The Front Porch Prophet

by Raymond L. Atkins

  The scene in the cabin was not as bad as he was expecting, but it was mean enough. Eugene lay on the unmade bed. His eyes were open, and he seemed semiconscious. He turned his head and cast an unfocused gaze on A.J. The breath rattled in his chest. A.J. moved in close. The smell of bourbon was heavy.

  “I dreamed I went to the circus in my Maidenform bra,” Eugene croaked, sharing the wisdom of the ages with his visitors. He was drunk, high, and mortally ill. Everything was not going to be all right.

  “That happens to me all the time,” A.J. responded absently while mulling his next move. Wormy nodded as if he, too, occasionally ran down to the big top in a frilly undergarment, perhaps an underwire for additional support. A.J.’s eyes roamed the room and alighted on the shower. He believed in the potency of a hot shower, and he stepped to the stall in the corner of the room and turned on the spigots. Once the steam began to build, he crossed to the bed and gently shook Eugene. Wormy stood at the ready.

  “Wake up,” A.J. said. “It’s time to take a shower.” Eugene startled, his eyes wild. Then he seemed to grasp the situation, but his gaze lingered on Wormy.

  “We’ll have to get to know each other a little better before we start showering together,” he growled. A.J. and Wormy helped him to his feet and dragged him across the room. They peeled his clothing.

  “I’m afraid you won’t respect me in the morning,” Eugene complained as he was eased into the stall.

  “I don’t respect you now,” A.J. intoned, delivering the universal response on cue. Eugene slumped in the shower and let the hot water work its magic.

  “Is he sick?” Wormy whispered.

  “He is sick,” A.J. confirmed. He dug around in Eugene’s foot-locker and came out with a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He laid the clothing over a chair and straightened the bed. Wormy rambled in the kitchen, muttering as he searched the cabinets. He turned to A.J. and spoke.

  “What he needs is some coffee. I’ve got some in my pack.” A.J. nodded. A cup of coffee would be a good idea for everyone. Wormy walked out to the truck. He was followed by Rufus, and A.J. was glad they seemed to be getting along. From the shower came snatches of an old Elvis tune. A.J. pounded on the side of the stall.

  “Uh, humma humma,” Eugene said as he stepped out. “Elvis has left the shower.” He was still as high as a ball-game hot dog. A.J. could not find a clean towel so Eugene dripped dry while singing sacred songs from Memphis.

  “I’m freezing my dick off here,” Eugene complained.

  “I wondered where it had gone,” A.J. replied conversationally as he handed Eugene his clothing.

  “Hey, hey, hey. Don’t you worry about old Henry,” Eugene said as he propped on A.J.’s shoulder and pulled on his pants. He slipped on his shirt and continued. “If you’d bring some women up here, you’d be seeing him snap to attention.”

  “I’ve been trying to line you something up,” he said. “Your face is on billboards all the way to Atlanta. I’ve had a few inquiries, but they all want more money than you have.” He handed Eugene a pair of running shoes.

  “Shit. They’d be paying me!” Eugene hollered as he walked out to the porch. In the yard, Wormy was squatted in front of a camp-fire patiently waiting for the coffeepot to boil. Eugene sat in his chair and lit up a cigarette. A.J. sat next to him.

  “What’s the story with Daniel Boone there?” Eugene asked.

  “Just a guy I brought along to make the coffee,” A.J. responded.

  “He sure is cute,” Eugene observed. Wormy poked his fire with a stick. Rufus the loyal coffee-hound sat by him, guarding him from danger.

  “I’m glad you like him,” A.J. said. “I got him for you.”

  “You want to run that one by me again?”

  “It’s simple,” A.J. said. “You need someone around to give you a hand. Wormy needs a place to stay. I need a little peace of mind when I’m not here. You ought to give me money for coming up with this idea.”

  “Wormy?” Eugene asked. “Fucking Wormy? I know about nine guys named Wormy. They all look like him.” Eugene was trying to be a tough sell, so A.J. brought out the big guns.

  “He killed Estelle Chastain’s dog with a porch today.”

  “Get out of here,” came Eugene’s skeptical reply.

  “Swear to God,” A.J. replied. “Then he dropped a whole house on Slim’s police car.” Eugene cocked his head sideways and gave Wormy a long look.

