Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“So who’s the other one, the one who looks like he’s about to puke?”

“That’s his mortal enemy.”

“This is cool,” Wormy stated. “I want one of these when I go. Maybe a helicopter.” He took the shovel from A.J. and began his turn. “How deep do we want to bury this wood?” he asked.

“Just a little more,” A.J. said. Wormy took out a few more shovelfuls. Then he stepped out of the hole and stood, silent and respectful. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew that he was participating in a solemn rite of some sort.

“Parm, I’m sorry about this,” A.J. said as he dropped the wood into the hole. “It’s what Estelle wants, and you know how she can be.” The breeze rustled through the fallen leaves, as if Parm were sighing in agreement.

“Is Parm the guy saying Oh?” Wormy asked as they filled the grave.

“He is,” said A.J., shaping the mound.

“Is that his stick we’re burying?” Wormy asked, attempting to pull together the many pieces to this puzzle.

“It’s his wife’s dog,” A.J. said, dusting off his pants. Wormy nodded, as if it all made sense, now that he knew it was the wife’s dog being committed to the ground.

“Was Parm a warrior?” Wormy asked.

“He was arguably the bravest man who ever lived,” A.J. replied, picking up his shovel and heading for the truck. Wormy stood silent and cast a salute. It was his tribute to a fallen brother-in-arms, there at The Parm Shrine, adjacent to The Tomb of the Unknown Porch.

“Where are you staying?” A.J. asked conversationally as they drove away. “I’ll drop you off.” Wormy was still a bit overcome and could not immediately reply. After a moment, he regained control.

“Not staying anywhere,” he responded. “Not doing anything.” He related the details of his loss of employment. While A.J. listened, his mind began to form a plan. Wormy seemed like a decent sort. He needed a job and a place to stay. A.J. needed some help. Eugene needed full-time attendance. What would be wrong with Wormy?

“How about riding to see a friend of mine?” A.J. asked casually. He would see how they got on.

“Great,” Wormy responded. “Let’s go see your buddy. Uh, I hate to go empty-handed, and I could use a drink, myself. Is there somewhere around here we could buy a taste?”

“I can arrange that,” A.J. said. They drove out to the county line and pulled up behind Eugene’s beer joint. It was still closed due to the stiletto in Bird Egg’s liver, but A.J. had a key. He opened the back door and invited Wormy in.

The beer joint’s effect on the pilot was profound. He wandered with his mouth slightly agape, touching various containers of alcoholic beverage. He sat silently at the blond dinette table and fingered the poker chips and the playing cards. He observed the many photos taped to the walls, pictures of young women burgeoning forth, looking come-hither at Wormy.

“This is a good place,” he observed. “Whose is it?”

“Mine,” A.J. responded. Technically, it wasn’t true, but it would be gospel soon enough. “Get what you want and put it in the truck. It’s on the house.” Wormy selected a case of beer and a half gallon of bourbon. A.J. picked up a jug for Eugene in case he was running low.

It was midday when A.J. and his passenger arrived at the foot of the mountain and began the journey up to the clearing. As he wheeled up the road, A.J. looked for signs of Rufus but saw no trace. When he rounded the last curve and entered the straightaway to the cabin, however, there sat the hound in the middle of the road. His paws were firmly planted, and his eyes were on A.J. This behavior represented a fair example of an old dog and a new trick.

“Bear in the road,” noted Wormy. He had fallen naturally into the role of spotter for the expedition. A.J. halted about ten feet from Rufus. He didn’t want to hit him-except maybe a couple of times with the bat-but the animal showed no intention of moving. He blew the horn, but there was no response. He hung his head out the window.

“Move, Rufus!” he yelled. Wormy raised his eyebrows. He seemed surprised that A.J. knew the bear. Then an extraordinary sequence of events occurred.

Rufus stood and looked over his shoulder at the road up to the cabin. Then he looked back at A.J. He barked once and headed up the track. A.J. slowly followed the dog.

“That’s a dog, not a bear,” Wormy corrected.

“That’s the one you want to be dropping porches on,” A.J. confirmed. “It’ll probably take two.”

When they reached the clearing, Eugene was not to be seen. Rufus crossed to the porch and stood patiently. A.J. parked and slid the Louisville Slugger from behind the seat. If Rufus was laying a trap, he was prepared. Wormy slid out the other door and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. He was tense as he scanned the perimeter. Old habits and old soldiers died hard.

“Don’t try anything you’ll regret,” A.J. said to the dog as he crossed the clearing. Rufus barked and looked at the door. Wormy was running a flanking movement from the right.

“Yeah, you’re Rex the Wonder Dog,” A.J. said. “But one wrong move and you’ll be out at the landfill next to Plug.” He eased up the steps to the porch. The dog barked one last time before entering the open doorway. A.J. followed, wary but concerned. His sense of foreboding was acute. Wormy materialized beside him.

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.