Little Dog Laughed

Ravi’s first trip to LA is not speculative. He is spared the charade of being in the neighborhood and dropping in casually, the one-act play so often required of young artists with worlds to conquer in LA, as if budding talents will emerge, given a random chance. He touches down on terra firma with rubber on the road right now. He is direct from the exotic reaches of the world with mysteries to share.

The flight is surreal, revealing the greatest mystery: He’s giving up Oceania for Urbania? Or would that be Suburbania? It’s like trading Tahiti for LA, except there ain’t no like about it.

Los Angeles sprawls in layered excess with horrific symptoms—talk about smoke. Within the blur come seeping scabs, fresh wounds, and lesions to all horizons. Cars, billboards, lights, noise, filth, perversion, cement, garbage, chrome, glass, disease, and people in the millions upon millions rush for more of the more and more. Clogged arteries squeeze the flow to a trickle till it stops at stubborn sludge—or races madly for short stretches, people delivering themselves and their wares everywhere all the time. Barren of innocence and nature, the place buzzes and stinks, steams and festers. Breaking News is that a brand new freeway gunslinger has shed the bonds of polite company and is trying to soothe his rage by shooting commuters one lane over. Six more lanes feel crazy, wild, and free; ten more lanes make even more sense in a hundred-grand roadster, pedal to the metal on a downshift to goose the redline and really show some stuff. Oh, baby! This is me! Who the fuck are you?

With the brainpan awash in azure blue, here comes LAX and the very best hospitality Inglewood has to offer, as long as you breathe shallow, stay alert, and carry a compass. Not to worry; Oybek is sending a car, so never mind the yellow-brown cloud covering creation like a dirty blanket or the masonry cap on everything or the teeming ambition or general neurosis or specific psychosis oozing out the pores of the place with enough sweat, grit, and desperation to slump a tropical waterman.

What’s that smell?

But give peace a chance; LA is not an open sore, not as different from French Poly as shit from shinola. It looks and feels different—make that sci-fi screaming insane different. Yellow-gray over a scabby crust coming into LAX is only the beginning. Then you’re in, so to speak, in easy access to a vibrant urban center with many major sports teams, millions of fans, a dynamic cast of characters, trillions in net worth, and of course much, much more. LA gets a bad rap on population density, road rage, homicide, and perversion, but eccentricity is pivotal to showbiz. Personal identity is a linchpin of survival in a garish, colorful system. Any reef suffers if residents out-need the resources at hand, but it’s only growing pains, and people will find more of what they need. Reality rolls in like a set of huge, breaking waves.

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 helicopter 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 think 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.

Here too, a reefdog adapts, wincing a bit less when he sees the red car glaring brighter than the sun. The brilliant redness blinds and annoys but it’s sometimes fun, and it’s a car—just a fucking car, like a beater Tercel used to be, what basic transportation came to, and that’s all it is. He’d throw some tanks and gear in back if he had a reef nearby.

The turnaround perspective comes out of the blue, as it were, in a lightning bolt of insight and understanding. Celebrity by this time has become a challenge, then a burden, then a bad feeling of life forsaken in swarms of fans, with the dashing red car a homing beacon on their hero. Ravi avoids certain routes that will surely expose him to more of the same, routes through thick fan habitat—fans whose loss of personal identity has left them bereft of anything but the stars to look up to. They stop in their tracks to point a finger and utter his name. He qualifies as a sighting.

One early evening when the radio announces triple fender benders at three exits in a row on just the freeway he needs to get home in less than an hour, he takes the low road, to try for an hour and a half.

Somewhere on the fringe of West Hollywood, headed for Santa Monica, he approaches a group of young prostitutes in a known sex-zone. They yell at the likely john in the hundred grand car who could splurge on a five-bill blowjob and not even feel it—that would be the money he wouldn’t feel, not the blowjob; oh, baby. A guy in a red Jag ragtop might not even feel a five-bill tip. He won’t return their gaze, even as traffic slows to a crawl, and soon he’s near the line-up of tawdry boys in short shorts, heavy eyeliner and other facial pastes, putties, and colors. The scene is busy, garish and colorful like a reef but not so innocent. Violent spawning and unnatural acts form their own dark order. This is depravity in its lowest form as a means to an end. Well, one of the lowest forms, around here.

A furtive boy steps off the curb to put both hands on the passenger door and say, “You’re the fish guy. Ravi Rockulz.” Ravi looks up casually enough and can’t help a double take—is that rosacea or rouge over Kaposi’s? What difference does it make, except to the young man? It could make a difference to him and surely must. The boy says, “I love you—no, I mean, I really do. I love your fish. You make me want to be a fish. I want to be you. God.” And he yells to the other boys in the shrill excitement of a genuine siting, “Hey! It’s the fish guy! It’s Ravi!”

So the boys of the evening gather round, chattering like birds roosting at dusk, with their bangles, half t-shirts and flaunted emotions—unusual boys going stranger still when they morph in macro, leaning into the car. Up close in lingering daylight Ravi sees the soiled life. But they are not the living dead; they’re up and at it, surviving another day, as people must, on dollars earned. They gather without shame, quickly slipping out of character, shedding lascivious postures to become fans in appreciation of the fish guy and what he does and where he’s been and how he thinks, as if a fish guy is different from other guys, as if the fish guy knows, sees and feels what is dear to them. And this is a reef, maybe, and he’s here.

An indelible imprint on Ravi Rockulz’s showbiz career careens out of nowhere on a salacious, disturbed boy whose lipstick is smudged over one cheek from recent service or as suggestive merchandizing. “I got the big one, you know. It’s so huge. I love that. I get off about three. I mean, unless it’s really busy, you know. People don’t realize how hard we work. We’re like everybody else. I used to be homeless, but now I have a place and a few things, now that I suck cock, you know. Anyhoo, you know, I can buy things now, too, and I like to open my book, your book, when I get home. It makes me feel, you know, so… I can’t really tell you what it makes me feel, but it’s so good.” The boy is twenty, give or take, and could have been a stunt double to Leonardo DiCaprio—same puffy face, sandy hair swept sideways, ski nose and baby blues. Unless… Unless he’s more spot on for Johnny Depp, considering the eyeliner and method insanity in every posture, move, and word. And he cries, just as Ravi cried on cleaving emotion—cried for something unnameable but knowable, rare and of the greatest value.

The wayward boys on the driver’s side touch the fish guy in appreciation of his gift or in order to say they did. One caresses his hair. One offers to pay five bills to suck off the fish guy, and he laughs nervously, sincerely. Most of the rest laugh too, waiting to see if the fish guy will. Offering thanks all around with a quick nod, Ravi peers ahead to traffic, starting to move. Even a crawl would ease him out of this bind, and so it does. So he says thanks again in gratitude to such great fans, and that’s that, except for the boy who gets home late and feels good, looking at fish pics.

