Captiva

'What you look like is a soap opera doctor in those scrubs.'

'There's a possibility. Maybe they think I'm on TV.'

Was he serious? 'No, what they're thinking is, we're crazy. Come here in a flats boat at night, enemy territory. And they're right. The smart thing to do would be turn around and head back to Dinkin's Bay. You want to talk to Hannah? Track her down over the phone.'

'Let's at least ask somebody first, okay? They probably don't get many visitors. Like country people, not used to dealing with strangers.'

We had come to the end of the canal, and I swung into an open area of the dock. 'Yeah,' I said, 'probably just shy,' as a couple of men who had been trailing us along the dock caught up.

As the men approached, I called, 'You mind if we tie up here for a while?'

They waited until they were above us: both of them tall, one maybe six three, bony-looking. Probably in their mid-twenties, jeans and T-shirts with long arms hanging out, showing their biceps. The taller one was the talker. Had a couple of generations of Georgia piney woods in his voice, and proud of it. He answered, 'Tie up? Sure, you boys can tie up. Tie up just long as you like.' Which came out: 'Show-er, yew boys kin tah up,'; the dialect exaggerated, and with a mock friendliness that Tomlinson took at face value.

'Thanks, man.' Tomlinson had the bow line in his hand, already reaching for the galvanized cleat. Then, as he reached up over the dock and took a wrap, the talker—he was wearing a bandanna on his head knotted pirate style—moved with an amused, catlike laziness and used his rubber boot to pin Tomlinson's wrist between the deck and the cleat.

'Uh-h-h—whoops-a-daisy—you're stepping on my hand, man.'

'Huh?'

'My hand. You've got your foot on my hand.'

The talker turned and looked at his partner blankly. 'What the hell this boy talkin' about? He got an imagination in his brain, don't he?'

The partner was laughing—big joke. 'That's what he got. 'Bout the only thing, Julie.'

I thought: Julie?

Tomlinson gave a yank, trying to get free. 'Seriously, man . . . really! You're like cutting off the circulation.'

'Naw-w-w. Me?'

'See—there's your boot. That thing under it? My hand. Look for yourself.'

Julie lifted his right boot, putting the full weight of his left on Tomlinson's wrist. He peered at the space beneath his right boot, said, 'You must be invisible 'cause I don't see a damn thing.'

If Tomlinson hadn't already taken a solid wrap around the cleat, I would have backed away. Let Julie decide if he wanted to be pulled into the canal, then pop my skiff up on plane and wash all those net boats into the pilings to thank Sulphur Wells Fish Company for its hospitality. But I couldn't go anywhere because we were already secured to the dock.

When I switched the engine off, the blaring radio became the dominant noise: Redfish ain't ro- o-o-ses to my baby—lyrics that were strangely familiar, but I didn't take the time to try and remember why. I stood there a moment, not saying anything, letting my inactivity draw their attention. When they were both looking at me, I said, 'The smart thing to do would be get your foot off him.'

'Hoo-wee, a tough boy! You don't mind, I'll stand where I damn well please.'

'Just a suggestion.'

'You take your suggestions and leave. That's my advice.'

'Move your foot, we will.'

'You have a mind to do somethin' about it?'

I was shaking my head. 'Walk clear up his arm for all I care, I'm not going to help him. Take a look at those clothes he's wearing. Those are hospital clothes. You know why? Because he's sick. The guy's a leper.'

Julie made a face, saying, 'Huh?' then lifted his foot just as Tomlinson gave a tremendous pull. . . and backpedaled across the bow . . . teetered for a moment, almost caught himself, then sprawled into the water.

I leaned away from the splash, aware that other men were now coming along the dock toward us, hurrying.

'He ain't sick. You serious?' Julie was thinking maybe he'd been duped, but didn't want to show it. I ignored him, waiting for Tomlinson to scull to the surface. Held out a hand to help him vault back aboard as the partner said, 'He ain't no leopard, what a bunch'a shit. It ain't a disease anyway. I seen pictures'a leopards.'

Heard Julie say, 'Mr. smartmouth fuckin' with us. Got his girlfriend all wet!' Laughing, as if that had been his plan all along.

To Tomlinson, I said, 'You okay?'

He was wringing out his hair. 'Water's kind of refreshing. Cold but nice.'

'One of these days, you'll learn to listen to me. See that mob coming?'

He didn't; he was looking at Julie. Wiped water from his eyes and yelled, 'Violence covereth the mouth of the wicked, and the name of the wicked shall rot! You hurt my hand on purpose!' As an aside to me, Tomlinson said, 'That's from Proverbs, man. When you're pissed off, the Pali just doesn't have the juice.'

I was shaking my head. 'Just close your mouth and do what I tell you to do. You start the engine while I try to get the bow line. When I tell you, gun it. Run us straight into the bay.' I stopped to place my glasses on the console . . . and the world became a blurry place of bright coronas and moving shapes. Then I stepped up onto the casting deck to confront Julie.

I am not an eager let's-prove-something-here fighter. I'd much prefer to talk it out. Or leave. Or even run. Which is probably why I have been in so few street fights. But when there are no options, when it is fight back or else, I do not double the fists and start swinging—except, long ago, when they placed us in a training ring with leather gloves and substantial chunks of Everlast headgear strapped around our ears. But no bare-knuckled boxing. Ever. By the time I was nineteen, I'd seen enough fistfights to know that no one ever wins; one man just loses more painfully than the other. I also knew that the clean, bare-knuckled choreography that constitutes fighting in books and movies has no more basis in reality than film's absurd lionization of the martial arts. A fistfight—or any fight—is ugly, bloody, and brutal; a quick descent to the primate roots. It is proof that, in the deepest wells of our own brains, Neanderthal man still lives. There is always a lot of grunting and growling. A lot of scrambling and panicked scratching amid the sweat and adrenal stink. And a fight always, always ends up on the ground. Which is why an average college wrestler could humiliate any one of Hollywood's kung fu movie stars—or a good professional boxer—were he so inclined.

As our instructor told us in that long-gone boxing ring, 'We're teaching you this because, someday, you might have to fight a man that you're not authorized to kill.'

Which, if nothing else, demonstrated that some of our instructors had a flair for exaggeration.

I didn't want to fightjulie, and I certainly wasn't going to climb up on the dock and try to slug it out. All I wanted was to get my bow line and the opportunity to run back to Dinkin's Bay. . . tail between my legs, if need be.

Behind Julie and friend, I could hear men asking, 'What's going on? These guys giving you trouble?' Heard Julie say, 'Couple smartass sport-fishermen. One just went for a swim.'

He had an audience now, plus backup, so I didn't have much doubt about what he'd try to do. As I reached for the cleat, he lifted his left boot to stomp me—which I anticipated. I jumped to reach him, grabbed his right heel and pulled. Julie seemed to hang suspended in midair for a moment, then crashed spine-first onto the dock, both legs hanging over. I locked his knees under my arms and let my body weight—about 220 pounds—snatch him crotch-first into the cleat. A cleat is a mooring device with pronounced metal horns at each end, and both of those horns disappeared into Julie. He made a falsetto cry of shock, tried to sit up when I applied more pressure, then settled back, hollering for help.

To Julie's partner, I yelled, 'Know what a wishbone is? Take one step toward this boat, your buddy better make a wish.' I turned to Tomlinson. 'Start the engine.'

'You boys just hold 'er right there! You ain't goin' noplace!' A small man had pushed his way through the ring of fishermen, something in his hand. Without my glasses, I couldn't tell what. 'Let go'a that man's legs or you'll wish you had. Don't be reaching for that line, neither!'