In his halting manner, he asked how he might make his intentions known to her. He wished to declare on her and needed for his friends to coach him. He directed this query mainly to Eugene, who was the acknowledged swain of the group. By this point in time, Eugene had gotten lucky four times. Actually, he had been astoundingly fortunate once and had paid for it the other three. A.J., on the other hand, had not fared so well. He had almost managed to dance the waltz once with Diane, but there had been technical difficulties. So Eugene was deferred to on the matter at hand.
“What you have to do, Brick, is be direct,” he began. “You have to walk right up and ask ’em. What would it take to get some of that pussy? If they’re interested, they’ll tell you what it will take. If they’re not interested, they’ll let you know that, too.” A.J. immediately objected to this advice.
“Conley, that’s all wrong,” he said, glaring at Eugene. “What you have to do is be nice. Be polite. Maybe buy her some flowers.” Conley looked back and forth between his advisors. He was confused. A.J.’s method sounded promising, but there was no getting around Eugene’s impressive track record.
“Brickhead’s not wanting a girlfriend,” said Eugene. “He’s just wanting some of that thing. You’re going to mess him up, A.J.” Eugene was amused.
“No, a girlfriend would be okay,” Conley responded seriously. He had seen some pictures of that other business in a magazine and found it all a little hard to believe. But he was trying to take it on faith.
“What would it take to get some of that pussy?” Eugene intoned. “You listen to me, and I guarantee she’ll be crawling all over you.” Conley held both sides of his head, which was his way when presented with a quandary. He could only process so much information and was definitely in overload. He began to walk toward his car, still holding his head. A.J. walked with him.
“Eugene is full of shit,” he assured Conley. “Do what I told you to do, and you’ll be fine. If it doesn’t work out with Cyndi, don’t give up. It will work out with someone.” He patted Conley on his shoulder and sent him on his way.
Eugene was still chuckling when A.J. walked back up and slapped the beer bottle out of his hand. It crashed on the pavement, spilling warm, brown foam onto the road.
“How many times have I told you to leave him alone?” A.J. asked. They were nose to nose. The humor had left Eugene’s eyes.
“Fuck you, A.J. I was just having some fun. You know he’s not going to buy her flowers or ask her for any. Women are not for poor old Brickhead.” A hard tone entered his voice. “You owe me a beer. And the next time you pull this kind of shit, I’m going to have to hurt you.”
“Hurt me now,” A.J. said, pushing his shoulder. “Come on, Eugene. What would it take to get some of that ass?” They eyed each other a moment. Then the interlude passed, and the slow process of de-escalation began.
“You’re crazy,” Eugene said as he brushed past A.J. on the way to the newly acquired Lover.
“Leave Conley alone,” A.J. hollered at his back. “I don’t care who else you screw with, but leave Conley alone.”
The postscript to the evening’s events proved one of the pieces of advice had been valid and one had not. After much deliberation, Conley determined that A.J.’s suggestions would suffice. Stylistically, he was the Typhoid Mary of romance, but his heart was in the right place. Thus it was that Cyndi was inclined to kindness when Conley walked up to her and shoved a bouquet of slightly bent flowers into her arms. She smiled as he stood there, holding his head with both hands while inquiring about her health. She had known him since their childhood and knew him to be a harmless, gentle soul, one of the few she had encountered.
Cyndi’s lot in life up to that point had been to hoe the hard row. Her mother, Louise, was unparalleled in her ability to select marginal members of the male gender with whom to frolic, and the only positive result from her many unions was Cyndi. Cyndi’s father, Earl Hawkins, left for parts unknown via the Merchant Marine soon after impregnating Louise. He was a sensitive man, and had he known about his young wife’s condition he would have gone anyway, but he would have felt bad about doing it. Cyndi never knew him, and none of the misfits who took his place during her childhood made much of an impression on her, except to produce in her a general uneasiness about the male of the species. In retrospect, those were the good years, and they ended upon Louise’s marriage to Skim Murdock.
