Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“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.

“He’s been stabbed again,” Eugene replied. “I found out about it yesterday. Red came up to tell me. He also told me that I’m closed down for a week.” He gazed at one of the craters in the yard.

“That’s no big deal,” A.J. said. “He’s always getting stabbed or shot. It’s a tradition with him.” It was true. Bird Egg had been winged often during his long, checkered time. He was opinionated and tended to incite strong emotions in others.

“This time it’s a big deal. Termite Nichols stuck a long knife in him and nicked his liver.” Termite was living proof that occasionally abortions are necessary. And prisons, should intervention not be possible in that crucial first trimester. “His liver hasn’t had an easy life,” Eugene continued, “and it damn sure didn’t need a knife stuck in it. He’s in bad shape.” There was a long pause. Bird Egg wasn’t much, but he was theirs.

A.J. felt a small wave of sadness lap at him. Too many constants were changing, belying the illusion of permanence. He hated change, and it seemed everything was in flux. The way things were going, Maggie would probably meet a handsome academic down at Eudora’s wedding, one with patches on the elbows of his corduroy jacket who made quotation marks with his fingers. He would suggest he and Maggie “have coffee,” and that would be the old burrito for A.J. Maybe he would get the kids on alternate weekends. Eugene spoke.

“Do you ever wish you could do something different? You know, that you could go back and do just one thing over, do it better maybe, or maybe not do it at all?”

“I wish I had gone to sea,” A.J. replied without hesitation. “I wanted to see the world, and smell the salt air on the midnight watch, and ride out a hurricane, and find out if it’s true what they say about Chinese girls.” He shrugged. “But I didn’t, and now the time is gone.” John Robert had sailed four of the seven seas in his day, and it had been a wondrous time, although that part where the Japanese boys tried to crash their planes into his ship hadn’t been so great. He instilled this love for the sea in his son, but one thing had led to another, and A.J. never made it up the gangplank.

“It’s not true about Chinese girls,” Eugene said, comforting his friend. “If I could do one thing over, I’d be better to Diane.” He sighed. The enormity of his crimes was heavy upon his soul. Then A.J. had an epiphany.

“Well, hell, Eugene. She’s not dead. Let’s hop in the truck and go find her.”

“I don’t know about that,” Eugene said, sounding doubtful. He winced and grabbed his side, fumbled for some pills, and washed them down with a taste of bourbon. Then he fired up a pipeful of the marijuana and took two or three deep hits. “Helps with the nausea,” he croaked, offering some to A.J., who declined. “I have some suppositories, but I’d rather smoke dope.”

“Get up,” A.J. said to Eugene. “We’re going to town. Maybe get a cup of coffee. Maybe run into Diane. Hell, bring a gun. We might see Johnny Mack, and you could shoot him.” That idea appeared to cheer Eugene considerably, and he made up his mind.

“All right, let’s go,” he said. “I haven’t been down the mountain in a while. I need a change.” He stood and dropped his blanket. Then he went inside, and when he came back he was carrying a shoe box under his arm. He had donned his Grateful Dead jacket. The skull on the back of the garment bore a strong resemblance to Eugene, and A.J. made a mental note that they needed to visit Doc Miller while they were in town. Eugene loaded several items of importance into his jacket pockets: pills, his pipe and some contents for it, a fresh pint bottle of Ancient Age. He lingered over the grenade bowl as if he could not decide, but finally shook his head and passed them up. A.J. wondered how it would have gone if the jacket pockets had been larger. They made slow progress across the clearing to the truck, and A.J. noticed how much Eugene appeared to have gone down during the past week. If he had not witnessed the decline for himself, he would not have believed it.

“You drive,” Eugene said, climbing into the passenger side.

“Good idea,” replied A.J. They headed down the road. A.J. missed as many bumps as he could in light of Eugene’s frailty. Still, the trip was rugged, and Eugene braced against every jolt. When they finally gained the highway the ride eased considerably, and Eugene unscrewed the cap from the whiskey and took a tentative sip.

“You seem a little low yourself,” he said, taking another taste before screwing the lid back on. “What about? If it’s Rufus, don’t worry. He’s going to make it just fine.”

“I got fired last night,” A.J. replied. “I don’t have a job.” A.J. recounted the tale of his short tenure with Alabama Southern. Since he had survived a mere three days, it didn’t take long to tell the story. Boy meets employer, boy pisses employer off, and boy gets shown the door. It was the same old story.

“Let me get this straight,” Eugene said. “They showed up at two o’clock this morning right after your shift and fired you?”

“The personnel guy and someone I didn’t know were waiting for me when I got to the office. Handed me my money, wished me a nice life, and took away my keys. I asked the other guy if he was my replacement, and he said he was. I gave him my paperwork and told him that there was the number to beat. Then I left.” Actually, the new guy hadn’t seemed a bad sort, and A.J. hoped Mayo didn’t throw him into the chipper.

“That was a nice touch,” commented Eugene. “Let the boy know he’s in the bigs now. Tell you what. I’ve got a rifle back at the cabin I guarantee will take all of these fuckers out at one thousand yards. Got a tripod and a scope and everything. Even you couldn’t miss. Let’s go get it.”

“As you pointed out last week,” A.J. said, “I can hit what I’m aiming at.”

“Pardon me for being indelicate, but on full automatic it’s kind of like mowing the grass. We’re talking fine work here. Ridge work.” His voice failed, and a small shudder overtook him. He downed a couple of pills with the bourbon, and then sat quietly.

“Where do you want to go?” A.J. asked as they neared the outskirts of town. The town wasn’t much, so neither were the outskirts. A decision would have to be made quickly.