Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

Jeth was holding a bottle of Bud Light in his big right hand. I watched his fingers fade bloodless, white as he squeezed the bottle, showing the frustration, all the pent-up sorrow and anger in him, seeking release. “I was an idiot,” he said, then repeated what he’d already told me many, many times. “She asked me out that weekend. She wanted the two of us to go to Palm Island, rent a beach house there, wanted to talk about our future. So what do I tell her? I tell her I’ve already got a date, and she should go find a date of her own.”

He banged the bottle down on the table, and I could see then that he was drunker than I realized-it was a gesture that was far out of character for this man I knew well.

It was then that JoAnn reached across the table and tapped me on the wrist. “Hey, Doc, you recognize the guy Ransom’s talking to?”

Sitting near the end of the table, next to Tomlinson and Claudia, Amelia said, “I do. I recognized him right away.”

I followed her eyes to the bar, where Ransom was speaking to a group of three men sitting on stools. Successful professional types dressed in clothes chosen to make a statement about wealth, leisure, style. Chambray and Ralph Lauren, pleated khakis, waxed Topsiders, watch bracelets by Rolex and Tag Heur, something theatrical about the careful, windblown hairstyles of all three. Either actors, politicians, or realtors, I decided-although the best people in those fields wouldn’t have pushed the look so hard, made it so obvious. So I wasn’t surprised when JoAnn added, “That’s Gunnar Camphill. As in the Gunnar Camphill. The film star.”

When I didn’t respond immediately, she shook her head, her expression suggesting that I was hopeless, a hermit alien out of touch with the modern world.

Amelia said, “You’re kidding me. You don’t know the name? The guy’s been in only like four or five absolute box-office smashes.” She waited for a moment before adding, “You really don’t know what I’m talking about. I can see it. Know something, Ford? You are an unusual man.”

Then Amelia named some titles, a couple of which seemed familiar, but I don’t have a television and don’t go to movies, so I’d never seen the films. I sat there as JoAnn, still staring at the actor, explained to me, “He does these great action-adventure movies. Lots of car chases, or he’ll be like a Navy SEAL trapped on a hijacked airliner, only no one knows who he really is. I read this article. He actually is some kind of martial arts expert, only I don’t remember the Japanese name for whatever it is, and he pisses off a lot of people because he’s a big political activist. Environmental stuff mostly. He speaks at rallies and led some kind of boycott a couple months back. You know, very outspoken.” She paused, smiling. “Damn, he really is good-looking, isn’t he? And a lot bigger than I thought. Actors, I’ve seen a bunch of them, they’re almost always a lot shorter than you expect.”

Rhonda was listening now, the two women leaning shoulder to shoulder, having fun with it, ogling the film star. Claudia was right there with them. Fresh from Ohio, her first night in the tropics, and here was this movie icon. JoAnn said, “So out of all the women in the bar, who does the famous actor pick out to hit on? Ransom, of course. That sister of yours, Doc, we love her, you surely know that-but, speaking for Rhonda and me, we marina women don’t exactly need any more competition.”

Beside her, Rhonda laughed, nodding. “We’re not getting any younger-” she nudged me with her elbow, then whispered so no one else could hear, “not that we’re exactly over the hill. We still got some bounce in us. Which I guess you’d vouch for, huh?”

I smiled- no comment- pleased that these two friends of mine were happily starstruck. On the islands, we get a lot of vacationers from films, television, sports, music, and politics, men and women who are famous nationally and internationally. You get used to seeing them at Bailey’s General Store, or on the beach, or in the little shops and restaurants. No big deal. People who come to the islands can depend on their privacy being respected. So I was surprised that JoAnn and Rhonda were impressed, and I took it as a measure of the actor’s fame.

I was still smiling when JoAnn said, “Maybe we should stroll up to the bar and see if Ransom will introduce us. I’ve never asked for an autograph in my life, but…” which is when I stopped smiling and JoAnn stopped talking because we both saw the actor, Gunnar Camphill, reach out and touch Ransom’s arm, saw Ransom pull away. Then we watched Camphill reach again and this time catch her arm and try to pull her to him, but Ransom yanked her elbow back once again and said something to him, her expression cautionary, not yet angry but getting there.

I was pushing my chair back, but Jeth was already on his feet, moving across the bar toward Camphill as the actor held both hands up, palms out to Ransom-he was surrendering-laughing at Ransom, a concessionary posture, but Ransom wasn’t smiling back.

I got there just behind Jeth, whose eyes were moving from Camphill to the men at his side, and I heard him say, “What’s the problem, this guy giving you a hard ta-ta-tah-time?” Nervous, his stutter had suddenly returned.

As Ransom told us, “This white gentleman getting very, very close to getting his pretty face slapped,” one of the men next to Camphill-he was much smaller, with a pointed face and coarse black hair, holding a cigar with the paper ring still on it-said simultaneously, “Jesus Christ, it’s Porky Pig to the rescue,” meaning Jeth with his cartoon stutter.

That stopped Jeth, changed his expression, an insult so obvious, and he moved a step closer to the man, Ransom backing slightly to his right as he said, “What dah-dah-did you just call me, mister?” angry and drunk enough to punch the guy right there, his stutter getting worse because he was furious.

Then Camphill-large boned, muscular, with blond hair, square chin, tough-guy eyes-stepped in. He stood and moved between Jeth and the bar and said, “Look, my friend, what we’d really like to avoid here is causing a scene. Doesn’t that make sense? So what I’m going to ask you to do right now is back off a few steps, give us our space. A little room for us all to breathe, huh? Then here’s what I suggest: I will apologize to your nice lady friend for misreading something she said. Entirely my fault. After that, you go back to your table like a good boy, and all of us, we go our separate ways and forget the whole thing.”

Jeth didn’t step back; he seemed frozen, his fists clenched, staring at the smaller man, hyperventilating, while pointed-face, the man with coarse black hair, sat there sipping his drink, eyes moving lazily around the room, smiling as if Jeth were invisible or too small to see-an insignificant problem, something for the hired help to deal with, nothing at all to worry about.

Camphill’s voice had an actor’s resonance, and he knew how to make a statement using his body, posing. He was playing a role now, and the role was that of the rational adult, the peacemaker-a person big enough to take all the blame, even though he didn’t deserve it-but his hand gestures, the way he held himself, his vocal intonations said: Don’t push it, make nice with me right now, or I’ll have to change character and do something I don’t want to do.

“Did you hear me, my friend? Back off just a little bit. You understand what I’m saying? We’re apologizing. ” Camphill reached to touch Jeth’s chest-move away, please-but I got my hands on Jeth first, worried that minor physical contact might cause him to snap. I’ve known the man for years, and I’d never seen him so angry, so close to losing all control. I turned Jeth and moved between him and the bar, my back to Camphill and the others. “Jeth Jeth, listen to me. Let me handle this. Go back to the table, I’ll find out what happened.”