  “Well,” he said grudgingly. “The boy may have a little potential. Slim make it out alive?”

  “Yeah, he got out,” A.J. admitted.

  “These things happen,” mused Eugene with mild disappointment in his voice. “I guess the important thing is that he made the attempt.” Out in the yard, Wormy looked up and smiled.

  “The coffee is ready,” he said. A.J. arose and scratched up a measuring cup, a mug with no handle, and a small soup bowl. They savored the hot drink in silence. Wormy broke the quiet before it became oppressive.

  “Did the crazy guy blow up your cars?” he asked Eugene, pointing at the carnage on the other side of the yard.

  “What crazy guy?” Eugene replied.

  “Never mind,” said A.J., holding the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day, outlandish and fraught with peril. His head was tired, and he wanted to go home. Wormy arose, walked out to the truck, and returned with both half gallons of bourbon. He broke the seal on one and turned it up in a long, slow swig. When he finished, he sucked the air in through his teeth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

  “Does anyone mind if I have a little nip?” he asked as a courtesy.

  “I like a man with manners,” Eugene observed, tipping the other jug for his own extended guzzle. A.J. could tell that Eugene was warming up to Wormy. The pair started to talk.

  A.J. eased out of his chair and moved inside. He found pencil and paper and made a list of supplies that needed to be trucked in. He could hear laughter and easy talk coming from outside. The boys were hitting it off and slugging it down. He returned to the porch and viewed his handiwork. There were apples in their cheeks and twinkles in their eyes. Eugene lifted his bottle and offered a toast.

  “To Saint fucking A.J., the founder of the feast,” Eugene proposed. He was two drams to the right of sober and generous in word and thought. They drank.

  “To all the boys who died in the attempt,” Wormy said solemnly, and they quaffed again. It looked to A.J. like it was going to be a long evening.

  “To the women I’m not going to get around to,” offered Eugene with a trace of melancholy.

  “To how my eyes will be looking in the morning,” intoned Wormy. He seemed to be planning on staying.

  “To how everyone’s eyes will be looking in the morning,” came Eugene’s reply.

  “How will your eyes look in the morning?” asked A.J.

  “Like two cigarette burns in a blanket,” said Wormy.

  “Like two piss holes in the snow,” said Eugene.

  “Like two road maps of Georgia,” said Wormy.

  A.J. figured it was one metaphor past high time to leave, so he slipped off the porch. They were doing fine and wouldn’t miss him. He started the truck, and the boys didn’t even turn to see him go. As he bounced down the mountain, A.J. thought that the matchmaking was a success. At least for awhile, Eugene was not alone. It was not a perfect solution, but it wasn’t bad as a temporary expedient. Wormy seemed to be the proverbial rolling stone, but maybe he would gather some moss before moving on.

  He headed to town. When he neared the city limit, he turned up the county road that led to Jackie Purdue’s place. He rounded a long, slow curve and came to the straightaway that held Wormy’s crippled ship. Slim stood in the road. With him was a stern-looking man in military garb. He reminded A.J. of a coiled spring. A.J. pulled up and rolled down his window.

  “Slim, could you move your car?” he asked, pointing at the slightly dented cruiser blocking the way.

  “Sure, I-” Slim began to respo
nd, but the man with him cleared his throat and impatiently tapped his leg.

  “Is that a swagger stick?” A.J. asked, smiling. He had never seen one in person and was enchanted. From Wormy’s description, A.J. realized he was in the presence of Maniac Monroe.

  “Um. This officer informs me that you may know what has become of my pilot.” Maniac tapped while he talked, his tone indicating he was comfortable in his role as a leader of men.

  “You must be Colonel Monroe,” A.J. said. Maniac stood as stiff as a starched Georgia pine. “Wormy told me all about you.” A.J. offered his hand.

  “Um. Yes,” responded Maniac. “Do you know where I might find Captain Locklear? I need to speak to him about moving this helicopter.” A.J. could sense the situation was not as shipshape as the colonel would have liked.

  “The last I saw of Wormy, he was too drunk to fly. And he was under the impression that he was unemployed. He is talking to someone about another situation as we speak.” A.J. didn’t want to rain on Maniac’s parade, but he had dibs on Wormy.

