Reefdog

by Robert Wintner

  Oybek: what a joker, sending playful party girls to meet and greet, and not just any girls but the girls’ dreams are made of, the girls next door, all grown up to full potential as hostesses with the mostesses, with the forty-eight double-Ds, dragon tattoos, six-inch heels, and the great good cheer every girl needs to practice. These three look as good as medium-budget hookers ever did. Ravi isn’t into that sort of thing because he doesn’t need it, never has. These days are pleasantly distracted and more than adequate along those lines. He’s enjoying the matrimonial scene and realizing the comforts available with one true love. Then again, practicality is primary in La La, and the grab seems compulsory on a thing within reach. So he’s willing to be amused, considering his flawed judgment of Oybek. It’s best to let bygones go and let friendship develop. Best to show gratitude as the better part of discretion. Best to ensure a gilded future with appreciation. His benefactor should know that he can join in the spirit of the play, 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.

  It’s only harmless fun and easy too; these people are so game, energetic, eager to please, and encouraging. 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 but fun—the program is built on fun. Ravi’s first few hundred spectacular, amazing, astonishing photo picks are laid out in three products: the coffee table volume is over-produced in grandiose format, two feet by three feet for the surround sound feel of the thing—and it comes with the exclusive, just-released CD, Sounds of the Deep Blue Sea. Richly processed colors exude texture and pulse. The heavy-bond, plastic-coated pages are 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. You wanna quibble over two bills for an entire fucking stack of museum quality pictures?

  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 Oybek’s performance projection 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 distribution control and that whole supply/demand game and media bumps and internet sales to keep margins running the two hundred, two hundred fucking fifty percent they ought to fucking run? Unless we discount it sixty percent—then you’ll see your fucking volume projections take the kinda fucking shape you’re talking. 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 low price ticket to the show. Get it? Now this motherfucker will perform. And, we make it free as a premium when you get three of the standards or one deluxe edition. Oh, you’re gonna see the numbers jump then. You watch.”

  And so they watch—the staff, and they listen, enrapt—Tiffany, Blaze, Dexter, Auriel, and Edgar—as Mr. Silvergold elaborates 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 fall in love enough with fish of the month to call for 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 if you approve.”

  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 Ravi’s visit putting him in the flesh on The Tonight Show—“Are you fucking kidding me? We got The Late Show? What did that cost?”—where the goods will be held up to the camera, also in the flesh, introducing a new phenom in photography and art and fish and…

  “What? Fish?” The zany one, himself, can’t believe the prompter actually says fish, as his sparkly eyes offset his Cheshire grin. He doesn’t ask: What the fuck can you do? Doesn’t need to, and he says, “I kid you not, it says photography and art and fish, right here. Come on, Cliff, swing around and show it. They don’t believe me. Look! Right here! See it! Okay—hey! Ravi 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 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 of the sales, sales, sales massive sales to warm the soul of art in 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 on the path to media significance tell Ravi, “Wow, that’s really something,” which is code for smashing success, blockbuster, bell ringer, cultural impact 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 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 Ravi 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 love—begins with the snorkel ensemble action toys and works up to the scuba ensemble action toys—with separate strap fins for Action Ravi!

  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 Ravi doll gets bent, or a portable marine surgery unit with tiny instruments when Action Ravi needs an embolism removed.

  Surgically?

  Oh! Or the authentic Reef Ranger medevac h
elicopter 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 brings a few wobbles. Ravi resists praise from 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. Even they see it! And they are not known for kissing ass!

  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 Ravi for taking things to a new level. They tell him their magic is easier to make with his magic to build on—easy, anonymous people since nobody really reads the tiny names. They credit him for making their work happier, for helping them show their stuff.

  Does a vibrant reefdog on intimate terms with Neptune really need makeup? No, he does not. But an hour of dabbing, brushing and tweaking turns the untouched, fabulously handsome before into the electrifying after.

  The Ravi syndicate enjoys copious management in its many revenue centers, but even a wizened marketeer of Solly Silvergold’s aggressive second nature could not foresee the scope of secondary development in the offing. That is, The True Story of Ravi 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.

