Flame Angels Read online

  So it was that familiarity, predictability, crowding and tedium got more familiar, predictable, crowded and tedious. A man in a bind can recognize his emotional burden gaining weight, but awareness won’t diminish the load. Ravid Rockulz faced a difficult truth, sadly seeing his island for what it had become. As when a marriage outlasts the love, he didn’t decide one day that it was over; he felt each day that it was a little bit less than it had been. His tropical island was going suburban, shifting into overdrive on its metamorphosis to burbling convenience, gagging chic and LA-extravagant values. The newest immigrants fit happily into the gridlock and road rage, adapting successfully.

  This traffic? Bad? Compared to what?

  Many others mustered their best laugh-a-day dismissal of gridlock in favor of money and “growth.” The Chamber and Visitor’s Bureau led the cheers.

  Ravid’s niggling but manageable worries were compounded more frequently as time passed. Stopping shy of anxiety attack and falling short of mid-life crisis, they led inexorably downward to symptoms of both, beginning with some tough questions:

  Could this be the right context for the prime of life?

  Did I ever anticipate thousands more condos, cane fields converted to tract houses and the sweeping ocean views along the road blocked by mini-mansions proudly probing the twenty-two-million-dollar range?

  Can I remain happy — or revive my happiness?

  Or would this chronic malaise displace the bond between the waterman and his achingly lovely home?

  For that matter, was home still lovely?

  And there he was, stuck in a quandary, knowing that each day made him better at his craft, even as the days passed with feelings of inadequacy. He was the best, but something was amiss. An absence was palpable and was perhaps the feeling of incompletion common among many people approaching middle age. He felt tardy and not yet arrived but couldn’t put his finger on where he was bound for or what held him back. The feeling persisted like a self-imposed constraint. It gained urgency — or he suffered the growing pains of continuing commitment to what he loved. Renewing his vows to beauty and perfection with a vengeance, Ravid Rockulz wanted to cure his uncertainty. He’d never met an itch he couldn’t scratch, but this was deep, not surfacing. It moved around even as vigorous attempts to scratch it let the blood seep.

  Maybe he needed a break, a few days off with a tourist woman, a luxuriantly plush and married one looking to round out her separate vacation free of long-term baggage. Ravid was as quick and easy as carry-on, replete with excellent manners and sexual courtesy — and he did love room service, air-conditioning and remote controls. Setting aside her love, need, obedience, care-giving and being there till death do us part, an open-minded woman could get down to the romance she craved. Maybe a sumptuous woman with imagination could reach the itch with fun and kink in a lavish hotel, with six-hundred-thread-count sheets, thick, fluffy towels to be used once and thrown on the floor, an ocean view and a mini bar with cashews and chocolates, her treat — or better yet, on the hubby’s corporate account, which would be easier on everyone, all things considered.

  Well, that worked out sometimes, but usually not, because either the women had defects, rendering the experience less than perfect after all, or they had no defects, and left a sensitive dive instructor alone at the end of the dock with matching lumps in his Speedos and heart. Not that the sheer frolic wasn’t worth the price from time to time, but the price rose as perfection in females became more elusive and more lovable.

  In time, he felt like the young sailor in the old story of a first shore leave in Waikiki. Finally choosing the woman of his dreams, a working girl with the beauty, lift, separation and spread every boy dreams of, the sailor could hardly believe his luck and that she was real and available. It seemed unbelievable that the Promised Land could be his for mere dollars. So he asked with trepidation, How much is this going to cost me? Understood was that this everyboy wanted the whole enchilada — around-the-world, blow-and-go, smoke-and-fire, half-and-half, the works — so the perfect hooker eyed him up and down, smiling sweetly as she asked, How much you got?

  The little story came to mind when Ravid wondered how much he had or was willing to pay. The story made him laugh, imagining himself as the boy on the threshold of the dream deal. Every man had stood there. And he marveled at the tonic effect of a small joke. La petite plaisanterie; maybe it could make the small death easier to bear. Laughing at society’s foibles was certainly known to keep a man sane, at least in the short term.