  “Can you take me to him?” Colonel Monroe asked.

  “Not today,” A.J. responded, but not unkindly. “It’s late, he’s sloshed, and I have something to do. I’ll take you to see him tomorrow. Meet me at the diner in town about ten in the morning, and we’ll ride on up.” Maniac nodded. It would have to do.

  A.J. finished the drive to Jackie’s house. Jackie was in his long handles, drinking coffee on the porch.

  “A.J.” said Jackie. He nodded his head.

  “Jackie, how have you been?”

  “Been working, eating, and sleeping,” he responded. “And haven’t been getting much sleep, at that. I swear they’re trying to kill me.” He smiled ruefully. The box plant was well known for long hours of overtime.

  “If I had your money, I’d throw my money away,” A.J. responded. Jackie worked all the overtime he could lay his hands on and put aside the fruits for rainy days. By all accounts, it could rain for years, and he would be just fine. He lived the single life. Having seen his parents’ marriage up close, it had seemed to him that there were worse things than being an old bachelor.

  So A.J. the unemployed husband sat with Jackie the overemployed bachelor and talked of many things under the sun. They talked about Alabama Southern, and about the rumor that they were purchasing the box plant.

  “I may end up drinking coffee with you down at the drive-in,” Jackie observed.

  “No, you’re not management. They’ll love you,” was A.J.’s reply. Then they spoke of the brutal murder of Estelle Chastain’s dog. The news was novel to Jackie, and he hid a smile as he heard the details.

  “I never liked that dog much, but Estelle is okay, except when she’s showing me her cleavage,” he commented, referring to her many attempts to reel him in. She had set her cap for him years ago, but her bait was simply not up to par.

  “Plug has gone to a better place, and Estelle needs you now more than ever,” A.J. kidded. Then they discussed the weather, the price of gas down at Billy’s, and the new salad bar offered by Hoghead at the drive-in. Finally, A.J. ran out of anything else to talk about and broached the situation up on the mountain.

  He outlined Eugene’s condition. He related his discussions with Johnny Mack. He described the sad discourse between Eugene and Diane. He shared his opinion that Eugene was sliding fast and in need of constant attendance. Then he finished by explaining the installation of Wormy until better arrangements could be made.

  “Johnny Mack knows about this?” Jackie finally asked.

  “Everything but Wormy,” A.J. said.

  “I talked to him yesterday,” Jackie continued. “And to Angel. He didn’t tell me any of this. And she seemed happy, so I guess he hasn’t told her either.” Jackie seemed embarrassed.

  “You need to go make her unhappy, Jackie,” A.J. said. It was the hard truth, flinty and cold.

  That night back at the Folly, A.J. discussed his accomplishments with Maggie. He was satisfied with the day’s labors, but Maggie voiced concern.

  “You left a drunken, dog-killing, unemployed helicopter pilot named Wormy in charge?” she asked, putting the worst possible slant on the arrangement.

  “It beats leaving him with the dog,” A.J. said defensively.

  The next day was busy. A.J. began his chores by taking Estelle out to the Parm Shrine so she could pay her respects to the chunk of wood A.J. had committed to eternity. Estelle was overcome at the sight of the small, raw mound.

  “You did a fine job, A.J.,” she boo-hooed as he endured a hug. He thought of Plug out at the landfill next to an Amana.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

  After taking Estelle home, A.J. drove down to the We Shall Gather by the Salad Bar Drive-In to wait for Maniac Monroe. When he walked in, a couple of his old sawmill employees hailed him.

  “How is life in the sawmill?” A.J. asked.

  “They have lost their minds,” said Duke Favors. He pointed his fork at A.J. “They’ve raised the production quota, and they have a bunch of new boys wandering around with clipboards looking for waste.”

  He shook his head in absolute disgust as he bit into a piece of bacon. “If they were really interested in waste, they’d start by shit-canning those guys.”

  “Tell him about the paper towels, Duke,” urged Brickhead Crowe.

  “Oh, man,” said the Duke. “Somebody on the day shift wadded a bunch of paper towels in one of the johns. When they flushed it, it flooded the bathroom. So they got some of those damn air blowers that hang on the wall. You know, the ones where the fourth step is to wipe your hands on your pants. Our new supervisor-and this guy is a real treat, by the way-told us he guessed we wouldn’t be stopping up the toilets anymore. Real shitty about it, too.” Duke chased a bite of egg around his plate with his toast.