  The fish guy swam in from the aggregation buoy at night.

  What’s an aggregation buoy?

  It’s this thing. Twenty-two miles. And these guys beat him up. Bad guys.

  Twenty-two miles? Your dying ass. Nobody swims twenty-two miles.

  They do in the English Channel.

  That’s different.

  Why is it different?

  Because it is.

  What?

  Did somebody say something? Oh, yes:

  Soon to be a Major Motion Picture Event!

  This could be big—very big. The talk is big right off the bat. Nobody has the chutzpah to call it huge before the money is in place, but then Willis is very interested in the part on two conditions: 1) that his girlfriend, an unknown but lithesome blonde who can easily dye to black and can work wonders with a modicum of putty to actually render Polynesian perfection, will play the younger woman and 2) Angelina will play the older woman. Oh—and he also stipulates that 3) the director’s understanding of action/adventure will be subject to the sole ruling of his, Willis’s, agent. So far so good. What could be more reasonable? Except that Willis never asked Angelina what she thought—and she thinks Willis is older than her father, which he isn’t, but still, this puts one-up on the line, threatening to boil over with ugly innuendo, not to mention potential.

  The options get renewed because of the simmering oasis just ahead and also as a defensive measure to keep the jackals from stealing what the option holders have paid good money for all rights to. More good news is that nobody balks at the option renewal acceleration clause. We’re talking defense!

  But fallout reaches terminal velocity when the lithesome girlfriend splits for greener pastures when Brian Highlander ends his steamy liaison with Ashley Hetherington. Speculation runs rampant, but that’s incidental to the Willis connection, which, speaking of a little putty, seems, in a word, pathetic. With Brian Highlander available? Get serious.

  Never mind. Not one minute after the second option lapses, new options are dangled before the hottest performing agents and packagers in town. Not to worry. This bait shall make them frenzy. Just you watch.

  So the man becomes the myth, the legend, with the most amazing artistic commitment since… well, we hate to say this because we’ll get so many letters, but since Vincent Van Gogh. The difference is that Ravi Rockulz is happily married to a fantastic beauty and didn’t cut his ear off. Send your comments to moltencore.com…

  And so it flows.

  An urgent meeting of market professionals, producers, directors and sage associates is called to plan strategy on the Speedos. That is, we need himself on the set in his skimpy skivvies without looking prurient or salacious—without triggering the mad lust of LA’s fervent fans. Any ideas? Because leaving the Speedos under wraps, as it were, is leaving huge money on the table.

  Ravi has two ideas: he can stand up from the guest seat and take off his shirt and pants to reveal the Speedos, which is a natural thing to do in French Poly, and the viewing audience will see.

  The echelon stare in awe and wonder that such a simple solution may meet the criteria, avoiding the sex-mongering accusations sure to come. But it just won’t work; I mean, really, a man taking his clothes off on camera? Come on—and not just any man, but him?

  Okay! The second idea is that they cut away to actual underwater footage of Ravi in his scuba gear, holding his camera with its strobes sticking out and so on. That way the cameraman can zoom in on the wavy tummy and lumpy nether.

  “Wait a minute… I’ll be wearing a wetsuit…”

  “Yes! That’s it!” Three top tech execs cry out in unison, agreeing while adapting the idea to what happens best in LA: technical excellence. They’ll stage a simulation! “We won’t actually be in the ocean, bubby.”

  And so it comes to pass at hardly over budget, not even a million dollars, which might sound excessive as the raw cash required to put a man-size tank on a sound stage, but when broken down to drawings, engineering, materials, including one-inch tempered glass, construction, the crane, the truck, the lifts and dollies and logistical coordination between the writers’ union, the construction union, the stage prop union and the stage handlers union, along with legal disclaimers and backup docs, it’s a steal. Are you kidding me?

