But not quite yet, because no matter how perverse things might seem, another kink can always take its twist. From time to time, the world spins in bilious disarray, as if centrifugal force is hell-bent on churning order into mush. Life can stay challenging for anyone, till chaos finds a pattern. Soon strange events gain a feeling of timeliness, and perversity is easier to process. If not predictable, these unfortunate events at least unfold with diminishing shock value.
In the worst of it, a man of reason and pride won’t easily surrender his rationale. The rhetorical question, “Are you fucking kidding me?” was neither tactful for an international traveler nor did it show the aplomb and circumspection expected of a tourism professional. But the vulgarity rose naturally, an involuntary disgorgement of obscene reality in calamitous cavalcade; the internationally traveling tourism professional really had no choice but to blurt his sincere response.
The situation was simply, profoundly disappointing: An Israeli passport was not viable for entry to French Polynesia without a special visa — never mind that one’s US visa expired a few, shall we say, years ago.
This was not because the French were opposed to Israel or the Israelis; it was simply because, because that is part of the way it is, because. As the French government’s representative to Hawaii explained on the telephone with the Hawaiian Airlines service representative at the ticket counter of Kahului Airport, with Ravid Rockulz listening on speakerphone, “An Israeli cannot enter French Polynesia without the special visa.”
Why not?
“It is not possible!”
The obvious follow-up on how and where to obtain the special visa, never mind the expired US visa, was answered with equal brevity. “You may obtain this 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 San Francisco, if you prefer. It won’t take you more than forty-five minutes.”
Not bad, only forty-five minutes in LA or San Francisco — even less in Tel Aviv.
The good news was that the flight to Papeete would not depart until tomorrow night anyway — “It’s the only flight, so you have time to get your visa.” Beyond that, the service representative of Hawaiian Airlines frankly had people waiting in line, people with flights reserved and paid, people more entitled to service than this...this rude...whatevah.
Customers demanding service can irritate a service rep in Paradise, who asked, “Whatchou want? You want LA? You want 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 and was happy to share it: deportation back to Israel, which would be charged to the passenger in advance. If he didn’t have the fare, no problem, he could go to jail, which is not such a bad place if you’re destitute. Ravid did not respond, hoping to avoid the further development of this dialogue or a referral to an Immigration Naturalization specialist, who could surely expedite the resolution. Avoidance of INS at that point seemed hopeless with an expired US visa. Hopeless, unless the immigration guys knew that times had changed, that Ravid Rockulz was no longer an illegal alien but was in fact landed, a married man entitled to the pursuit of happiness, and all men are created equal and all like that.
Then again, that tack could land him back in localville, with the picket fence, the pit bull and big-wheel truck. Not only that, escape from America would be best for all parties, all of whom could avoid the pesky deportation process, with all those forms and phone calls likely to take the staff past four o’clock, what with the required clearances from the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security and those three new departments warranted to keep America free. Maybe everyone would be happiest by ignoring the visa violation and helping the alien onto a flight to French Polynesia.
The alien in question qualified for immediate removal from US soil despite his deep-grained affinity for Hawaii’s reefs, his service orientation, photographic skills, artistic approach to life and fish and all his lovable traits — which should qualify him for a ration of aloha, if you don’t mind. Ravid wasn’t sure if being married would make a difference on the visa issue, but he had his doubts. Where was the wife, anyway? Or the marriage certificate? And what was the purpose of this trip? And whereas the country of destination usually wants to ascertain that the visitor has a return ticket, in this case the country of departure wanted to ascertain that the ticket was strictly one way. Meanwhile, the INS guys knew full well the mockery made of their standards in recent years, with perfect strangers agreeing to marry illegals for ten grand, or even five, thumbing their noses at a dedicated bureaucracy striving to keep America free.
Besides that, playing the marriage card would likely trigger marital audits on the length and depth of the relationship leading to matrimony. Was this marriage a sleight of hand designed to squeeze an alien through a loophole? Or was this love?
Married in two weeks?
Well, Ravid’s marriage to Minna had been dwarfed by the monumental magnitude of their love. Ravid and Minna gave in to the contrivance that could keep people from feeling nervous about all the kinky sex they were having. But there was no rush to the altar. This marriage had definitely not occurred to make Ravid legal. No way. It was for love. Then things changed.
In one more week?
Yeah, well, it’s like the guy on the bumper sticker said: Shit happens.
