of sorting and release. 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 solve their problem 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. They seem to accept the outcome, one way or another, which a different counselor might diagnose as advanced behavior, allowing an issue to resolve on time and manners, by distracting themselves from 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. And another. Because the best remedy for most ailments is giving to a greater cause, and Skinny is the perfect greatness—so small, so expressive, so fuzzy, demanding, and cute.

  They watch her eat
.

  Ravi 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 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 brushing fingertips or 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, straining and waiting to see which ending the players will choose.

  An equally compelling subplot is Moeava, a 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 exotic encounters, his sheer size the perfect protection some 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?

  Ravi stares from within his own sphere of doubt and wonder till he sees Hereata happily, spuriously engaged. She also sees and knows, her sad smile an epitaph to what might have been—or what used to be. The strange new guy is on her like a shadow, like he knows her from experience. So Ravi steps up 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, licking his chops like a giant lizard over some delicious ducklings. Oybek is not your average friendly fellow. Ravi wasn’t so wrong to draw the line, but a dash of self-redemption is in order and feels redemptive one more time. Will they become friends? Who knows? Stranger things have happened. In showbiz.