  The segment runs seven minutes, cutting into a commercial break that ups the budget another hundred grand or so in lost revenue from said commercial break, but at this point, it’s the commitment that’s going to count. Sure the naysayers are scoffing and scorning the silly shit they’re trying to pull on The Evening Show. They splash so much water on the set that David slips and falls on his ass. He has the wits to make it look like a setup—what a ham, what a natural, what a beauty—but it isn’t a setup, and his hip may be fractured. As if that’s not enough, they short-circuit the audio and go to break for seven more minutes, giving up some freebie public service announcements, after they met their PSA requirement for the ratings period last fucking week!

  But jeez, Louise, did you see the frickin fuckin’ dingdong on that fish guy?

  Bingo! Or, as Executive Producer Sol Silvergold elaborates, “Motherfucking bingo, you doubtful, shit-eating motherfuckers!”

  Mr. Silvergold sounds upset but really is happy. The tirade comes the next day before lunch when nobody can tell if Solly feels the joy or another coronary coming on. But he’s always in a better mood after eating, especially on Wednesday when it’s the huge fucking corned beef on rye special with one of those semi-kosher dills bigger than Jimi Hendrix’s dick—bigger than it used to be anyway.

  “Ha! Am I right! Gott! Did you ever eat anything so delicious? What is it? The mustard? The little bit fat? The bread? What? Did you ever?”

  No, nobody never. After lunch Solly settles down. It’s predictable, part of a pattern: “Fucking motherfuckers. They’re gonna tell Sol Silvergold who or what is not going to be big? Fuck you, motherfuckers. Fucking mamzers.” And he laughs. Solly laughs, which proves that he’s happy and in a good mood and pleased, and everybody else can laugh too.

  “Hey, kid,” he fondly asks Ravi. “You know from mamzers?”

  “Ken, ktsat. Me-ha-mamzerim, megiaa ha-balagan ha-godol.” Yes, a little bit. From the bastards comes the big man.

  “Hey. The kid is French. But I thi
nk he knows. Hey, kid. You from southern France, or what? Hey, Jews everywhere now. The fuck. They accuse us of running showbiz. Did you know that? Did you? Hey. Fuckinay, baby! Ha!”

  So the whole wide world laughs—as it murmurs and mumbles snippets and images of fish, fish books, fish calendars and the fish guy—and what Solly said about Jimi Hendrix’s dick even as everyone is thinking that it’s time for Jimi to roll over for the motherfucking moray eel in the fish guy’s shorts.

  When lunch at Solly’s is done, and it looks like another money gusher coming on, thanks to the fish guy and the best motherfucking management money can buy, Solly says, “Ha! Don’t you worry, kid. You’re gonna be a very rich man. Rich! Wealthy? I don’t know. But rich!” Then he tosses a set of keys in a lazy arc to Ravi, who makes the snatch casual as a receiver with magic hands. “Drive this till you get settled. Don’t take more than a year. Okay, five years. Ha!”

  The car is right out front, presenting the next challenge in a blaring announcement that the waterman has sunk in the mire. The gleaming statement of material excess sitting at the tow-away curb is a flame red Jaguar convertible with matching interior, top down. Ravi’s blush doesn’t match, but not for want of trying. His embarrassment overwhelms, till Oybek whispers gruffly in his ear to direct the action: “Get in! Look happy! Wave! Smile! Dig it, motherfucker!” This last is not a cliché but a basic directive based on continuing survival with a double dollop of prosperity.

  Ravi’s hesitation doesn’t carry from the curb to Solly’s big window on the thirty-fourth floor. He waves up. Solly waves back down. It’s a deal.

  It’s a goof that doesn’t mean to be a laugh, but Ravi feels constrained laughter aimed his way—look what happened to the fish guy. He’s more or less comforted by friends who assure him that it’s a toy, a nothing to have fun with and maybe be proud of because it’s also a measure of success—and he’s doing extremely well. It’s not a reflection of who he is or what he values. It’s merely a mode of expressing a glorious victory over simple needs and practicality. Which works for most commuters in LA, but Ravi loves his life of simple needs and practicality. And he can’t help but feel that the obtrusive red car does reflect values—wrong values, and who he is and what he wants—and it’s just not so.