Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

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 all 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?”