Randy White - Night Vision

Tomlinson had described the guy as all grits and redneck bullshit, plus a full helping of steroids. It matched with what I was hearing.

The water was so shallow now that I was using my left hand to crab us over the bottom, the muck gelatinous between my fingers. It was frustrating. I had no idea how badly that man was hurt, but I knew we couldn’t waste time getting him out of the water and treating his wounds. It was impossible to hurry, though. Try to stand, we’d sink to our waists in slime.

“Did you call nine-one-one?” I asked Tomlinson. I couldn’t look directly into the spotlight, the thing was too bright, so I was using peripheral vision to keep track of Squires as he descended on us, pushing people out of the way. I noticed that the men who had been attempting to form a human chain scattered from his path.

“We should be hearing sirens by now,” Tomlinson replied, “or maybe not. It was only about five minutes ago that I called. But they’ll be here.” Then he surprised me by calling out in a cheery voice, “Hey! Hey, Tulo, it’s me! Tell some of the men we need help getting out of here. We need about five people!”

Tomlinson used the masculine form of the name, but I realized he was yelling to the teenage girl he had mentioned, the girl we had come to help. Tula Choimha.

I saw a slim, luminous figure appear, backlit by the spotlight. The girl had a flashlight, which was pointed at her sandals, and something else in her hand. A bottle, it looked like.

To Tomlinson I said, “Watch the guy’s head-he might have a spinal injury.”

My pal replied, “Then maybe I should stay in the water with him until the paramedics arrive.”

I was thinking about the killer microbes, not the alligator, when I replied, “No, we’ve got to get him out of here. You, too.”

“Dude,” Tomlinson muttered, “I don’t even want to ask what that tone of yours means.” He glanced over his shoulder. “You think the gator might come back?”

I said, “I’ll climb up the bank, and we’ll try to pull him out without moving his head. These people aren’t going to help, they’re afraid. Oh… and for God’s sake, don’t even try talking to that landlord. You’ll just make him madder. Let me do the talking.”

Tomlinson’s attention remained on the girl, mine on Squires, who was still shouting threats at us and not slowing as he lumbered toward the water. I knew we had to hurry, but it would be worse to misjudge the situation. Steroid drunks, like pit bulls, are an unpredictable demographic. If the guy was as furious as he sounded, anything could happen.

I laced my fingers into the knee-high weeds that grew along the bank and pulled myself out of the water, hand over hand, trying to time it right. Friends sometimes chide me about my obsessive attention to detail and my hyperawareness of my surroundings-particularly if the environment is populated with strangers.

Sometimes, I am tempted to reply, “I’m still alive, aren’t I?” but never do.

Fortunately, my hyperwariness paid off. Again.

Just as I was getting to my feet, blue jeans muddy, a slimy mess, Squires appeared. He took a quick jump step, grabbed me by the left arm and stabbed the huge light into my face as I stood. He was screaming, “Can you see any better now, you son of a bitch! Who do you think you are, coming ’round here, giving orders!”

I pushed the light-a military Golight, I realized-out of my eyes and tried to back away, but the man’s hand was like a vise. In an easy voice, I said to him, “Calm down, Squires. We have a guy who needs medical attention.”

It didn’t help. “Screw you!” the man yelled, his breath hot in my face. “Who the hell died and made you boss, you goddamn do-gooder prick? You’re giving me orders?”

I kept my voice even. “When the police arrive, what are they going to think when I tell them you tried to stop us from saving this man’s life?”

Squires was trembling, he was so mad. He roared, “You’re not telling the cops nothin’, asshole! How you gonna talk to anybody after I snap your damn head off and use it to feed my gator?”

His gator? It was an unexpected thing to hear, but it told me something.

I was gauging the man’s size and his balance. He was about sixfive, six-six, probably two-eighty, but weight-room muscle is among the most common cloaks of male insecurity. To test his balance, I rolled my left arm free of his grip. At the same time, I gave him a push with the fingers of my right hand. It wasn’t an obvious push. It was more of a blocking gesture, but he didn’t handle it well.

Clumsy people have a difficult time with simultaneous hand movements, and this guy was clumsy. The little push turned his entire body a few wobbly degrees to the left. It was all the opening I needed, but I didn’t take it.

Now was not the time for a brawl. Besides, Tomlinson and I needed this guy’s cooperation if we were going to save the injured man. The illegals who lived in the park weren’t going to risk helping us-not if their blustering bully of a landlord disapproved. And I couldn’t blame them. They had to live here. I didn’t.

I squared my body to Squires’s, and said, “This is my last try to be reasonable. We’ve got an injured man and we intend to help him. Get out of our way and behave like an adult.”

That’s all it took. Squires screamed at me, “Or you’ll do what?” and he jammed the light toward my face again.

I had no choice, I ducked under the light and then drop-stepped beneath the landlord’s extended right arm. From the sound of surprise he made, the move was the equivalent of a disappearing act. Where had I gone?

I had disappeared behind him, that’s where. Years ago, in an overheated wrestling room, I had practiced hand control and simple duck unders day after day, week after week, year after year. I had practiced the craft of grappling so relentlessly that I had pleased even our relentless perfectionist of a coach, a man named Gary Fries. Fries was a wrestling giant, all five feet seven inches of him, and he would not tolerate mediocrity.

Thanks to that coach, I’ve never been in any physical confrontation in my life where I didn’t feel confident I was in control of the outcome. That doesn’t mean I have always won. I certainly have not. But I’ve always felt as if I could win if I picked my shots and made the right moves.

Like now, as I came up behind Squires, saying into his ear, “You’ve got a big mouth, fat boy,” because now his anger could be used to my advantage. I wanted him so mad that he lost control. When the big man tried to pivot, I laddered my hands up his ribs to control his body position and leaned my head close to his shoulder blades so he couldn’t knock me cold with a wild elbow.

When Squires realized he couldn’t maneuver free, he stuttered, “Hey… get your hands off me, asshole!” and tried, once again, to face me.

I was ready because that’s exactly what I wanted him to do. I let Squires make half a turn and then stopped his momentum by ramming my head into his back as I grapevined my left ankle around his left shin. An instant later, I locked my hands around his waist and moved with him as he tried to wrestle free.

Our backs were to the mangrove pond. With a quick glance, I confirmed that Tomlinson and the injured man weren’t directly behind us-it was a dangerous place to be if things went the way I planned. Then I used my legs to drive Squires away from the water. Instinctively, the man’s feet dug in, then his legs pumped as he tried to drive us both backward. Squires was taller, heavier and stronger than I. His energized mass soon overpowered my own.

The timing was important. I waited a microsecond… waited until I felt the subtle transition of momentum.