Skim was a man for whom the veneers of civilization held no appeal. He came to town with the county fair during the fall of Cyndi’s fourteenth year and elected to stay on when the fair slipped off a day early while Skim was passed out due to an excess of alcohol, cocaine, and two of the employees of the girlie show. During his tenure with the organization he had offended the sensibilities of an entire carnival, and they unanimously took their opportunity to cut and run when they saw it. When Louise and Cyndi arrived at the fairgrounds looking forward to a little fun, they found instead a large amount of garbage, a broken car from the Tilt-a-Whirl, and Skim, sitting on the ground eating a corn dog while wondering what in hell he was going to do now.
Louise cast her eyes upon this banished remnant of the rites of autumn and decided he was the finest man she had ever seen, which wasn’t saying much, considering what all she had seen. As usual, her instinct about men had failed. Louise was a moral woman, and all of the many souls who had visited her personal valley of paradise had first had to acquire title to the tract. So she married Skim Murdock in short order and moved him into her happy home, a well-kept trailer house sitting just across the Southern Railway line.
Cyndi had the misfortune to be an early bloomer, and by the time the honeymoon was over, Skim began to notice that she had flowered quite nicely, indeed. Unbeknownst to Louise, who worked the second shift over at the glove mill, Skim began to make improper advances upon Cyndi. Thus it came to pass that Cyndi was forced to gain carnal experience at the hands of her newest stepfather. Louise was blissfully unaware of the family dynamic she had created, so Cyndi determined her best course was to run away. Late one night right after she turned fifteen, Cyndi made her break. She had only walked about forty feet, however, when her small plan evolved into a grand scheme that held permanent solutions.
In front of her, the drunken and immobile form of Skim Murdock was draped across the Southern Railway line. He had apparently decided to have a few drinks before coming home and had been thirstier than he thought. Cyndi looked at her watch and noted that the coal train was due. Time being a luxury granted the young, she sat down, reached into her rucksack for a Coke, and calmly sipped while she waited. She loved trains and suspected she would absolutely adore this one. It was quiet except for the crickets and the snores of Skim. In the distance she heard the thrum of her salvation.
As the train neared its target, the victim began to stir. He was feeling the vibrations through the steel ribbons. The engines came around the bend and bathed his form in bright light. The engineer saw the body on the tracks and applied the brakes as he began to blow the horns repeatedly. The lights and noise roused Skim from his stupor, and he saw his predicament. Then he saw Cyndi, who appeared to be taking a drink of Coke.
“Goddamn it, girl, help me,” he roared at her as he attempted to gain his hands and knees. It has been noted that young girls do not always know their own minds, but Cyndi knew exactly what she wanted, and Skim knew it, too, as their eyes met for the final time. She reared back and chunked the Coke bottle at him, and he screamed when it hit his forehead. The scene was ghostly as the train slid past with horns blaring and sparks flying. Skim was frozen in the harsh glare, and then he was gone, given a boost down the highway to hell courtesy of Southern Railway, Jim Beam, Coca-Cola, and Cyndi.
The freight train finally stopped about a mile down the tracks. Most of Skim had reaped the whirlwind, but enough was found to bury, although pieces of an unlucky raccoon were irretrievably mixed in with him. Cyndi removed the Coke bottle from the small pile of remains before they were shoveled i
nto the bucket. It was a keepsake marking the best time she had ever had with Skim. All in all, no one seemed to be much upset over the incident except Louise. Fortunately, she got over her loss fairly quickly with the help of a grave digger from Boaz who took a shine to her at Skim’s funeral based mostly on how nice she looked in those tight, white jeans. Time heals most wounds, and love will find a way.
Cyndi turned wild and acquired the reputation for being bountiful with her indulgences, a relative rarity in a culture where milk was seldom dispensed without prior cow purchase. So she was popular, but her full dance card brought her no joy. She was punishing Louise, God, and herself, but neither of the first two seemed to take much notice.
Cyndi’s salvation arrived in the form of a five-pound, seven-ounce baby girl whom she named Hope. She didn’t know who the baby’s father was, but it didn’t matter, because they were all pretty much the same anyway. What counted was her determination that the child never know the trials Cyndi had known. So she gave up her wanton ways and set about the business of raising her daughter.
