Raymond Atkins - The Front Porch Prophet

“I have to put up with that kind of shit from Angel,” he said. “You, I can kill.”

“You seem to have your old good humor back,” A.J. noted.

“I slept too long, and my feelgood wore off,” came the simple reply. He directed unfocused eyes at A.J. “A man in my condition does not need for his feelgood to wear off.” A.J. had to take that one on faith but did not mistrust a word of it. He nodded.

“Maggie told me to ask you again to come to dinner Thursday,” he said. “So I’m asking. Why don’t you have Wormy bring you down?” This marked the third time he had asked, but Eugene was extremely resistant to the idea, stating that he didn’t have a hell of a lot to be thankful for.

“Do you think Diane will come?” Eugene asked, throwing a slow curve in A.J.’s direction. It caught the corner for a strike.

“Yeah, I think she will,” A.J. answered. What he didn’t mention was that she would likely be in the company of Truth Hannassey. The two had become a couple and were seldom separated. He still couldn’t believe that Maggie had asked Truth to come. He made a mental note to stop by the beer joint and invite Bird Egg in retaliation.

“I’d like to see her,” Eugene lamented. “And the boys, too.”

“Well, then, it’s a date,” A.J. said. He would just have to talk to Diane and Truth and get them to work with him on this. “We’ll eat, drink, and be merry. It will be good for you.”

“Let me see what Wormy says,” Eugene hedged.

“He wants to come,” A.J. said. “He told me that he has never been to a real Thanksgiving feast. Give him a break.” Eugene sighed.

“I’m looking pretty rough. I don’t want to offend any of your guests.” His Emily Post was showing, and his concern was laudable and touching.

“You have always offended everybody,” A.J. pointed out. “You may be the most offensive person who ever lived. The only difference now is that you’re thinner. You were getting a little paunchy anyway.”

“I wouldn’t talk,” Eugene countered. He was rolling a generous joint while he talked. “Unemployment has gone right to your hips.” A.J. looked down. He might have picked up a pound or two, but he believed he carried it well.

“Keep it up, and I’ll tell Angel where you hide the dope,” he responded. “Now, how about it? Are you coming?”

“Tell Maggie May I’ll be there unless I feel rotten,” Eugene said slowly, almost grudgingly. “But I’ll probably feel rotten.”

“If you don’t when you get there, you will after you eat the Indian pudding.”

“Oh, God,” Eugene said. “Is she bringing that?” He, too, had sampled the dish.

“No, I fixed it,” was A.J.’s response. “But beware of anything that has lime Jell-O as the main ingredient. That’s her fallback.”

“Knowing Estelle, she’ll whip up a bowl of lime Jell-O and horse shit,” Eugene observed.

They grew quiet, and A.J. realized Eugene had once again drifted off. He got up and threw a couple more chunks on the fire. Then he went inside to secure a bowl of Angel’s soup. He was sitting on the edge of the porch waiting for his portion to cool when Wormy arrived in Mom’s Taxi. He got out and cast a look in Eugene’s direction, then came over and sat.

“Get some soup,” A.J. suggested.

“I might have a bowl in a little while,” Wormy replied. He unscrewed the cap from the pint bottle he had removed from his jacket pocket and took a lengthy sip. “Want a taste?” he asked when he was through.

“No, better not,” A.J. declined. “If I go home with liquor on my breath, Maggie might beat me with a stout cane.”

“And the downside would be?” Wormy asked with a twinkle in his bloodshot eye. He had obviously been spending too much time in the Purdue presence.

“You’re getting quick,” A.J. noted. “I may have to tell Maggie you’re having discipline fantasies about her.” Wormy looked alarmed.

“Lord, Lord,” he said with concern. “Don’t do that. I really like your wife. I don’t want her to be mad at me.” He looked like he was about to cry.

“You just don’t want to get uninvited to supper,” A.J. said.

“I don’t guess we’re coming anyway,” Wormy said sadly. “Eugene doesn’t think he’ll feel up to it.” He sighed. “I could almost taste that turkey, too.” He looked off into the distance as if he could see it out there: tender, roasted poultry, forever just out of his grasp.

“I got him to agree to come,” A.J. informed him. “If you don’t let him back out, you’ll still get your drumstick.”

“I’ll try,” Wormy said doubtfully.

“Don’t try. Do.” A.J. pointed out in the yard to the sleeping figure by the bonfire. “He doesn’t have long. This could be the last time he gets out. If he won’t come, pick him up and put him in the van.” Wormy looked at Eugene and nodded.

“All right. I’ll get him there somehow.” He took another sip. “You’re right, though. He’s sliding. And it’s taking more of everything to keep him out of pain.” He lit a smoke. “More booze. More pills. More morphine.”

“What do you think about all that?’” A.J. asked.

“I think it’s his business,” Wormy said without hesitation. “I say let him have at it. I’ve seen a lot of people die, and there is no good way to go about it.” The wisdom of the ages as spoken by an alcoholic helicopter pilot. A.J. decided to broach a subject that had been lingering since Eugene had taken his latest downward turn.

“I know you like Eugene, but it’s starting to get a little rough now.” He considered how best to continue. He wanted to convey that if it was time to hat up, no one would think less of Wormy for going. “If you, uh…”

“Don’t,” Wormy said. “I finish what I start. It’s kind of like flying the helicopter out of the road after the crazy guy shot me down. Anyway, Eugene is my friend just like he’s yours.”

“Okay, then,” A.J. said. “I won’t mention it again.”

“Anyway, I’ve got no place else to be and nothing else to do,” Wormy said. “After he goes, I’ll be moving on. I don’t know what I’ll be doing, but it won’t be flying.”

A.J. thought about this for a moment. An obvious solution occurred to him.

“Don’t tell Eugene I told you,” he said, “but he’s leaving the beer joint to me when he dies.” Wormy nodded, as if to say it made good sense to him. “I don’t want it,” A.J. continued, “so I’m going to give it to you. You seem to have a knack for the work.” Wormy held up his hands, warding off the compliment and the largesse. Both were much too grand in his scheme of things.

“I’d just screw it up,” he objected. “And what about Bird Egg?”

“You have to keep an eye on Bird Egg until he goes to the big card game in the sky,” A.J. said, resolving another problem. He was on a roll. “After that, it’s all yours. How can you screw it up? You buy alcohol, sell it for more than you bought it for, pay off Red Arnold every now and then, and play poker the rest of the time. It’s not brain surgery.” Wormy looked doubtful. He seemed resistant to making the executive move. Then his eyes lit up.

“We can be partners,” he proposed. “You be the boss, and I’ll run the business. We can split the money.” This wasn’t quite what A.J. had in mind, but it looked like it was the best he was going to be able to manage. He supposed he could reserve his half for charitable works, like sending the children to college. One thing was for certain; he would have to present to Maggie her new status as the bootlegger’s wife in the best possible light.

“Okay,” he said to Wormy as he held out his hand. Giving him half a beer joint was better than giving him no beer joint at all, at least for the time being. They shook. “We’ll try it for a while. Once you get your confidence up, you can buy me out.” Wormy nodded.