“Thank you, Ravi! You’re so great. And I love your car. It’s a flame angel, just like you. Please come and see us again. Okay?”

Ravi waves, as the flow picks up to twenty-five for another half hour, giving a waterman time to ponder the strange ways of God or Neptune or whomever, finally reaching an on-ramp beyond fender benders. It’s some crazy fucked up shit all right. But those guys… those guys back there. Man. How can they get it so well and wind up so far from clear, blue water?

Fan appreciation is the lifeblood of the industry and can come where least expected. The tawdry boys are not polite subject matter for a talk show or even with associates, who may have spent a grand or two on that very same strip, making them what, any different than the boys? But not sharing fan appreciation does not diminish the value of the fans. The tawdry boys are victims of a tawdry world, but a glimmer shines through. Sexual innuendo notwithstanding, Ravi’s little secret is that he loves those guys because of what they saw and had to say about it and mostly for their appreciation—for the time they took to feel the magic below sea level, as conveyed in the work. At least one of those guys lets himself go thousands of miles, away to a reef in his mind. That guy sees the light, and that is attitude—his attitude connecting to my attitude. That guy gets it, and that’s a laugh, considering what else he must get.

•

The studio techs help again with street cover for anonymity, mobility, privacy and a normal life or approximation thereof. A baseball cap, shades, and a three-day growth restore the amazing reefdog to life among commuters and consumers. Newly amazed at this dreamy place, this phantasmagoria seeking realization—this LA—he feels many people staring, but it’s not just at him. They stare at every anonymous pedestrian in three-day growth, baseball cap, and shades, knowing that greatness is strolling down the street casual as you please, if only they can find it.

Is that you?

In collective anonymity, everybody looks famous, maybe, kinda sorta. A few look like bit players, so familiar but hard to place. Some capture the beauty and loss of souls unbound, seeking a role and reasonable direction. Do you realize the potential here?

Among faces drawn in comedy and tragedy are huge talents awaiting discovery at street level. The dry cleaner no longer looks like Charlie Chan or speaks of number one son; he animate and crazy as chop-socky original, martinize to modern specs.

The ice cream guy has scorpion tattoos on his neck and glares in searing drama through special contact lenses of incandescent blue for this audition, in case you happen to be or know or might be able to get in touch with…

Waiters, waitresses, cab drivers, clerks and the whole service army wear second hats over their first, ready for the break because it will come. Until then, they’re kindred spirits, backstage. “Hey. You’re the fish guy. Right on, man. You’re terrific.”

Recognition does feel good—a certain return on effort, until he hears the recognition and turns, to see that the guy recognized looks amazingly like the fish guy but is not. How could he be? I’m the fish guy. I wear a disguise, and for what? So some nebbish can claim the glory? Fuck.

This too is unsettling, till later that night. Reviewing his work, as many artists do, critiquing or trying to see what a viewer might see, Ravi stops on a dazzling plate, a shot for sore eyes, a bell-ringer in brilliant red. Normally a shy fish, this flame angel presents the classic mug, front and a bit off-center. Fish are presumed cold, but this fish is hot on a point. This flame’s eyebrows bunch in consternation. Behind him peeking out, his mate waits. On a whim, Ravi checks the files for an earlier shot of a flame angel in profile. He prints it and in the morning drives down to the custom car place where the art crew takes a half hour to estimate cost of four black bars on each side of the red Jaguar. Nobody questions the request because art is a private statement of values. It can get oblique in La La, but who are we to say, uh, anything? The bid is twelve thousand “to do it right.” Ravi says he’ll ponder the work, but on his way home he buys a four-inch brush and a gallon of black in satin finish for sixty bucks.

It seems crazy to hand-paint a car of such magnitude, and that feels good—compensatory and counterbalanced. Yes, it’s a car, just a car, and now it will show the values we hold dear. For most viewers, the dearest value is industry success, which is obvious if the driver is a known face and apparent if he’s in a Jag. He could be a producer or casting wizard or special effects guru on the very best crashes, explosions, catastrophes, and cyborgs.

Ravi Rockulz is a face from the talk circuit, eminently known and just as recognizable. Hey, it’s the fuckin fish guy! Recognition is mostly annoying, so he gets the hat and shades and boom! The fish guy is a different guy, stealing the juice, and that’s more annoying. So the real fish guy holds a seventeen by twenty flame angel print in one hand and a four-inch brush in the other. Four fell strokes put paint on steel slick as eel snot for perfect black bars easy as no effort at all. Clean and simple as Neptune’s calligraphy, the four bars render something more than a car, what a car. It’s more fun for starters, transcending value and even upping the bucks on one-off identity and a star-studded past. The other side is more difficult, with perfection so casually stumbled onto. But he goes snake-eyed and breathes deep and slow and lets the flame flow from the bristles to the car. He recalls his first difficult cruise in the red Jag and feels corrected, at home on the urban reef. He feels the idea, on the way to Oybek’s office, where he shares his epiphany on entering.

Oybek’s receptionist listens patiently and says the phenomenon of non-constraint is growing in leaps and bounds, and in many cases can be seen as a classic illustration of the Oybekian influence. “It’s like you, painting a Jaguar with black stripes by hand. I get what you’re trying to say. We’ve suffered so long. We keep ourselves locked up inside. Look at the surge in special effects studios. We used to have two that supplied the industry for decades. Now we have a few hundred. You can pooh-pooh explosions and wrecks as the death of drama, but they’re not. They’re an extension of drama. Take the golden age and Joan Crawford. She’s my all-time fave. I can’t tell you what it was, but she had it… Oh… Excuse me. Mr. Navbahor will see you now.” The receptionist smooths a bushy brow and bats his lashes. “Now that lady threw some hand grenades. God.”

“Thanks, but they’re black bars, not stripes. Bars are vertical. Stripes are horizontal.”

Oybekian?

Such is the show that never ends. The contract on Oybek’s desk is thick with caveats, subordinations, sub-rights, exceptions, conditions and continuing permutations. Oybek squeezes all but the last page between thumb and forefinger and says, “Standard. I review same with your best interest in my mind. Good for you. Okay by me.” He folds the stack back and lays it flat on his desk for signature.

Many people between Oybek’s front door and the inner sanctum lingered in the hallway to praise Ravi’s fabulous launch, which gives him a fabulous foundation on which to build; just you watch. So he signs off. “Now you see. We make magic. Presto. From nozzing, we get rabbit out of hat. You see.”

A month later the same TV talk shows want Ravi again. Other producers say they didn’t take the fish guy seriously. Now they do. They want—they stipulate—that the fish guy be the fish guy and appear in mask, fins, and snorkel because nobody needs all that water-in-the-tank business with the knock ’em sock ’em scuba gear and the clunky camera stuff. For what? We need him, the fish guy. We need him to show the body of artistic pursuit. That’s where we’re going with this.