  “Tell him the rest,” Brickhead said with glee.

  “Somebody-and I swear to God I don’t know who, but I’d buy him a beer if I did-ripped those blowers off the damn wall and tossed them in the shitters. It was beautiful.” Duke and Brickhead were laughing, and A.J. was glad to see that they were in good spirits. It seemed there was trouble brewing at Alabama Southern. He stood when Maniac Monroe came in.

  “Conley, you need to be hanging way back when the shit hits the fan,” he said to Brickhead Crowe. “Do you understand me?” Conley nodded. A.J. looked at him to be sure he understood. “I mean way back. Are you with me on this?” The big man nodded again. A.J. turned to Duke, whose ways he knew quite well.

  “Duke, they’ll fire you if they catch you, and probably press charges, too,” he advised.

  “What?” Duke asked, the paragon of innocence. He held up his hands, as if to show he had nothing up his sleeves.

  “Duke, this is me, not some wet-behind-the-ears new boy. These people will not play with you. I’m telling you.” Duke was still holding his innocent pose as A.J. left with Maniac. A.J. chuckled when he and Colonel Monroe got into the truck. The hand-dryers-in-the-johns deal was pretty good.

  The trip to Eugene’s was silent. They arrived at the clearing and saw Wormy squatted in the yard, cooking a bird on a spit. An open can of beer was to the left of him and Rufus was to the right. Eugene sat on the porch, strumming at an acoustic guitar. A.J.

  headed to the porch to confer with Eugene. Maniac stopped at the bird-roast to speak with his former pilot.

  “We should have become rock stars,” Eugene offered. “I remember we used to talk about it all the time.” He seemed wistful. “I wonder why we never did it.”

  “We never did it because we sucked,” A.J. replied simply. It was the truth, and no use dancing around the fact. When they were boys, he and Eugene and three other lads had formed a rock-and-roll band with the unlikely name of Skyye. To their musically challenged minds, the extra ye at the end of the perfectly sufficient Sky constituted class, and considering the quality of their song Stylings, they needed all the help they could get.

  “We didn’t suck a
ll that bad,” Eugene said defensively.

  “We sucked so bad we’re lucky we didn’t implode,” A.J. commented. He reached for the guitar, and Eugene surrendered it without a fight. A.J. began to tune the instrument.

  “Well, okay, we mostly sucked,” Eugene conceded grudgingly. “But Jimmy didn’t suck. He was great.”

  “You’re right,” A.J. agreed. “He could have been a star.” They were referring to Jimmy Weems, former lead guitar player for Skyye, onetime inhabitant of Sequoyah, and bygone participant in life. He could make music flow from almost any instrument, could pick out a song after hearing it once, and could play a guitar upside down and backward just like Jimi Hendrix. But he was luckless, and somewhere along the way he was stricken with crippling arthritis in both hands. By the time he turned twenty-one, his fingers were so bent and deformed he could no longer button his shirt, never mind skitter up the neck fast and sweet. Music was his life, and when the music died, so did Jimmy. He was gone when his mama found him, dead of an overdose of painkillers washed down with cherry vodka.

  A.J. and Eugene fell silent for a moment, saddened by the memory of their friend. They watched Wormy and Maniac out in the yard where they carried on a lively conversation. Rufus sat beside Wormy and kept a weather eye on Colonel Monroe. Eugene pointed his finger in Maniac’s direction.

  “Who’s he?” he asked.

  “That’s Wormy’s ex-boss. He’s come to try to hire him back. He needs him to fly the helicopter out of the road.”

  “He can’t have him,” Eugene said. “He works for me now.”

  “I didn’t know you were hiring, or I would have hit you up myself,” A.J. said. “What are his duties?”

  “He gets drunk with me and cooks birds in the yard.”

  “I saw the bird,” A.J. said, handing the guitar back to Eugene. “It looked like Wormy hit it with the helicopter. My advice is to go with some of the Spam I brought you.” Eugene was even a bigger fan of Spam than A.J. was. He was the only person A.J. knew who had actually baked one, just like the optimistic picture on the can.