Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

She was standing that morning next to the largest of these shotguns when she gazed out her screen door and noticed a porch on her dog. Perhaps she believed that this was the prelude to rape-foreplay in the rough-and-ready style. Or maybe she concluded the evil Hun had once again arisen, threatening democracy and dogs everywhere. For whatever reason, she grabbed the shotgun, ran outdoors, aimed in a generally up direction, and let fly. Normally, Estelle couldn’t hit the water if she fell out of the boat. But the pattern flew tight and true and struck the helicopter.

When the blast impacted the big helicopter, Vernon L. “Wormy” Locklear relied on the quick instincts that had saved his bacon on numerous occasions over in Nam. His reflexes did not seem in the least diminished by the pint of Old Granddad he had consumed that morning, and he jinked to the right and dove when he came under fire. He had historically enjoyed great success with this maneuver, but he found that attempting the strategy with a house in tow brought complications. Specifically, the dive, once commenced, was impossible to pull out of. The helicopter was overloaded to begin with, and the necessary horsepower was not available. Wormy would have been lost but for one stroke of luck; his brother-in-law, Meat-head, had rigged the load. Meathead’s nickname was not the result of an idle whim, and what he didn’t know about slinging a house for transport by air was considerable. So it was not particularly surprising when the house, for want of more technical terminology, fell off the rope and alighted in the road north of town.

And that was where Slim entered the picture. He was on routine patrol just north of town when a log cabin came to earth on the highway right in front of him. The dwelling split in two upon its sudden contact with the asphalt, and he put the cruiser into the living room before he could get stopped. He clambered out of his car with sidearm drawn, ready to inflict punishment upon the scofflaw who had gotten the drop on him. Wormy, however, had bigger fish than Slim to fry. The loss of the house had gained him very little in terms of control. The helicopter lurched toward starboard, putting it on a collision course with the ridge north of town. It clawed at the sky, fishtailing back and forth as it disappeared behind the ridge. A.J. listened for the crash, but the sound never came. He hoped the pilot had regained altitude.

Back at the dog killing, Estelle came out to the landing zone after reloading Old Betsy. She viewed the wreckage with composure at first, but her calm dissolved into rage and misery when she spotted Plug’s paw sticking out from under the Historic Pile of Lumber that was once a porch.

“I’ll kill them!” she wailed, waving her shotgun like a divining rod. She was not specific as to the identity of them, but it was A.J.’s opinion that they would be wise to lay low.

“I think you may already have,” replied A.J., recalling the erratic deportment of the helicopter as it descended behind the ridge. He eased the shotgun from her grasp.

“Do you think it hurt?” she asked as she viewed the remains, referring to the dog, presumably, and not the helicopter. She squatted down and touched the paw.

“I guarantee you that he didn’t feel a thing,” A.J. kindly replied. “When my time comes, I hope a porch falls on me.” He was not good with this kind of thing.

“I can’t believe you said that,” Maggie whispered in his ear when she came up. She gave him an urgent jab in the ribs with her elbow. Then she moved over to Estelle and gave her a hug. Estelle sobbed quietly as Maggie led her to the Folly for a cup of tea and a little sympathy.

“Don’t worry,” he hollered after them. “I’ll take care of this.” He reviewed the problem for a moment and then went for his truck and some tools. His plan was to haul it all-lock, stock, porch, and dog-to the landfill for a decent burial. He had just gotten the tailgate lowered when Truth Hannassey rolled up in her Mercedes convertible.

“What is that porch doing there?” she demanded. The implication appeared to be that A.J. was in some way responsible, that he had willed the porch to earth.

“It seems to be holding down that dog,” he said, pointing at the rubble. “If you’d like, I can hook a chain to it and haul it over to the house.” He gestured at the roadway. Truth looked in that direction and blanched. She had been so intent on the side issue of the porch that she had overlooked the main event in the highway.

“Oh, shit,” she said.

“I think your helicopter went down behind the ridge,” he volunteered helpfully, hiking his thumb in the direction of the whirlybird’s last known location. “You probably want to report that to the police.” He again pointed at the house. “You’ll find him up in your house. He plowed into it when it landed in front of him.” He paused, and then continued. “He gets touchy, sometimes. Don’t come up on his blind side.” Truth sizzled. She was so enraged he thought he might be in danger of being whacked. Then she seemed to regain her composure a little, and after taking two deep breaths she motored toward the highway to check on her real estate investments. A.J. climbed into his truck and drove toward the last observed position of the helicopter. Neither the Historic Porch nor Plug would be going anywhere, and it had occurred to him that someone ought to be looking after the downed transport.

A.J. found the helicopter sitting in the middle of the county road on the other side of the ridge. The landing gear looked bent, and so did the pilot. He was crouched in the open doorway, steadying his nerves with Old Granddad. The aroma of hydraulic fluid pervaded the scene.

“I hate it when this shit happens,” the man confided in A.J. “Call me Wormy.”

“I wouldn’t think it happened that often,” A.J. observed, his untrained eye checking for signs of trouble, such as fuel pouring out of a rupture or flames dancing within.

“This is my fifth time,” Wormy quipped. He tossed the empty pint bottle into the woods.

“House moving must be a rough business,” A.J. concluded. After further discussion, it turned out that the other four times had been over the Mekong Delta, random occurrences orchestrated by dedicated employees of that wily rascal, Ho Chi Minh.

“I sort of thought I was through being shot down,” Wormy said ruefully, as if he were ashamed. “You don’t know who got me, do you?” It was an odd question, but it seemed important to the downed flyer, a pride issue, perhaps, or something to do with insurance. The man was looking at A.J. with anxiety etched on his features.

“Crazy guy who lives across the ridge,” A.J. lied. He could not say why. “Ex-Marine. Shoots stuff down all the time.” It was not a convincing fabrication, but Wormy had been softened up by near death and plenty of alcohol and was not a tough crowd. He nodded, as if he knew several guys just like that. Good boys, but a little hasty on the trigger.

“Real badass, huh?” he asked with a grin. He apparently liked being taken out by the best. A.J.’s hunch was correct. It would have been cruel to inform the pilot he had been aced by a little old lady in a fit of revenge over a squashed pooch. He had undergone enough already. They decided that the helicopter would be fine where it was. It required repair to make it airworthy, and Wormy needed to check with his boss now that the load had become kindling.

“You think somebody’ll hit it, sitting there?” Wormy asked as they climbed into the truck. A.J. perused the landing site. The machine was sitting on a straight stretch of road and was far enough off the shoulder to allow vehicles to pass one at a time.

“I only know one person who would be in any danger of hitting it,” A. J. replied. “And she’s tied up right now with a dog problem.” He fired up the truck, and they headed for a phone.