Oybek masterfully declines all offers, then triumphantly resists all offers, then reluctantly agrees to see what he can do. Ravi merely declines, so the talks are off. Then they’re on again—okay, no mask fins and snorkel on stage, and hey, no need to be so testy. Okay?

The world wants Ravi, especially those women sitting beside him on the guest couch. But if celebrity status went toxic, sexual objectification is worse. He has used and been used, but as a human, not as fantasy gratification. He belches, farts and picks his nose to calm them down, but they rave for more.

It gets worse. One odd host is known for esoteric humor but depends mostly on puns and bad plays on good ideas, like calling reef society the same as LA without the tuna smell. Get it? Ravi does not throttle him but rises like a tiger to chum. He grabs the host by the lapels and says, “You’re not funny.” The host shrivels and the fish guy exits, aware of media exposure boring in. Never mind—cut to commercial like it never happened. But the lunge and grab boost the fish guy’s stock, and a producer calls with a million-dollar idea for The Jerry Springer Show, where a bunch of pregnant trailer-trashers will yell that the fish guy is the father. Then he can join the brawl.

It’s funny but pitiful, and besides, “We don’t need his million.” Absence of need is the best icing on the showbiz cake. Ravi Rockulz could scratch his ass left-handed and pump ratings, and so he does because the show has gone sour. Oybek plays it as he must, calling for a reprieve—it’s time for the fish guy to visit some fish.

They head to the Bahamas for starters, to tie in with another money-maker. The fish guy cruises Nassau streets declining beautiful hookers, till one of them pulls a ThinSkinz rubber from behind her ear, so the fish guy steps back for a fresh assessment—cut to commercial on ThinSkinz. Then to Car Lust: We Make Car Buying More Fun than You Know What! Then the usual panoply: ab enhancers, fat pills, hemorrhoid ointment and boner pills for when you’re in the mood and don’t want to find a bathroom. They shore things up with terrific cleavage, a few camel toes and winning smiles. Ratings aren’t bad. Nothing Fishy in Nassau won’t go to sequel, but it won’t bomb. He gets in a day of reef photography but not a second day—they’re flying out to the Virgins. Will that be fantastic or what?

Island hopping to Martinique is a dead reef medley of brown algae and effluvia, treated and untreated. Living coral is a mile out but will move by next year to a mile and a quarter. Ravi the fish guy shoots dead reef, but what’s the market for that?

Minna goes along, regretting postponement of her professional career on the one hand but loving the scenery, travel and glamour on the other. Let’s face it: she’s a natural. She loves telling the camera she married Ravi years ago and he’s been just as hot ever since. She declines the inevitable offer that comes over the transom then, though it’s been telegraphed, predicted and mildly lobbied for a while—a center spread, such as it is. It’s pitched as art, only art, but the ohana back home wouldn’t see it that way. Ravi plays open-minded but is secretly pleased with her decision. He surprises her with a triple-header to the Maldives, Truk, and Colombo, but she declines that too. But she should reconsider because the Indian Ocean will be free of hookers, producers, and tourist noise and will allow them to…

“I’m preggers.”

“Wha?”

“You’re surprised?”

•

Yet again, a story might end on happily ever after or trickle to the near future when the beautiful young family buys a place in Malibu with an incredible loan package designed for rich people who need help because they’re not yet wealthy. Oybek’s money guy designed the package as a stress-free exercise that’s made him the talk of the neighborhood, and it’s not just any neighborhood.

Stephan Otis Monihan calls the place simply fab. “It ain’t Tahiti, okay? But LA does have some stimuli to jump your neurons if you give it half a chance. And this neighborhood… God!” Stephan Otis is tediously optimistic on every subject under the sun and calls La La the greatest opportunity goldmine anywhere because it is what it is. Ravi asks where is what it isn’t. Stephan Otis chuckles, “Surely you know that apparent reality is best not confused with that yet to be actualized.”

“Surely. But it is millions of fucked up people, if you’re paying attention.”

“Okay, Mister Fish. But I’ll tell you something: some of those people, including yours truly, are very busy finding ourselves and getting well.” Stephan Otis brushes a shoulder that has no lint and smooths his shirt. “We’re smart people. We have the money thing worked out. We want more, and that’s called evolution.”

“Sorry, Stephan. I didn’t mean to ruffle your feathers.”

“I’m not used to it, but I get it. I have no feathers. And please, call me Stephan Otis. Monihan. I made the last name up. Get it? Money—moni… han. You’d be amazed how much money I’ve made for flaky people who can’t remember my name. I suppose Stephan is a more popular name now, but there’s only one Stephan Otis, so if you don’t mind, it really helps me out. Okay?” Ravi doesn’t mind, but he doesn’t say it, so Stephan Otis asks again, “Okay?”

“Yeah, fuck it, whatever.”

Stephan Otis calls the house quirky but harmless and definitely doable. He raises an eyebrow on double meaning. “Are you kidding me? On the beach at Malibu for seven point seven. Get out! Would you look at these views?”

Not that a year-old baby, or the one in the oven, gives a rat’s patootie about the view, but they may one day, realizing that they need more out of, you know, life.

•

The kids love the yard on the bluff—not to worry; the fence keeps them and Little Dog from going over. Skinny gives them a turn one day, showing up outside the fence, near the edge, stalking something, casual as you please, till she stops. “Meow!” She’s stuck or lost.

And who goes slinking to the rescue, supple as a geriatric cat? “You tell me what else? Off the cliff I should let her fall? The cat is like family. Family!” Basha Rivka could have spared Skinny’s walk on the wild side by putting out cat food as instructed. Nobody suggests neglect since it wasn’t willful and all’s well. Natural buffering occurs on said family relations because contrary to the common wife/mother-in-law rift, Minna and Basha Rivka have achieved symbiosis, with mutual benefit and respect and appreciation to boot. Seldom is heard a discouraging word.

Harmony came easily. Basha Rivka anticipated a shiksa: upper-middle-class, cheery but snooty, socialized in a country club that doesn’t allow you-know-whom, where big-boned bores stroll fairways or chat over drinks. She was wrong. The new mishpocha are Buddhist, without dogma, inquisitions, pogroms, or snobbery. She is intrigued, then relieved, possibly exhilarated.

Minna is merely practical, in tune with LA, where Jews and Buddhists abound. She embraces the concept of a live-in babysitter. “I love her. She maintains my sanity.” Never have two women so diffused their typically adversary roles in the care and feeding of the man between them and the infant offspring.

•

Skinny suffers no trauma at the edge of the cliff. At fourteen she forgets where and who and sometimes what she is. Hunger is an instinct, free of rational thought. If not fed, she wanders in search of food. If alone, she might howl. But she still jumps up for a meow and a sniff before laying her head on the pillow to sleep all night without snoring, though a finger on her chin gets her purring.

