Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“How is it going down at the mill?” John McCord inquired.

“Couldn’t really say,” responded A.J. “I lasted two days longer than you did, but I think your check was probably larger.” There was an uncomfortable silence that A.J. did nothing to mellow. He figured John needed to squirm. It would build character.

Finally, McCord broke the silence with a grunt. His movements were slow as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his checkbook. As A.J. and Hoghead looked on, John McCord wrote out his portion of A.J.’s severance package. Hoghead whistled low. John stood up, leaving the check on the lunch counter.

“You know, A.J., I don’t owe you a damn thing,” he said with tension in his voice.

“You don’t now,” A.J. responded as he picked up his money. They faced each other. Then John turned and left.

“I think he feels bad about it,” observed Hoghead.

“We can hope,” said A.J. He finished his coffee and asked Hoghead if he would pour a large one for Eugene. Hog poured two and provided a sackful of collision mats, as well. A.J. thanked him and headed for the truck.

He drove slowly as he left town, enjoying the coolness of the morning as it blew in the vent window. He occupied his mind with the thoughts of the picnic he intended to take later in the day with Maggie and the children. As he drove, he passed the spot where Slim had arrested Patty Hearst years earlier, and he smiled.

That was the summer Patty Hearst had decided for some bizarre reason that robbing banks was intrinsically better work than being a millionaire heiress. The resulting nationwide girl hunt took on a circus air, and Slim Neal succumbed to the frenzy along with many of his law enforcement brethren. Patty Hearst loomed large on his mind, and the obsession led him to erroneous conclusions on the day he observed a road-worn young woman hanging about the outskirts of town. It was true the lass bore some resemblance to the fugitive in question, in that she possessed two breasts and lacked a penis, but other than that, the similarities were scant. Slim was never one to let facts deter a good investigation, however, so he scooped her up and ran her in. When the FBI agents arrived, they discerned fairly quickly that the woman Slim had in the slammer was not the infamous Hearst. Slim was impressed with the swift work of the Feds and wanted to know in detail how they had made such short work of the affair. Was it fingerprints? Were dental records used? Had they contacted Interpol?

“Patty Hearst is a white girl,” said Agent Simser, the more talkative of the two. Then the FBI boys loaded Shereea into their car and gave her a ride to the nearest Greyhound terminal.

A.J. was still smiling when he turned off the highway. As he bumped along the ruts, he could smell the fresh fragrance of pine in the early morning air. When he reached the hanging-tree, he turned left and headed up Eugene’s road. He kept an eye peeled for Rufus, who could strike at any time. But the trip to the clearing was without incident, leaving him to wonder what was going on. He could not see Eugene, and the canine from hell should have long since attacked. He blew the horn. Then he got out slowly with his bat at the ready. The coffee and collision mats could wait for the all clear.

Eugene appeared at the door, wrapped in a blanket. He stepped out and sat on the porch. His hair was uncombed, and the dark circles under his eyes were clearly visible from the yard. It was evident he had endured a bad night. He peered in A.J.’s direction, and a smile crossed his face.

“Rufus! Sit!” he shouted. A.J. whirled, and there was the dog. He had infiltrated to within five feet and would have had Longstreet hash for breakfast if Eugene had not intervened. Rufus glared, and A.J. could swear he saw triumph in the canine’s evil eyes.

“Old Eugene won’t always be around to save you,” Eugene patiently explained. He was enjoying the episode a great deal. A.J. was shaken. Rufus had nearly won the prize, and the prize was having difficulty with the concept. “You’re going to have to tighten up, if you want to live to be old,” he observed, lighting a cigarette.

“Words cannot express how much I hate your dog.”

“Hate is a strong word,” said Eugene. “You merely have different priorities. He wants to eat your ass, and you want to save it. Anyway, he’s your dog. I gave him to you.” Eugene took a drag from his cigarette and broke into a coughing fit. His frame was racked with the effort, and he appeared weak and pale.

“Maybe you should switch to filter tip,” A.J. said with concern.

“Maybe you should kiss my ass,” Eugene croaked, trying to catch his breath. His hands shook, and he seemed to be in pain. He twisted the lid off of a small bottle and tossed back the contents. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

“Are you okay?” A.J. asked.

“Stupid question,” observed Eugene.

“Yeah, I guess. How about some coffee?”

“I’d like a cup.” A.J. got the coffee and doughnuts and brought them to the porch. He stepped inside for some sugar, which he poured freely into both cups. Eugene took a big slug and sighed in appreciation.

“I like my coffee like I like my women,” he ventured, waiting for A.J. the straight man.

“You like your coffee to cost forty dollars? You like your coffee to have big breasts?” A.J. leaned over and looked into Eugene’s cup, as if checking.

“Nobody likes a wise guy,” said Eugene.

“Have a doughnut,” said A.J., handing the sack to Eugene. They took the remainder of their coffee break in silence. The coffee and the collision mats seemed to revive Eugene. He looked better and seemed more at ease. Hoghead’s coffee tasted like medicine, and A.J. had always suspected it had medicinal value. He made a mental note to tell Hog that Eugene had enjoyed the breakfast. It was the kind of news the old cook liked to hear.

“Anybody interesting in town this morning?” Eugene asked as he finished his coffee. A.J. handed over his own cup.

“I saw John McCord down at the drive-in.”

“Did you hit him in the kneecaps with your bat?”

“No. We had a cup of free coffee and he paid me off.” He showed the check to Eugene.

“If you don’t tell Maggie May about that,” Eugene noted, nodding at the draft, “you can have some good times.”

“Just one festivity after another,” A.J. agreed. “Girls, girls, girls.”

“Never mind. I can tell your heart’s not in it. You’d end up showing the girls pictures of Maggie May and the kids.”

“I do have some nice shots,” A.J. remarked, reaching for his billfold.

“I’ve seen them,” Eugene said, holding up his hands. “Real nice shots.” He shook his head. “You’re hopeless. Don’t you ever get the urge?”

“I think you’ve got the urge now,” A.J. said, sidestepping the question. “Maybe we can find someone to help you out with that.”

“What I’d like is to take care of one last urge with Diane,” Eugene said. He turned and asked, “What do you think my chances are?”

“I really couldn’t say,” said A.J.

“Come on. Don’t give me that. What do you think?” There was an earnest urgency in his voice that tugged at A.J.’s heart.

“I don’t think it is such a hot idea. Why don’t I run you up to Chattanooga? We can find you some girls to urge with, as many as you want.” In previous lives this plan would have held great appeal for Eugene. A.J. had noticed, however, that standing with one foot in the grave and the other in a daub of axle grease had clarified Eugene’s thinking.

“No, my Chattanooga days are over,” he said with a trace of melancholy. “Why don’t you think it’s a good idea to see Diane again? We got along real well yesterday.”