And this was the new-and-improved Cyndi for whom Conley had set his cap, but he was making no headway. Although she was always nice to him, she seemed immune to his charms. He consulted A.J., who advised him to be patient, because these things take time. So Conley devoted more effort and ingenuity to the endeavor. Cyndi would come home to a freshly mown yard, and there would be Conley, head in hands, staring at his shoes. Gifts began to appear on her porch, dime-store luxuries he believed to be grand, and he was always available to carry groceries, take out the trash, or wash the car. Cyndi knew he had a crush on her, and although she in no way encouraged him, she was patient. She did not want to hurt his feelings and felt he would soon grow tired of pitching his woo. She was incorrect, for she did not understand the depth of the feelings he had for her.
Eventually, Conley found it necessary to move on to plan B. On that fateful day, Cyndi came out of the glove mill and found him standing there, waiting.
“Hello, Conley,” she said in a light tone. It was payday, and she was in a good mood. He mumbled a phrase, but the mill at her back was noisy. “I’m sorry, Conley, I couldn’t hear. What did you say?” She looked at him. He was trembling and seemed to be in grave distress. Then he raised his head, and in the single most courageous moment of his life, he spoke what was on his mind.
“What would it take to get some of that pussy?” he asked quietly. Then he lowered his head and awaited his doom. He had tried A.J.’s methods with little success, and now he was hauling out the big guns.
Cyndi looked at the terrified form of Conley. She was taken aback, but not as much as she might have been, for she had once heard those words from another source: Eugene. Since his survival would have been virtually impossible if he had committed to her requirements, however, their love had gone unrequited. So Cyndi knew Conley’s rough request had been the result of some extremely bad advice, and that he meant no harm.
Many thoughts crossed Cyndi’s mind as she looked at Conley. He stood there quaking, and her heart went out to him. Because she had traveled the hard way, she was capable of great compassion. She saw before her a lonely man who had tried valiantly to win her affections. She, too, knew the bitter taste of loneliness, and she did not want to end up with a succession of rogues the way Louise had. Realistically, she knew her prospects were limited; small towns are not kind to women with checkered pasts. What she wanted was a lifelong companion, a partner to share her joys and sorrows, someone to love. She didn’t think it was too much to ask.
And then she realized with a slight startle that standing in front of her was the most decent man she had ever known. The epiphany rolled over her like the coal train had run over Skim. Impulsively, she reached and raised his chin so that their eyes met.
“What it would take, Conley, is for you to marry me. Love me, love Hope, and never hurt us or leave us. Work hard, bring your check home every week, and build a home and a life with me.” She had not intended to say any of this, not even remotely, but sometimes words operate of their own accord. His eyes said yes before his mouth did, but Conley always was a little slow of speech.
They married shortly thereafter, and Conley was as good as his word. He treated Cyndi like a queen and Hope like a princess, and he and Cyndi built a fine life. Cyndi, too, was as good as her word, and Conley was afforded plenty of opportunities for intimacy. Thus it was that presently along came Rita Sue, Tammy Faye, Brandy Starr, Sweet Melissa, and the twin boys, Starsky and Hutch.
A.J. snapped from his reverie and noted the sun climbing the sky. He looked at his watch. It was just after seven in the morning and he needed a cup of coffee and a friendly ear. John Robert was off on a hunting trip, and Maggie and the children were gone on a trip to visit Maggie’s sister, Eudora Welty. She was entering the bonds of holy matrimony that very afternoon after a painfully long engagement to a history professor named Carlisle Davenport, of whom A.J. suspected a lack of intellectual rigor.
A.J. dropped the truck into gear and headed up Eugene’s Mountain. The Purdues were notoriously early risers, and A.J. discounted the possibility of awakening Eugene. Thanks to the recent grading job, the trip to the cabin was quick.
The clearing appeared to be the scene of catastrophic events.