Minna sometimes asks, “Do you mind?”

In daytime she, Skinny, sits on his desk to watch, sometimes batting a pen or swatting a fly. Ha! What an amazing cat.

Malibu becomes routine, with friendly neighbors and the fabulous tastes they share. Money is the denominator. When it breaks in waves on an Oscar, a Tony, or a Grammy, a lovely entertainment may commemorate our good fortune. Neighbors convene like normal people with Olympic pools, Roman columns, champagne fountains, lavish eats, servants, caterers, acreage, valet parking, Maserati, paparazzi, and glitterati.

Money is life. Expenditure reflects performance. Performance measures success. Money can pour like Niagara, flowing to the greater body of good it might do. It can accrue interest or yield dividends or appreciate in commercially zoned lots. Young folk new to the area may experience something of lesser magnitude, like a breach in a levee with serialization, foreign, paperback and DVD rights, action toys and film options. But then come endorsements, and the levee breaks to let the mighty Mississippi flood the bottoms. Ravi Rockulz ponders philanthropy.

Equipment was never easy for a humble dive leader. Plunking six grand on a housing or three on a camera and four on lenses and hundreds here and there on the extras so vital to each outing was like sending the kids to college. He couldn’t do with less, so he ponied up in faith, and the future came to pass. But it seems ironic when a manufacturer offers a housing that sells for twelve grand with the 3x viewfinder, the dome port, flat port, port rings and extensions, the strobes and arms, optical interface, and backups. Why? Never mind. “Nah. I’ll pass.”

Oybek rejoins, “Wha? Nah?” Oybek is fluent in the kvetch common to Hollywood and may not realize that this jargon is not actually English.

Ravi shrugs. “I don’t need those things. In fact, I want to get my next shots with entry level equipment.”

“You won’t get better shots.”

“Or maybe I will. I might encourage young divers by using basic stuff. They should go deep, but not into debt.” Oybek tamps a bowl of hash to support our troops, just back from the war for democracy with duffels of the stuff; it’s like 1969 and a win-win with everybody getting by and feeling better. Ravi takes the pipe to do his part. “I want to take the technical aspect out of artistic excellence. I want to sculpt with a stone ax or paint with a big brush. Can you see the value in that?”

“No. No value. What if you get a hundred grand for your pocket with this twenty thousand dollar setup?” What’f get you hunderd toozundolla fuhpocket you wis tvintyzoozundolla cumra?

“Why would they do that?”

“Why not? You on. You it. The fish guy. They make it back and more. Don’t be simple. Okay?”

Okay. And okay for the wetsuit, BC, reg, and dive computer endorsements, and another half mil for shaping fashion trends, what they call the new look. Boxers are out. Briefs are back. The money can make the world a better place. Besides, here comes season three, with four and five on deck, each year making more, and for what? For wearing scant skivvies that outline his cock on camera is what.

Ravi ponders Congress, but first: the stock market.

He is not obsessed with more but is grateful for what he has and loves his prospects for free time, for art. Humble origins, a tough go of it, and character intertwine. Hardly big enough for the A-list inner sanctum, he makes it in anyway on charm, humility, courage, terrific stories, and a beautiful wife. He misses the old haunts and reefs, but the shallow scene in LA can also be garishly dramatic and predatory.

He and Minna have acquaintances and friends of friends in a big, vague network. They see a few regulars at parties and events and in passing. Familiarity is nice, but friendship and trust are secondary to potential—for huge deals coming together. Opportunity is brief, action fast. Life is bad or good, depending on available budgets. Spending must be free with faith in smashing success. Jimmy the tennis pro said: Become the hugeness then go for it. Jimmy shares many chestnuts and may be the platitude guru. Potential is awesome!

Ravi sees potential in a reefer and a couple beers and sex with the wife. She’s a hottie—Minna, the fish guy’s wife, aka a fine fillet o’ perch. Often spotted out and about and shot at ten frames per second in hopes of a nose pick or crack adjustment, she remains poised in the pose. Cautious and private, two of Hollywood’s most beautiful don’t make friends so often. How can they? They gravitate to Oybek; he is such a fabulous man.

Ravi shares his Oybek foibles with a friendly couple, Stuart and Richard, at a lavishly casual cocktail party at their home, just minutes up from Ravi and Minna’s. The hosts are showbiz cogs, Stuart a producer and Richard in entertainment law. Poolside buzz is that both Stuart and Richard should be nominated this year—for the same movie! Richard can’t be a film credit for executing legal docs or get an Oscar unless they come up with a special category to appreciate his marvelous contribution to art cinématique, and they should. Why not? They’ve done it before—for lesser talent, no names, please. Stuart regards Richard as a colleague, professionally, artistically and domestically, and Stuart’s the fucking producer!

Stuart and Richard are keen on Ravi: has he ever worked in front of a camera—underwater? He has not, and the hosts share a telltale glance. How did he meet Oybek? So Ravi tells of miscue and rescue on Oybek’s epileptic recurrence, which has not happened again since, thank God or Whomever.

The two hosts wait for a moral or a punch line. Richard finally says, “People see him as threatening. I think his amazing looks got him going in the first place. What keeps him going is another story. More on that later, if you know what I mean. But he’s one in a million for getting things done.”

Ravi has nothing to add, no wit, insight or elaboration, so with a bumpkin smile he confirms that Oybek sure has done things for him. Less sophisticated hosts a few minutes down the freeway might say, Duh. But Stuart and Richard rarely dally in the colloquial, so they respond more astutely, without audio. They look disappointed or bored, and with no pithy quip coming over the net, they flee, as if to catch a call from Morty, David, or Sol. Ravi missed a shot and doesn’t care, but then he does.

Richard finds him again later to ask in confidence if he, Ravi, would do a test, underwater—a screen test. Ravi is comfortable with the gay lifestyle and senses nothing, as they say, inappropriate. Why would a lawyer want a screen test? Then again, Richard is big. “Sure. Whatever.”

But just as Richard suggests a time and place, Stuart calls over the crowd, “Busted!” Stuart’s rant is shrill and embarrassing. He calls Richard a slut and says he knew it all along. He smashes his glass and storms out. People try to carry on as if nothing crashed, and everyone is happy to have the scene on file. Ravi commiserates with Richard that jealousy is difficult. Maybe worse than alcoholism.

“Trust me, sweetie: the hooch is worse. We’ll be kissy huggy in minutes. Liquor remorse lasts for days…” These are the last words Richard will speak to Ravi for months. Turning suddenly to seek his colleague and partner, Richard calls across the patio foyer. “You’re wrong, Stuart! It’s you! You’re the one and only one!”

Stuart waits deep in shadow, apparently consoled.

•

More affable by nature and fluent in girl talk, Minna eases into a klatch that keeps up with new colors, products, looks, rumors, deals, ins and outs, and who is walking into this place right now. She calls it an unspeakable yak but goes along for the entertainment value. Busy is good, and one day we’ll look back and laugh. Maybe one day soon.