He found out she was a whoredog who’d dilated indiscriminately for a gang of weirdoes as part of an active social life. She took refuge in pidgin with prideful ignorance in her semi-retarded delivery to better secure a tedious, spurious claim to identity: local.
So what should a bona fide waterman and citizen of the world have done, stayed married to her? She seemed a more likely candidate for alien status, and maybe the INS should apprehend her and send her back. She was the abnormal — like the alien who jumped out of that guy’s rib cage. Why would he stay married to her? Why?
Except that he was married to her and wasn’t too sure how best to untie that knot. Well, they have ways, annulment or no-contest divorce. A lawyer would know what to do. A good Tahiti lawyer. How much could a divorce cost? A few hun? Okay, an international divorce, so it’s few hundred more. So? Besides, what do these lolo bureaucrats care about my marriage stuff and my ex-wife? They don’t. In fact, I don’t think they care about anything. Except maybe sundown and payday — oh, they care about that.
So with discretion as the better part of practicality, Ravid took control of the situation, lest the situation take control of him. “Hey! I just remembered. I’ll be right back.” Gathering his documents, he nodded and walked away from the ticket counter, a free man on the move.
For better or worse, Minna still seemed reasonable. He thought he could count on her now, in his time of need. For that matter, she was as likeable as any loose woman or bilge scum or Speedo-bulging riffraff in the rub-rail, chain-and-anchor crowd. She seemed sincere as well in her yen to make up for the near-death experience she’d caused. Hey, she seemed reflective, maybe not as much as a fellow who’d sloshed fourteen hours in the open sea at night, but still. As if she could compensate for that night of nights. She couldn’t. You can’t rationalize a person who causes so much fear and suffering. You could only forget and maybe forgive, maybe in ten years or fifteen. Or fifty.
His head hung on his shuffle back out to the curb where three short fat guys in security uniforms blew their whistles and yelled at Minna to move, move now, you going get one ticket, you cannot park there. Seeing his tired posture and lazy shuffle as par for the current course, she got out and opened the trunk to get his bags — to expedite the not-so-sweet sorrow of their parting. He called out, “Wait!”
Wait, because he couldn’t get a ticket without a special visa, which he couldn’t get without a trip to Israel or Los Angeles. Or San Francisco, which seemed crazy, at six hours each way plus the airfare, cab fare, hotel and meals, not to mention the vagaries of a foreign consulate in California, the expense, energy and unbearable fatigue. He’d look like a world class schlepper and would be, generating suspicion in all the uniformed personnel at every airport check-in, security check, ticket check and shakedown — those thick-tongued patriots keeping America free...
“I might have a way,” she said, even as he pondered a way to gain that last hundred yards to the airplane. When he looked her way, she smiled sweetly, her sparkle underscoring what she wanted, which was nothing but to help.
He smiled back, eager to beat the wicked system. Beating it together was better, no matter that they didn’t care for each other anymore. Well, a smidgeon of care remained, but it wasn’t the whole hog wallow. No more. He checked his watch. “Almost noon already, and tomorrow is Saturday. What can you do?”
“Notting for today. I mean nothing. But I can...call my auntie guys today, and maybe you can go tomorrow.”
The rest of the day was busy — cold, mechanical, matter-of-fact and practical. Minna’s auntie Velma was not a federal judge but hadn’t spent the last thirty years running the judge’s office — since way before he get all federal — for notting. Velma happened to have been classmates with Kevin Kanishiro, whose career path had paralleled Velma’s only a few blocks away, giving them an enduring inside joke to share, which was that they controlled both the judicial and legislative branches of Hawaii. Classmates were bound by honor, values, social parity and practicality — besides that, Kevin was Velma’s fifth cousin not even removed — maybe even fourth cousin but that would have been removed. Never mind. Auntie Velma and Kevin Kanishiro had another cousin Kiki Hironage who worked at a consulate in Honolulu — an Asian consulate to be sure, up on Nu‘uanu where the Asian consulates gathered as if for security in numbers, where they still needed a, shall we say, local receptionist for optimal efficiency.
Kiki was mahu in the Hawaiian sense, a big, friendly fellow viewed more or less as natural and accepted by tradition among some families. Mahu were incidental, except that Kiki’s sometimes boyfriend was administrative liaison at the same Asian country’s consulate in San Francisco, which was next door to the Israeli consulate, where another gay fellow...
Five phone calls can move the world in an hour or two, if the world is properly associated.