  Ravid couldn’t help but love his island, even as she became a working girl; surely she would save her heartfelt best for him, knowing that he needed more from her than another romp in a canebrake. Odd as it seemed in such a vagabond heart, he needed commitment. He needed his love returned. He wanted to grow old together.

  Among the small deaths incurred daily was that of the old spirit of aloha. Its diminution was less noticeable to some, because some “locals” had become hostile over the years. Ravid thought it was only a toxic few blaming others for their shortcomings, as non-resourceful people will do. But small in number as they were, their rancor was loud, their attempt to dominate by posture and noise overbearing. Most had no Hawaiian ancestry but descended from workers who’d come from the Philippines, China, Indonesia, Tonga, Samoa and, above all, Japan. The “local” label was deemed sanctified and authorized, as if locals were somehow derived from original stock, like Hawaiians.

  They weren’t, yet they bore animosity toward anyone not island-born. Conflict was rare, isolated and generally aimed at Caucasians. Racism is troubling anywhere; among the sources of human pride, racial origin lacks staying power. On the other hand, Caucasians are often equipped to deal with racism, so assured are they, deep down, of their innate superiority.

  One racial claim was that blood instinct was the same thing as superior intelligence in nature. That is, native intellect was held up as part of a group genetic. The loudest claims for superiority were often incomprehensible. Ah, Ravid thought. They’re frustrated too.

  Some locals claimed Hawaiian blood as if to explain their rage. They spoke pidgin as a first language and bore Asian physical traits. They resented white people making money and living on the islands, especially the influx of former tourists as residents, who drove prices sky high and drove the next generation away — their children — because they couldn’t afford the rent.

  Everybody felt the crush. It felt ugly, with a spurious minority claiming oppression at the hands of white people — how tricky those haoles could be, starting with the missionaries, and now they want what’s left, what is “ours.” Anyone white was assumed to have missionary lineage and values, which were wrong and oppressive. The exceptions were wealthy descendants of missionaries; they were unmentioned. Though Caucasians made up only a third of the population, the accusation was correct in part.

  But racial entitlement went both ways. Outrage became proof of oppression: Why else do I get so pissed off? Some white people accepted guilt as charged — just look at history. But most accepted nothing, because indictment based on race is racist. The more virulent racists shouted for justice, not so much like their Klan forebears had done, but then not so different. Welcome to Hawaii. Now Go Home — this popular bumper sticker could be seen speeding down the highway, along with Slow Down! This Ain’t the Mainland, two sentiments claiming tenure and rights to original something or other, reflecting volume exchange on innate stupidity. The place was under terrific pressure but had not given in to hatred in most quarters.

  Ravid hated the hatred, which felt contradictory, but he didn’t know what else to think. Pacifistic as the next fellow, he knew all too well what comes of complaisance in the presence of evil. Next thing you know, it’s the worst liberals laying their necks on the chopping block to compensate for the injustices of the past. Missionaries my tuchas — I’m Jewish! We don’t proselytize.

  Besides that, Ravid had met people all over the world from most racial, social, econo
mic, age and health strata, judging all according to merit. One man’s merit might be another man’s deficiency, but for Ravid, natural values, love and good manners could be inferior to nothing. Maybe the local challenge chronic in Hawaii would be best viewed as uninformed; if euphemism could soothe inflammation, so much the better. Yes, uninformed — not to be confused with hateful and ignorant. Still, few things got his goat like the false pride of being born and raised. Everyone was born. Everyone surviving childhood was raised. The local crowd assumed that no place else counted for anything, but if you’d seen the world, you knew the big difference between growing up local and growing up in the world. That difference became manifest in the education available at local schools. Some matriculates put huge decals on their trucks:

  Born & Raised.

  Ravid wanted to have his own decal custom-made:

  Hatched and Fledged on four of the seven continents, deep diving four of the seven seas while engaging intimately with richly diverse cultures in their political, artistic, warrior, romantic and meditative layers...