But she plays a lead in the big picture. Fitting in with the girls is cast to type. She’s open to discovery and goes along with pop culture, with trendy new things and a few old things, like Japanese cooking. She takes a course. It’s okay but not the real McCoy. Still, she makes friends who love her background and Hawaii. She likes tennis and the terrific court complex only seven minutes away. Regular players pick up games. A woman there is taking French and says it’s fabulous, and another woman is French and concurs. So Minna revisits French; it’s chic, and the three often practice after tennis, talking French over a low-fat croissant and a double decaf skim macchiato grandé with organic carob sprinkles, hold the foam.

She takes a few lessons from the pro who goes eighty minutes to the hour on Minna and would like to go another hour or three, but she begs off because the girls are waiting.

That’s life in a moneyed suburb, where tennis pros have been banging housewives through the ages. Not a chance here. But here too a sign comes by chance. It’s nothing really. Jimmy sends a note. Jimmy’s wavy blond hair with highlights in a campy pompadour recalls Troy Donahue with a dab of Tab Hunter, or he could be a ringer for the CREW catalog guy. People double-take and ask: “Did you do CREW? The catalog?” Jimmy smiles with sculpted indifference, snugging his V-neck sweater sleeves around his neck. Shades on top hold the coif in place and frame his piercing blue eyes. What a hunk, though he could also play a sensitive supporting role, with the right script. Would he play gay? Is he? Hey, why speculate? Talk to my agent. Make an offer. Then we’ll see. Jimmy loves Minna and says as much, “your backhand, I love it.” He calls her “attractive and intelligent” and shares “a strong desire” to know her better, maybe over lunch at his place, “say one to four on Thursday if that’s good for you.”

The note is folded in another note, her response: The admiration is mutual. He’s a great teacher, and it’s not his fault if she needs both hands on her backhand. Maybe someday he’ll know her better if they stay friends. Lunch at his place sounds like a terrible idea because she’s not attracted to him, which is also not his fault. It’s because she’s in love with her husband Ravi, the handsomest, smartest man she knows. His way with ocean critters is amazing, and she’ll be under his spell for a long time. So please don’t bother again with this.

He can’t blame her for saving Jimmy’s note. She likely planned to throw it away after sending her response. Besides, what woman wouldn’t be flattered, even from a cardboard cut-out with a soundtrack? She has a lesson that afternoon, so Ravi suggests they meet for a sundowner. “A drink.” She says sure, but why is he being so nice. He says he’s always nice and picks her up after tennis to say hey to Jimmy and let him see her affection. Then it’s off to a posh café for cocktails and home for a lovely screw, like it was years ago.

The following night is another dog and pony entertainment in the neighborhood that makes the sofa, a doobie, a few beers, and a three-star movie seem like the most fabulous view available. “Would you mind too much going without me?” But as he asks, Minna enters to model her new dress, an elegant number blending velvet and silk. The Lana Turner halter wraps the neck in a slim choker, and lush flounces festoon the midriff to the knees with a devilish cut to reveal a slice of firm, tan thigh on every third step and a maddening strip of thong diving between the buns. As if that isn’t enough, the sparse harness grasping the bosom is inlaid with translucent pink chiffon over the nipples, with revelations that will soon be nominated for Best Selected Short Subject. Ravi watches the little documentary and blushes. He would express discomfort, but she says it wasn’t her idea. A Night for Nipples is the latest bid for awareness and money on breast cancer. Ravi thinks it gratuitous, and so it is. But Minna’s tips are only two in a hefty crowd of nipples peeking through the mesh. Few will remember which went under what faces without a program.

Minna is an A-list exotic known coast to coast since they got her coming off the tennis court in a sweat. Personal revelation for a social cause is a trend, and the nipple buffet includes mashed nipples, carefully swathed nipples, and a few nipples perked by chiffon chafe. Little boy nipples, so cute and naughty, fat fluffy nipples, relaxed and assured, silver-dollar pancake nipples, droopy or indented nipples; the nipple fest will be the talk of the town, hailed as important and socially significant. Could awareness get any higher?

Best in show goes by consensus to everybody’s favorite money girl, meaning mortgage broker, Stevie Oh Monihan. Stevie beams, so lovely on the arm of Doctor Paulo Jacinto, the fabulous surgeon from Bahia. He’s the best of the very best. Actually asked to sign his work, he declined with a laugh, which didn’t lessen the astounding demand for his services. He’s the ultimate anywhere for augmentation, reduction, lift, spread, liposuction—and now transformation! And he’s eight months out! Stevie Oh deserves the attention; she’s so service-oriented, optimistic, and non-threatening to anybody’s agenda. What a worthy standard bearer.

Paulo is brilliant, on the verge of a breakthrough to every transsexual’s dream: hips—not plastic implants but real, luxuriant hips. Stevie Oh will be first, following some procedural refinements. Can you imagine, Stevie Oh with vivacious hips? In the meantime, Stevie Oh’s nipples quell all doubt on quality or artistry. Are they augmented, implanted, or donated? But if donated, what cadaver had such splendid nipples? So plump, pert, and succulent.

Paulo is a charmer, with his glowing eyes and Latin manner, a subtle cross between Ricardo Montalban, with the distinguished good looks and Ricky Ricardo mischief—but with an eerie dash of Ramón Navarro too—oh, yes! Like in Scaramouche, with those mysterious dark features and deadly playful eyes! Well, Paulo isn’t talking, and you can’t blame him. What magician reveals his magic?

Which is all very entertaining, which is why we’re here. But the greater value is in context; Minna is a classic beauty. Ravi is her man and equally classic in the clutch. Just look what a good sport, laughing along, as everyone ogles his wife’s chest. Hmm. Nice.

Later, she says she loved his willingness to support her and could feel the admiration of so many for his work. He says he’s happy that she’s happy. “I am. I have a great time here.” She rolls to him. “I’ll miss it. I think it’s getting time to go home.”

A few nights later, in a troubling dream, struggling for air, he gives in to consequence and breathes. Mano hovers alongside, terrible and magnificent, till dawn when she rolls away, brushing Ravi with her chin whiskers in a warning or threat? Will she open wide on the next pass? No, she advances with quivering lips—

Wait! Sharks have no chin whiskers—and she makes her move!

“Noohh!”

He can’t tell if his yell clears the surface as he bolts…

The kupuna teach that contact is ambient and a harbinger. So he ruminates on recent days. Insight cannot be ordered up on demand. So he meditates, staring over the bluff and out to sea, as some in the neighborhood do. Thoughts fly by like birds till the sky is empty.