Eugene’s Jeep was totally obliterated, and A.J. was forced to weave around large pieces of it. The Lover was up on its side and was missing some critical components. The hackberry tree was reduced to a splintered stump. Craters pocked the area. The door to the cabin opened, and out stepped Eugene wrapped in a blanket. Beside him limped Rufus, bandaged but still malicious. He made a start for A.J., but the sudden movement seemed to cause him pain. He abandoned the assault and sat down to nurse his wounds. Eugene absently patted him on the head.
“Don’t worry, boy,” he said to the dog. “You can attack A.J. twice next time.” Eugene moved slowly, and his breathing was labored. He was favoring his right arm, and his eyes had dark circles tinged with yellow. He shuffled to his chair and sat. He was fully dressed and wrapped in a blanket, but still he shivered. On the cable spool was a large quantity of marijuana along with the usual collection of medications, spirits, and firearm supplies. In addition, there were three hand grenades piled carelessly in a bowl. A.J. knew what had destroyed the clearing. Eugene spoke.
“I didn’t know if I’d see you today. I thought you might still be a little pissed.” He shifted in his chair, wincing with the movement. He seemed to be searching for a comfortable spot that was always just one step ahead. He looked bad.
“I wasn’t pissed,” A.J. replied, taking a seat. “I had to go rinse out a few things and take care of some long overdue correspondence.” He gestured to the carnage in the yard. “Someone run a little air strike in here? Slim finally figure out who got the bus?” Eugene picked up one of the grenades and handed it to A.J.
“These are great,” he said. “That bit about pulling the pin with your teeth is a crock of shit, though.” He pointed at the remainder of one of his incisors. “Broke this one. Hurt so bad I dropped the damn grenade. By the time I found it, I was a little pressed for time, and I barely got it thrown out of here. Almost blew up poor old Rufus. He took some shrapnel, but I got it out.” Rufus looked over at the mention of his name. A.J. felt a little bad for his canine foe. It must be difficult to be Eugene’s dog.
“Where did you get them?” A.J. asked, hefting the lethal object. It was heavier than he thought it would be.
“Bird Egg brought them to me. He’s been coming up a couple times a week with supplies, and he thought I would enjoy them.”
Bird Egg was an institution, a man whose mission in life was to never draw another sober breath. He was a local boy who had gone off to help Douglas MacArthur stamp out the Asiatic Hordes, and he had returned from the Korean peninsula with strong aversions to bitter cold, sudden death, and heavily armed yellow people wearing tennis shoes. He was currently in charge of Eugene’s beer joint and was the perfect ma
n for the job. His duties included selling beer and liquor, playing cards, breaking up fights unless he was personally involved, and paying off Red Arnold, the ancient and venal county sheriff. He took no wages other than what he drank and ate, and he even left his substantial poker winnings in the general fund.
“Where did Bird Egg get hand grenades?” A.J. asked, handing the pineapple back to Eugene.
“I have an associate from Fort Benning who occasionally lays his hands on some interesting war surplus items.”
“War surplus?” asked A.J. “You could get thirty years for receiving stolen government goods.” Eugene rolled his eyes, and A.J.
realized his warning was foolish, given the circumstances.
“I’ll take it,” Eugene commented. He stood, pulled the pin, and hurled the grenade into the woods.
“Duck,” he said. He hit the deck gently, as if he were in slow motion. A.J. was not nearly as graceful as he kissed the floorboards. When the explosive went off, the porch shook, and bits and pieces of the forest landed in the clearing. A.J. was slow getting up. His ears were ringing, and his body tingled from the force of the blast. Eugene was grinning from ear to ear. “I just love these things,” he said. “Now you throw one. We can blow up your truck. I’ll buy you another one.”
“I like my truck.”
“Your problem is that you don’t know how to have fun,” Eugene said as he settled himself back into his chair. He attempted to light a cigarette, but his hands were shaking badly and he couldn’t manage. A.J. lit it for him.
“How is Bird Egg doing?” A.J. asked, changing the subject. He had not seen the old man in a while.
The Front Porch Prophet Page 12