In this case, the ‘ohana Somayan needed its world moved away from the fractious folly of its n’er do well nubility, Minna of the woeful taste and judgment. She what? She marry one haole, and now he get all itchy for leave already? Well, whatchou going do?
Better yet, Auntie Velma said late in the day that she could also help out with facilitating the annulment once the ex-haole boy submitted his permanent address, to which documents may be sent for notarized signature.
Who says the world can’t get along and make things happen for the best? By early evening, Ravid and Minna shared a satisfaction as momentous as their love had been. She felt proud of her means to help with what he seemed to need. He felt relieved, achieving at last an exit that should have happened months or maybe years sooner, when he first got the message on what happened to Hawaii. In soothing silence, they rode the few miles from her place back to the south side, in tacit understanding on what remained between them. He got out and leaned back into the passenger window. “Your mother was nice enough. She doesn’t seem to hate me. Not like your Aunt Velma.”
“She is nice. My mother.”
“What did she say to you on the way out?”
Minna shrugged. “She said, ‘Cute da kine.’”
Ravid chuckled, going along, after all. “Thank you,” he said. “I owe you one.”
“Nada mucho,” she replied. “You don’t owe me anything.”
Well, maybe not, but then again, why would he ever hesitate to help her as she’d helped him, as a friend in need? Ravid meant to convey this sentiment in a half-shrug and head tilt, and he felt effective, but if he wasn’t, that was okay too. “Hey, how come your aunt and cousins got Japanese names, like Kaneshiro and Hukigawe?”
“Because we all poi dogs. That’s why. Velma guys’ parents and grands came to Hawaii to work the cane fields. They were the first coolies. The second haoles. One little wedding, and everyone get all mix up, cousins and in-laws and everything.”
“Does she know that?”
“She knows. She just doesn’t want to hear it — especially from you.”
“Who were the first haoles?”
“The Hawaiians came in from somewhere else too, but never without breath. Don’t forget.”
“How can I? They don’t want to hear it either.”
“Hawaiians been here forever. You been here what?”
“I been here from youth to middle age. That’s most of my forever.”
“Middle age?”
“Yeah. I got some age on me. But I got to tell you: I never saw anything like your family pulling strings to make something happen. That was impressive.” He shrugged, still a humble man willing to see something new.
She shrugged back. “That notting! You should see what George Bush’s family did.”
The laughter between them seemed spontaneous and joyful, till it faded fast on realizing how few the joyful moments had been, especially in view of expectations.
He asked if she would pick him up again tomorrow, say around one thirty. She asked why she wouldn’t, so he said he’d call and confirm once he got his seat assignment and made sure he was now kosher, “I mean legal...”
“I know what kosher is.”
“Oh, yeah? What is kosher?”
“It’s like, you know, da kine.”
He laughed again on a headshake and turned back to his tiny abode. It stood empty, uninviting and locked. He waved from the step till she drove away. Then he kicked the door in, went in, stood in the overbearing stillness and void where his life had occurred for years only a short while ago. He went back out, walked a mile or two up the beach, bought a can of sardines, a box of crackers and a bottle of water, and walked back. Inside again, he lit a candle to see. He sat on the floor and commiserated with himself on the benefits of eating low on the food chain. He went back out for a quart of beer, returned for the last time, and slept till the middle of the night.
In the light of a waxing moon, he walked up the beach again to Gene’s house, knowing that Gene would be sleeping, and so would Skinny, unless Skinny had run off, feeling abandoned, lost and alone in the world after she’d given all the love she had to give to the fellow who’d taken her in on tacit agreement that theirs was a match to last forever. How do you explain life’s changes to a cat?
Under twinkling stars that seemed benign — stars that had beckoned so recently as a better place to be — he stopped to feel the night, the balmy air, the place — his place. Maybe a far off star still beckoned. He hoped so, because he felt like a space traveler scheduled for liftoff tomorrow. At least he wouldn’t leave the tropics behind. He’d only change latitudes. With any luck, he’d leave the social ravages behind. He determined to be grateful and to try his best at ditching the troubling stuff.
Ravid told himself it was working out for the best, that he would see Skinny soon, that he would wait on Gene’s porch for sunrise so he could explain to her again the need for this adjustment in life, because she would comprehend, if he approached the subject from a cat’s angle...
Yet he saw Skinny sitting on Gene’s porch and broke down and cried. What the hell was Gene doing, letting her go outside on her very first night, in a new neighborhood with unknown hazards?