Nipples and a tennis pro, a solid backhand, homosexuality—I mean the gay lifestyle—as it relates to personal stuff, to sexual identity, change, commitment, and the extremes people pursue to find happiness, even as it mutates daily in the land of La La, where a man can become a woman for fulfillment and camera time. And camera gear and strobes and a housing for free and a cash bonus because…

This is the showbiz place, where every ray of light hits a performance, where stability is not on Elm Street but on a sound stage with a picket fence. It’s been a good run. It’s okay to have a household word for a name, once you manage the monster. TV hosts prate over rabid and Ravi, or raving and Ravi, or they call him Rocky Rockulz, testing the temper lying dormant these recent years.

Tolerance indicates personal progress. Meditation is good, even if it’s popular in LA, but a man has promises to keep and miles to fly…

Another name caller at the airport is easily ignored, till the voice becomes Richard, who once hosted Ravi at a fabulous cocktail party at the home then shared with Stuart. Trouble is, it’s Stuart’s house and no longer shared, after all he, Richard, put up with, not the least of which were scenes of a jealous lush: “Hey… Scenes of a Jealous Lush.” He makes a note on a possible script and stuffs it in a pocket. “My God, talk about tasteless. And passé and… oh, by the way…”

By the way, Richard says he’s been meaning to call for the longest time, not that he has any fantasies about, you know, Ravi, but he did think Ravi was so sweet when they met, that he just wanted to be sure Ravi knew about Oybek and his standard seventy-thirty cut, the way the caveats, addenda and subterfuge settles in the end.

Ravi did not know, but he quickly understands. He can’t crunch numbers that fast but has a sense for magnitude. The money stratosphere is a mere suburb of deep space, his rightful domain. What can he do, hire a lawyer? Richard’s a lawyer. “No, no, no. It’s not right, and you have a case. That’s what you pay us the big money for, but that’s not what I’m saying. I’m just saying…”

Ravi comprehends, maybe. It’s time to begin again.

Hey, where is Mano? In the brief moment of wondering Ravi gazes on Richard’s toothy grin, feeding up, as it were. Richard hates to sell himself short, but he knows he hasn’t a chance with Ravi… Ravi laughs. Richard doesn’t. Richard says goodbye and shuffles off.

“See you, Richard?” Richard doesn’t mean to be funny and doesn’t want to be sad. He only wants what he can’t have, which seems to be a pattern in the showbiz quarter, where some people labor for money or love yet others work for the jackpot. The jackpot rarely comes, but oh, baby, when it does… Meanwhile, a little forbidden fruit platter would be nice, in a hotel, so comfy cozy.

La La is on the make everywhere and all the time, and it’s cool, but the jackpot and forbidden fruit tray may never come. At some point the pursuit is called stalking or failure. Which is skewed and sometimes laughable, but a friend shuffling off in a terminal can cause gratitude when least expected. Richard has granted insight to a disturbance of days—he fades to Vegas or Palm Springs or any available glimmer in the haze. Ravi calls, “Love you, Richard!” Richard won’t look back but flops a hand overhead. Ravi hits his cell and watches, out of body from above, as a reefdog far from home swims against a heady current. Jostling back to the entrance, he reaches George, the broker’s receptionist. “Put him on!” He waits to reach George’s secretary and waits again for George, to ask how easily he might get out.

George enumerates holdings and assessments of liquidity. He assures that impressive returns are now projected at twelve points in the next six months, putting Ravi up twenty-two points on the year, which is “…not too shabby, my friend, and I’m glad you called because we got a…”

“George. I want out.”

“You want out? Out of what?”

Ravi wants out of the stock market because he dreamed of a shark—not a shark, really. “I mean, it was a shark but not a… I know this shark, and it was a message…”

“Are you shitting me?”

“No, George. I’m not shitting you.”

Of course George knows better, not that Ravi is shitting him but that something is amiss. He insists on time to think, to let the drugs and/or liquor wear off, so reason might stand a chance. He wants to know why. Ravi says it’s because. George concedes that yesterday’s news might be a concern or even an alarm, “but I’m telling you. I’ve studied this stuff for years and seen it many times. Many times. Sure, it’s gonna whipsaw, Rav. It might get nauseating on the drop, but it’ll come back up, and if you’re on the sidelines, you’re fucked! You must stay in! It’s the only way out!” What is Ravi on? He’s obviously on something because he’s not all that crazy and certainly not himself. George insists but stops. “Wait!” Ravi waits for the brief moment it takes George to rustle stuff on his desk and come back to officially disclose that this call is being recorded, for the record. He will initiate the sell order, but only against his advice to stay in.

“I said sell, goddamn it!”

“It’s your funeral, brother.”

Timing proves propitious in a wake for the dearly incautious. Free fall begins three hours later and does not bungee back but drops with sickening speed for five days until the Feds lean on the brakes to soften the crash. Trillions vaporize. Ravi avoids loss by getting out and nets four point eight, after commission, which hardly exceeds dinner and wine with a spectacular view—and maybe a few friends, or maybe a group of friends, but what the fuck. Marginal loss is chump change compared to a total burn. George projected twelve percent by virtue of being, or twenty percent for being better. Ravi was better than that at zero percent less commission. Losing four point five would have left him rich, rich, rich if he still drove a Tercel beater and led tourist dives. But he doesn’t. He keeps an eye out for Mano because he senses her near, but she remains in the murk, to his relief and chagrin.

•

And so again, a narrative weaves to a finished edge, a wisp or chafe here and there fitting nicely into the perfectly imperfect artistry of the piece. Tying loose ends on ever-loving moments, Ravi sees, knows, and feels good.

The aging mother can return home, relieved at her son’s success—not with the bubble-blowing shmegegge but as a world-renowned marine photographer, and two exceptional grandchildren enhance the glow and leave her speechless when they promise to come for summer work on a kibbutz. They actually only goo goo and drool, but Minna translates. Basha Rivka embraces her, seeing her skill in mothering and cooking. Who knew?

Marine photography morphs, like life, on new angles and drama. Outings are fewer, as a body rounds the bend, with a fraction the shots per outing, showing a keener eye.

The fan base has leveled its rate of growth, but who sustains the steep curve? Still it grows on book and peripheral sales. Ravi signs autographs at LAX and is in demand with college crowds and highbrow conferences to bemoan reef death worldwide. The booking agent announces arrival at a discretionary plateau, where they may choose the most productive events.

Relaxing on an overstuffed sofa he bought for eight grand new, Ravie recalls an identical unit at The 2nd Coming Furniture Outlet for eight hundred, slightly used with a burn hole here or some cacka there. He scoffs at a fly-away ember and the hole it singes, not too far from some cacka, either vintage baby puke or splooge from after hours long ago when the babies were in bed. He remembers when, more or less. What would he have done with the money saved buying a used sofa? Surely the new sofa is far worse for wear than the used one was. And who needs two-hundred-dollar slacks with twenty-dollar khakis hanging in the closet?