  Well, a message that long would require a new car with a huge back window, which might be nice but would also require giving up his current ride, his identity marker signifying liberation from material gain and the burden of possessions. Ravid Rockulz was free of the rigors of undue mechanical maintenance or cosmetics that could hinder Nature in Her course of decomposition, decay and dust. Ravid’s early vintage, dinged and dented Tercel had actually lost its back window — along with its back bumper — in a tribute to gravity and the yin-yang miracle of massive rust in movement and vice versa. Losing his back window was also good for a laugh, or many laughs, from the moment of happening through many recollections. Little shards with rounded edges still lay among the drifts and detritus on the back seat and floor, or on the ground where they tumbled in a sparkling wake after falling through the gaping holes in the floor.

  Most of the males in Ravid’s social set drove beaters. A beater indicated a driver who’d found comfort in lateral mobility. A man who drove a beater remained apprehensive of bourgeois creep. The critical first symptom of soul death was a new car, or a car with no rust. The women loved beaters and the men who made the statement and commitment, or lack thereof, and they matched sincerity tit for tat.

  Could that be the problem? Could the spontaneous life and devil-may-care approach to milestone events be generating subliminal anxiety that might be gaining momentum along with mileage on the road to nowhere?

  Yes, it could be, but no, it’s not that. Are you kidding? Calling nights of wine and laughter, friendship, love and women a dead end? If that’s the case, call me suicidal. You fucking nutcase. You...you Mennonite. You Taliban. Christ on a crutch, you want to take away joy and fun and call it productive? Go peddle that poison elsewhere. Get the fuck out — and now!

  Except that among the traits most observable in Ravid Rockulz was the notable absence of obscene language. He left it in the bilge where it belonged, favoring polite discourse every time. He learned that esprit de corps made the bawdy good times all the more fun, putting them in the context of polite good taste such as might be seen in your better hotels. Still, conversations with himself were often seasoned profanely, his didactic brutality meant to discipline the unruly self, as it were. Besides, in practical terms, harsh language helped ventilate the spleen.

  Back to the point at hand: Days of honest endeavor with true friends and needs met among willing women could not be regretted. They were a source of joy, a blessing called life itself. Can a person be more gainfully engaged than in fun, laughing aloud or moaning to God, Himself, in gratitude for what must be heaven-sent?

  Yet a case could be made against these joyful pursuits of sun, sea, wine, reefer and women. Naturally convenient to the service class, these pleasures seemed slight compensation for the security those same people lacked. Call it a trick of nature; the case against the good times rolling into the foreseeable future would lose every time. I submit to the court that life cannot get better than a rollicking good time, Your Honor.

  You wanted to get high, get laid, get loved, get wet and deep? That was easy: Jump in. The water was fine. The youthful wonders were free to anyone willing to work for rent, groceries, entertainment and no more, except of course freedom and happiness. In California, they’d call it a lifestyle. In Hawaii, they called it life.

  This winning case did not rely on the glory of hand-to-mouth existence or victory over wealth. It was simply that living close to the ground had its perks. Many mainland tourists saw and envied the warm, vibrant context and its apparent superiority over urban ambition and the hard-driven commute. Many fantasized on their flights home and through Monday morning and the next commute. Just as speed and comfort are counterbalanced in most boats, so did security and freedom offer differing returns.

  Ravid Rockulz had made the choice long ago. But a malaise came on like a blemish on a soft complexion — troubling and hard to reckon.

  Maybe it was midlife time, when male humans panic, caught in the DMZ between boyhood and its inevitable destination. Each day moves inexorably toward the latter, yet the boys cling to remnants of the former. Most men would give anything to lead dives rather than sell insurance, shoes or equities, or swing a hammer or shuffle paper in a stifling office on the thirty-third floor where the windows won’t open and the ceilings have no rafters, because you must wear a tie...