But he knew as well that his anxiety and tears were not caused by Gene or Gene’s judgment. There sat Skinny as he’d hoped to see her — and he sobbed, surprised to find her well and waiting. He’d honestly believed she’d be gone or mangled by a dog or have her collar caught on a wire or any number of strange fates. As it was, fluffed, expectant, more or less content, she set up an audible purr on his approach.
He’d anticipated the worst, because the worst in all things was what he’d come to, till he came to this view of his little orange cat with her front paws tucked in for maximum advantage to the moonbeams and the approach of her man, whom she greeted, “Meow!”
“Well, yes, I am. I just thought I’d stop in. You know? Why not?”
He sat on a step beside her and guided her onto his lap, where they drifted in and out of slumber for a few hours till the sky grayed in the east. He carried her to the edge of the lot and set her down so she could walk a few paces, dig a hole and take a leak. He peed nearby. They looked sideways at each other as they often had, looking forward to the day ahead, until today. They walked farther, till she cried. So he picked her up and walked back to Gene’s porch, where Gene waited with coffee and two dishes, one filled with water and another to fill with cat food, though there wasn’t any cat food, so it got filled with canned tuna, which Ravid called extravagant till Gene assured him it was a bargain compared to psychiatric care.
“Who needs psychiatric care?”
She lit a smoke and gave him the look. “You need more coffee?”
“I’m good.” They drank coffee, till he asked the tough question. “Why did you let her out?”
She gave him the tough news. “I didn’t. She got out. I couldn’t find her. Where was she? On the porch?” He nodded. “She knows. She’ll be fine. Don’t worry. Look. She’s eating.”
“Yeah. Canned tuna.”
Then he took off his shirt and arranged it in a back corner of the porch, and Skinny curled up on it for her morning nap. Gene put a hand on his neck and pulled him near. She urged him to take care and rest assured that Skinny would be watched over. She went in to get ready for work. Ravid watched his cat another minute then left quietly to walk back along the beach to his old place, done with crying, yet breathing with great, heaving sobs.
In the next hours he paced, packed and got on the phone to secure a seat assignment, once the airline agent could review all requirements and render the passenger legal on his new visa and new status, which would not allow him to stay in the US because of special conditions inserted here by the Federal District Court of... “Federal Court? Man! What did you do?”
Well, that was none of an airline agent’s business, and if you want to go ahead and assign a seat, then everything will be okay. Okay?
Oddly, he felt secure with this exchange and his familiarity with the process as it occurred locally; any muddle early on would usually allow administrative machination to fade without obstruction, without anyone pinpointing a problem or delving deeper.
Minna came early. Ravid was ready. They drove to the airport as he droned reminders that she should please check in on Skinny — and go alone, please — and she should also please see that Gene stayed okay with the situation.
Minna’s pained gaze so much as asked, Why are we doing this? She didn’t ask, and he didn’t press. She gave him a sheet of paper with her correct mailing address for a postcard with news of successful arrival and job progress or whatever else he might want to report and whatnot. Neither one mentioned that he would send his own mailing address as soon as he had one, or what it would enable regarding the man-and-wife situation.
Then they approached the airport, where Minna got excited once more as if on cue, honking, calling out and waving at friends, managing to pull up to the curb in a terrific mood with renewed effusions of praise on his courage and water skills. He sensed a method here, a timing meant to displace the difficult potential of their parting. They wanted to get through the next minute and successfully say goodbye like friends who had taken care of each other, with no mention of their legal connection and the heartfelt promises they’d made a few days before in front of witnesses and an authorized agent of the state, or the promises made after that to Uncle Federal Judge.
It went okay for the first minute, with distractions — lifting the bags, making sure he had his itinerary and passport. Down to the easy words of farewell. He turned, unable to embrace her, because it would send the wrong message. But he couldn’t simply walk away, because of the cruel message that would send. He waited. She waited to see which wrong message he would choose. Then came her inimitably soft smile, her sparkling eyes and promise of something or other that a sane and stable man could no longer interpret.
So he gave the last ten seconds to her embrace and effect, as if to remember, though he longed to forget. Then in the spirit of etiquette and respect, he said, eye to eye, “Thank you,” to which her soft smile quivered.
Then he turned for the terminal without looking back. “I don’t mind,” she called after. “I’d do anything for you. You know that. Don’t you?”
Without looking back he raised a hand to shoulder height as if to affirm his knowing or to say farewell or ugh or no hard feelings or maybe just peace be with you.
Okay, once more, from the top, with feeling:
And so our story begins...