For that matter, why does he wear boat shoes? And what might amuse a man for the balance of a sunny day? He’s in a mood, verging on a funk—oh, he can sense it coming on. A little more dope would help—help him feel even more dumb and dazed. So he brews a double latte to wake up and takes ibuprofen for the headache.

He sits, as a man may do. With a devoted wife, millions on hand, two healthy children, the best little dog and cat in the world, a satisfied mother, a terrific house with views to match and rich memories, what more could there be? A scene comes up, in which he’s picking wild tomatoes for dinner at the top of Pu’u Olai after snorkeling the grottos and ledges at Oneuli at dawn in flat water with sunbeams slanting onto the reef. He walks a road on a blustery night in French Polynesia with an older woman and rolls back, over the rail into a current. He hitchhikes down the same road with his dog and drifts the pass at Rangiroa at a hundred feet and pegs two-eighty on a rebreather. He remembers uncertainty as the basis of life as he knew it. It’s faded gradually for years but with no complaints. The wife and kids, income, recognition, and fan base form a legacy. Except that I am here, wild caught, observable in this, my captivity.

Four volumes in five years is a fair run, with pocket guides, reference guides, posters, slogan/photo shirts and caps, toys, cards, and calendars. And it’s over.

Oybek stole a few points. Who knows how much? Millions? He has enough to retire anyway. Not that working is bad. Could the day form up again? Not likely—French Polynesia still has quarantine on animals from the mainland U.S., and Ravi will not put Skinny or Little Dog through that any sooner than he’d let them lock up Leihua and Justin. But Hawaii ended its quarantine.

Minna has always believed that LA is only a matter of time. She can still get on at the hospital—on a shorter schedule with the kids. And her family begs her to come home, and bring that haole boy went all rich and famous. Never mind. Ravi can’t return to Hawaii, because he can’t, or won’t, because he doesn’t want to. She says he can if he will. But it’s built out beyond recognition. Then again, it’s still quaint, compared to LA.

So Ravi flies to Maui on impulse that afternoon for a homecoming of sorts and drives casually to the south end to reckon where his soulful shack once stood. It’s deluxe houses in a row that came on the market at eight to ten a few months ago, before the mortgage market went huli and the stock market kapa kai. The agent sitting an open house thinks the owner would entertain eight or even seven point six. “I bet he would,” Ravi says. “I bet he would wine and dine eight. Or six. I used to live here. Before.”

“Yes!” the agent laughs, recognizing an old salt who made it, “Mr. Rockulz. Yes. Offer him… offer him five. Oh, I’d love to take him a five. Can you imagine the look on his face?”

“I can, and I bet you would. Tell me something. This house came on the market at eight point nine. Why wasn’t it eleven point thirteen, or twenty-one point zero?”

“Good question. I can find out if you want me to.”

“Nah. Take him this.” So Ravi feels the power of a lowball in the strike zone at 2.2 with twelve hours to accept. What the hell; that’s hardly a half mil down and eight grand a month. He can make that on one lecture. Monthly might be a bitch, but bringing Minna and the kids back to neighborhood would be something.

And so it comes to pass. Minna and Ravi put their affairs in order and pack to leave the glitterati coast. Oybek arrives unannounced, though he is most surprised. “Moving? Wha?”

Farewell, if not gratitude, forms up but comes out wrong—unless it’s right: “You fucked me.”

Back-quoting to gain a few seconds to think and move, Oybek says, “I fuck you? No. I never fuck you.”

“Seventy-thirty? I’m walking bowlegged and don’t even know it.”

“That! Is nothing—okay, I fuck you little bit, not too much. Hey, you are a wealthy man.”

“I am not a wealthy man.”

“You never have work again.”

“You mean I won’t need to work again.”

“Yes. Is what I say.”

“Yes. Is what you say. Is okay. Okay?”

Oybek shifts. “You are right. I fuck you.” Oybek laughs.

“You think this is funny?”

“No. Is not funny. I laugh because we have saying swear words: I fuck your sister. I fuck your mother is not so good. Better, I think is I fuck you. No? Is funny. I am sorry. You are right. You know me from the time you see me. You are right all along. I am bad person.”

“You’re not bad person. You’re greedy. Unfair. Dishonest. Yes, you are bad person. But I accept you. I accept what you’ve done. I can’t accept you as my manager any longer. But that’s okay. We’re leaving.”

“But we enter phase two. Phase two switcheroo. Thirty-seventy. I think you like that better.”

“What other agent gets thirty percent?”

“I make you rich.”

“Oybek. Is okay. Thirty-seventy. Get the documents over to my attorney. You know Richard. We change the residuals, royalties, benefits, and accruals. Yes?”

Oybek hangs his head. “Please. My friend. Come.”

“Come? No. We go. We go home.”

“Yes. Good. I am happy you go home. Is good for me too. But you think what I do for you. Now I want ten minutes. Not ten minutes. Thirty minutes. No more. Is too much?”

•

Twenty minutes later, they pull up to a nondescript building, ugly even in that section of town. With no signage, the building gives away nothing but dirty beige around two sliding doors. Oybek leads the way to interior shadows. “Voilà! My friend: phase two.”

Ravi gazes on three thousand square feet of aquariums end-to-end and stacked on steel racks three and four tiers up around the perimeter and in from there. Most of the tanks swarm with movement, though some are conspicuously still. Puffers segregated into eight species hover, fin-to-fin, gazing out, asking why. They seem to recognize and call out: Ravi!

One row of tanks is eels—dragons, pencil eels, juvenile snowflakes, and giant morays, big and restless as young watermen, though they mourn. Oybek prattles about China and so much money you can’t imagine how much, and the unbelievable premium on big fish—they demand giant morays in the living room, overlooking the lights of Hong Kong! “Like this big, mean motherfucker!”

Ravi takes it on the chin. Oybek dives into the new package deal, a custom print with every fish. “A fish dies. You know what I’m trying to say? All people die, sooner or later. Fish too. Okay? So, maybe it will die later or sooner—like the fish you had for lunch. Hey! You got the picture on the wall, so you don’t feel so fucked so bad because you still got the picture! We can frame it for them if they want. It’s another fee, and so is the freight!”

The top tier on all sides is yellow tangs.

“Look this.” The second tier is flame angels. “Look. Forty-five dollars. Each one! I got idea. Custom print from original fish guy, one hundred dollars, get fish for free! You like?”

But the fish guy is mum. From a dim cubicle a Chinese man strolls to meet them. He offers no name, handshake, or business card. He recognizes Ravi by type and turns to Oybek. “Why you do this?”

Oybek shakes it off. “Don’t worry, you. He will love. You wait.”