  Maybe that was the rub — that a dive instructor in Hawaii topped the blue-collar heap, and he craved something more, like a profession, or an artistic endeavor. Maybe this niggling restlessness came from the beauty abounding, from an unrequited love that needed conversion to a marketable commodity for public consumption. Then society and he could better appreciate each other. Tourists valued his insightful stories on the way to the reef, on the reef and on the way home from the reef. He told them what to watch for, then pointed it out, then told them what it meant in the scheme of reef life. He knew these things, had learned and absorbed them, and the guests felt the kinship. They loved what he gave, and they tipped generously in return.

  Maybe a bigger audience could make a connection now lacking. Maybe he could paint. Or something.

  Well, it was a fine, pretty concept, but who had time to think of art and the betterment of society with such a rigorous schedule? The demands of diving daily, with the aerobic output and relentless schlep, were enough to tire a younger man. On top of that, a healthy man in his prime wants nothing more or less than a normal social life, which wasn’t the easy pickings that met the eye, except for when it was. But luck was fickle. Ravid did not get laid at will. No men do, except for rock stars, some professional athletes and a few politicians. Those guys have hot and cold running leg any time they want it, but the rockers, jocks and pols get mostly high-mileage, skank leg with frequent-fornicator risks of frightening potential. Or mental leg that graduated from Hollywood High: omigod!

  Tourist fare, on the other hand, included upper-echelon females of spiritual, physical, intellectual and economic development, many of whom lusted for the simplicity left by the roadside long ago in the quest for status and money. They’d worked hard to get ahead, trim down and firm up, sacrificing desserts. They’d gone vegetarian. They exercised and lived right. Most hard-driving women suffered the same stress and compulsion their male counterparts had suffered for ages, leading to the same common question: Why do I work so hard, eat so right and stay so trim?

  Arrival at the boat provided some of these women with an answer. They worked so hard at self-improvement so they could catch the eye of the soulful dive instructor with the outrageous body. Ravid’s mystery unfolded in layers, beginning with paradox: Here was a man defying containment in a three-piece suit, yet an ounce and a half of nylon splendidly covered him.

  The other layers were more straightforward. He was very good at his job, sincerely in love with his workplace and obviously committed to freedom. His water skills, rust-bucket car, beach shack, scraggly but cute cat, reef wis
dom and gentle confidence made an appealing package optimally wrapped for the short term. Revisiting the first layer — his skimpy Speedos, so snug and compelling in their underscore and highlight of the flat stomach and love missile — a spirited woman could well understand the cleavage stare she’d suffered for so long.

  Maybe the unusual, happy niche Ravid had found was also part of the problem. His happiness had been real, with natural aptitude developed admirably and applied to its highest and best use. But like all things that evolve toward perfection only to reveal it as an illusion, a time comes for fading away, for finality in all things. Ravid felt fairly certain he was not ready to die, nor was he inclined to. So what might come next to a man in his prime? What was he missing? He’d seemed to have it all. Maybe he did and would again. Could it get any better? Well, anything could get better. A steady diet of sweets had seemed right in a pastoral water life of natural values, but maybe the sweets should be set aside. Maybe it was like the movie he saw last week where Nicolas Cage was this Wall Street tycoon with these knockout girlfriends, but his money and women didn’t matter, because life was cold and sterile — the guy didn’t even have any pictures on his wall on account of the great leg and money rolling in. Then he got visited by this black angel guy who sent him back to an old date he stood up at the altar on their wedding day, but then he was married to her in one of those special Hollywood flashbacks to show what would have been if the other road was taken. What was her name? Don’t tell me — incredible rack but much more homey than the Wall Street women and much warmer with a more domestic smile. Anyway, they got two little kids on the road not taken, and one was real cute and smarter than Solomon, and nobody minded that she was precocious enough to make you gag; she was so well scripted, and the other kid was an infant who cried and shit and peed all over the place so much it made Nicholas Cage realize how sad he’d been with only big bucks and terrific snatch in his life...