Cut! Cut! Cut!

But not quite yet because no matter how twisted, a yarn can take another kink. The world spins in disarray. Life is daunting till chaos finds a pattern and perversity seems part of the weave.

A tourism professional won’t ask, “Are you fucking kidding me?” But the question disgorged in a calamitous cavalcade when an Israeli passport proved not viable for entry to French Polynesia without a special visa—never mind that one’s US visa expired years ago. The French were not opposed to Israel, as the French government representative assured the Hawaiian Airlines service rep at Kahului Airport, with Mr. Rockulz listening on speakerphone, “But! An Israeli cannot enter French Polynesia without the special visa.”

Why not?

“It is not possible! But! You may obtain the special entry visa to French Polynesia at some Israeli consulates, though you may obtain it most easily in Tel Aviv. If that is not good for you, you may obtain it almost as easily in Los Angeles. Or in San Francisco if you prefer. It won’t take more than forty-five minutes.”

The good news was that the Papeete flight would not depart until tomorrow night. “So you have time.” Beyond that, the Hawaiian Airlines service rep frankly had people waiting in line, people with flights reserved and paid, people more entitled to service than this rude… what evah. “So? Whatchou want? LA? San Francisco? What?”

“Why did I get a reservation for tonight if the flight is not till tomorrow night?”

“Show me your reservation.”

“I made it on the phone.”

“Next, please.”

“Wait a minute. How can I fly to San Francisco or LA and make it back in time for tomorrow’s flight?”

“I have no way of knowing that.” But the service rep did know the remaining option: deportation back to Israel, charged in advance. If the passenger didn’t have the fare, no problem, he could go to jail, which is not a bad place for the destitute. Ravi hoped to avoid further referral to Immigration Naturalization, who would surely expedite a solution. Avoiding INS seemed hopeless with an expired US visa, but he’d only have to explain to the immigration guys that he was done being illegal and had, in fact, landed—a married man entitled to the pursuit of happiness, life, and stuff.

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. Ravi 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…