Ravi walks out. He looks in Oybek’s car for the keys. No. The curbstone is bolted to the asphalt, but a trash drum hefts easily on adrenaline to fly into the windshield and roll back over the hood. He can’t lift it again so he kicks the door panels but knows he can’t total it on a few dings. It’s a fucking Bentley for Christ’s sake. Ah, well, let ’em putty and paint. He tweaks the mirrors and wipers and says fuck it and heads toward home, till fatigue and a cab take over.

•

Within the week Oybek leaks his decision—via an exclusive interview in Variety—to leave production for now because the creative side is calling. He’ll dive for reef artistry because he knows the magic down there every bit as much as the next guy and can bring it home better. After all, consider his gifted eye. “Can you imagine? I will communicate like you have never seen. I am very excited about the new magic I will make.” …Can imagine you like it’s never seen…

Oybek flies to Papeete and takes the Moorea Ferry to greet old friends. Hereata avoids the show because nobody likes to be left behind on a broken promise. He waves that off because he’s back to make good. Just you wait. He’ll show his stuff with amazing new equipment and talent. Then you’ll see.

Moeava will not muster the boat in the afternoon, not for anybody, no matter how many crumpled hundreds fall out of his pocket. He has a trip tomorrow and two women tonight, which service includes the trash, sweeping, laundry, and general clean up. Fantasy is kept in reserve for a special occasion and sometimes holidays unless he’s tired and stoned. That’s when they love him, which isn’t fair and may be devious and unkind but is also so much better than it was.

Oybek plucks a C-note and grabs a tank and gears up on the dock where his baggage sits. Why not? Slipping in from the end of the dock, he swims to the drop with his very first camera and housing and is amazed at how easy it is. It’s a deluxe rig with “all that crap they put on there.” Really, anyone can do it; it’s the credentials that make the sale. He’ll sort the buttons later; for now, he needs only the shutter release and power switches for the camera, the focus light, and strobes. All on, and they don’t call it automatic for nothing.

Oy, fuck! No, Oy-bek. Ha! Just checking—lens cap off. Ten four, Walter Bilko, over and out. And down. Glug glug glug. Fish guy my asshole. Move over fish guy. Big fish guy is here.

Oybek’s underwater photography career is as spectacular as anticipated but shorter-lived, beginning and ending in three shots. The first is murky with haunting familiarity in Mano’s approach. Impromptu and implacable, she insists that she and Oybek do lunch.

Lunch is not fois gras but foible au gratis for a showbiz wizard seeking reef magic. It’s hardly filling for Mano, who only takes a taste, to see. Unfortunately, she samples a leg at the knee. Oybek senses something less than smashing success but shoots from the hip like a trooper because the show goes on! He nails a predator profile in the brief moment between life and death.

Open wide is shot two.

Mano chomps precisely at femur/tibia joinery, crunching the patella, which seems superfluous at that juncture anyway. Oybek’s friends and staff will attribute the cosmically clean cleave to good karma. They’ll call it Oybekian and chuckle with confidence. A Cedar Sinai specialist will admit, “I couldn’t have amputated this leg any better than that shark did.”

Oybek will tell the doctor that the lost limb is in storage—don’t worry, on ice. The doctor will advise that limbs sometimes come to him for miracle surgery as seen on TV, in a cooler, but it’s not going to happen. Oybek waves him off—

“Nyet! You can’t put it back. But I want you see for me what will be wery waluable to know…” That is, he wants the leg examined for tumor growth because a tumor would prove divine intervention by the Spirit of the Deep. Ramification on secondary markets will be profound. The doctor ponders Oybek’s cosmic salvation, briefly, before taking a call to confirm a tee time.

Meanwhile, off the end of the dock down in French Poly, Mano has the culinary discretion to discard the appendage but comes on, out of character, for another go.

What’s got into her?

Oybek’s second stroke of luck is timing, one of his specialties, in this case on an offer to a higher power. He gives up the camera and housing, the strobes, cords, and all that crap they put on there.

Mano accepts.

In coming weeks Oybek will learn that veteran divers of olden times in unlimited oceans—black coral divers, spondylidae collectors, and all that lusty crowd—carried broomsticks. Sharks don’t like bones, and biting a stick might discourage more bad behavior. Oybek will claim this knowledge as a survivor in the face of death. He will tell his tale on the late-night circuit, promoting his life and times and his new book, Oybek, The Chosen One. The amazing cover shot is close on Mano’s molars and tonsils, shot three.

The housing, strobes and other crap are mangled to an amusing mess that shows up on the back cover, photo by Oybek. Most amazing, however, was that the digital data card remained intact, so art and art history could be made. “Is all good,” he chortles. He opts for a peg leg because, “it feel like right for me.” He tries an eye patch in the mirror—left eye, right eye, strap straight, strap cocked—and settles on a roguish blend of Moshe Dyan and the Hathaway shirt guy with singular intensity. A firm specializing in market response measures the peg-leg/eye-patch combo in a few focus groups willing to relate to that sort of thing. The stats seem comprehensive but inconclusive but promising but not quite yet. The most lucrative strategy will apparently be the peg leg for a year, with a revival round of interviews to release the sequel, Oybek Is Back. At that point the eye patch will renew interest. Plenty of time to come up with a riveting story on the loss of the eye—which should also convert to performance, given proper crafting. What’s inside Oybek, The Chosen One? A hundred twenty amazingly candid shots show the most amazing people in the world posing with you-know-whom.

With interest fading for what’s-his-name, the fish guy, Ravi’s sales dwindle. Calendar sales cease. Book sales stall on a failure to renegotiate, but a small book publisher reads of the stalemate and comes forth to offer Ravi a fifty-fifty partnership on new titles with lithograph prints for pages if the reefdog is willing to keep going.

He’s willing, and it feels good and looks better than ever and makes more money than a dive leader could bring home. Oybek, The Chosen One gets rave reviews right out of the chute, showing what a few hundred grand can do for art in America. Sales fall flat by the time Oybek is Back. Nobody knows fickle markets and lubrication better than Oybek; just read the book! But his bid for a round-two revival hits competition on glittering fish with a twist. Noah Greene takes the showbiz name of Rufus T. Watermelon with racist innuendo to make a splash but explains that he is black, after all, and he loves watermelon. “Now do you or do you not have a problem with that?” The jury is out on that one, with the media waiting for leadership—self-correcting between black and African American.

But then Oprah features Rufus T, asking her viewers, “You want fish pitchers? I got a fish pitcher for you.” She tells them to buy the book, Fish Pitcher from Way Back, for a riveting, blockbusting, change-your-life, no-holds-barred account of a black man from South California making his way in the alien north country—Seattle, that is—where he gets on as a fish pitcher at the open market downtown. The sequel anticipates Rufus T as a catcher—with his hands! And these salmon run slick! At twenty pounds or better!

Ravi turns the TV off and wishes he didn’t have one but knows he will as long as he can because, because… He recalls the olden days when a nice skull webbing would correct this unholy mockery of nature’s noble beasts. Or slow it down, maybe.