thoughts.” It was three o’clock in the morning, and her new husband had inadvertently awakened her while making a sandwich.
After their initial introductions in that cotton mill so many years ago, it was some time before A.J. made Maggie his own. There were difficulties to overcome before he could press his suit, the first of these being geography. Maggie was from the Alabama side of Lookout Mountain, and this cartographical anomaly coupled with his banishment to Dogtown made it nearly impossible to simply run into her. So he was forced to casually hang around the parking lot of the cotton mill at midnight to even get a glimpse. Luckily, stalking had not yet been invented, and diligent pursuit was still somewhat smiled upon as long as it didn’t involve firearms, state lines, or lengths of rope. So A.J. coincident ally bumped into Maggie at every opportunity, always keeping up the pretense of happenstance even though he was fooling no one. Maggie evolved the habit of smiling when she saw him, unless the meeting was excessively serendipitous.
The second obstacle in the path to matrimony was Roger Cork, called Killer by his friends and Pootie by his detractors, A.J. chief among their legion. The origin of the Killer moniker seemed to be a very poor impression of Jerry Lee Lewis singing “Whole Lotta Shakin’” complete with plenty of
A.J. did not care for Pootie for two reasons. First, he had been one of the unlucky occupants of that Zipper car. In later years he regretted his rash words to the operator, but he never once felt bad about offering to put Pootie out of his misery. Indeed, his fellow thrill-seekers were urging him to action and offering suggestions as to the best way to get the job done. Many of the recommendations were quite creative, although one of the proposals was most likely impossible, given the laws of physics and the actual size of Zipper cars.
The second reason for A.J.’s animosity toward Pootie had to do with timing. To put it simply, when A.J. came to call, he discovered that young master Cork had beaten him to the punch.
“Would you like to go out Friday?” A.J. asked Maggie one night in the parking lot of the cotton mill. “I’ve got tickets to the Doobie Brothers.” He had been sleeping in his car when she noticed and awakened him.
“I’m sorry,” she replied, smiling. “I’ve promised Roger Cork I’d go out with him.” This was hard news for A.J., but he took it well.
“My advice is, don’t go to the Krystal,” he said. “I’d skip the fair, too.” He determined from her bewildered expression that she was unaware of Pootie’s seamier side.
So A.J. was faced with the need for an alternate plan of action. Sadly, he was not a divergent thinker, and he could envision no better strategy than to park on the other side of the mill parking lot. So that was what he did, although he didn’t harbor much hope the plan would bear fruit. Fortunately, there are unfathomable forces at work in the universe. Love would find a way. The following night, he was sitting in his Impala on the other side of the parking lot when his car door jerked open.
“Get out, Longstreet,” a voice boomed. A.J. recognized it, and he smiled. He took a sip of beer. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at Pootie, standing tall and indignant. He was blocking A.J.’s potential view of Maggie.
“Pootie,” he said, stretching the first syllable. “How about a beer?” A.J. was trying to be sociable, but his nemesis was as rigid as a walnut timber and as flexible as cold-rolled steel. He loomed in his muscle shirt with his fists clenched tight and his gut sucked tighter. A.J. yawned for effect and lit a cigarette. Then he removed himself from the interior of the Hog Farm and slouched against the car with his hands in his pockets. He eyed his foe.
Pootie was pretty, and he was rich on top of that. In A.J.’s limited experience, when the two qualities were combined it was not an absolute guarantee that the individual possessing them would be a shit head, but historically the correlation had been strong, and A.J. was in no mood to allow for individual exceptions. He didn’t like pretty boys, and he didn’t like rich boys, and if Pootie had been neither, he would have found something else.
“I hear you’ve been trying to mess with my girl,” Pootie said, foregoing the soup and getting right to the main course. He looked and behaved much like his father, Jack Cork, whose money had made no one happy, especially Jack.
“You can hear most anything around these parts, Poot,” A.J. observed, looking over his companion’s shoulder and noticing the carload of associates he had brought along.
“I’m not playing with you, you fucking hippie. If I catch you around her again, I’ll be on you like white on rice.”
“Get ready,” A.J. informed him. “You’ll be catching me around her in about five minutes.” A vein throbbed on Pootie’s forehead, and A.J. hoped he hadn’t been eating any Krystals lately. There was movement in the Mustang, and the three running buddies eased out and arranged themselves. A.J. reached in the open window of the Hog Farm and retrieved the Louisville Slugger. He smacked it against the side of his venerable Chevrolet, adding a dent to the collection while indicating his resolve to the worthies standing opposite. One of them flinched. Pootie’s eyes narrowed to a squint.
“I’ve heard about you and that bat,” he said. “Chicken shit.”
“Oh, great,” A.J. said, his eyes not leaving Pootie. “You bring three guys to do your talking for you, and I’m a chicken shit.”
They stood at impasse, and it may have gone bad but for the intervention of the Gods of Romance, one of whom chose that moment to stretch, spit out his cosmic toothpick, and address the situation in the parking lot below. He was a union god, apparently, and had finished his smoke break before springing to action, but late is better than not at all.
So up drove Maggie. Pootie and company stood in the harsh glare of her Torino’s headlights, gesturing wildly. Opposite them stood A.J., with the tip of his bat resting on Pootie’s chest. She stopped the car about a foot from the boys and got out.
“What are we doing?” she asked quietly. By silent agreement, Pootie’s compadres shuffled over to the Mustang, looking like a low-budget edition of the Keystone Cops. Pootie stood his ground but would not look at Maggie. A.J. looked at her, but his bat remained planted on Pootie’s sternum. Maggie removed her hands from her hips and folded her arms. This pose had the unintended effect of accentuating her bust line, and A.J. got weak in the knees. He swallowed and spoke.
“We’re just talking,” he said. Although he had not started this, he knew he was in trouble. He was raised to take his medicine, but he hoped it wouldn’t be too bitter.
“Just talking,” Pootie agreed. He, too, knew he was in a predicament, and he was not the most astute rich boy to ever climb out of a Mustang.
“About?” she directed her query at A.J., who didn’t know if it was a good sign he was now spokesman for the group.
“Well, I’ll tell you,” he began, throwing caution to the wind. “Pootie here seems to think I’m trying to steal his woman-that would be
A.J. had a tendency to second-guess himself, but not this time. He had not planned to speak, but he would not recant a single word if he had a year to rewrite the discourse. The declarations drifted in the air like cotton fiber. Finally, Maggie spoke.
“I am nobody’s girl,” Maggie said. “Roger,” she continued, “I think it would be better if we didn’t go out again.” A.J. brightened. It seemed to be rolling his way. “A.J.,” she continued, “when I need someone to make me his, I’ll let you know. Until then, take your bat and go play baseball. And quit bothering me every night while I’m trying to go to work.” It had been rolling his way, all right, and it had flattened him when it arrived. Having spoken her piece, Maggie turned and walked toward the mill. A.J. watched as she crossed the parking lot, his heart fractured. He looked over at Pootie, who was staring at him with hatred.
“I’ll be seeing you around,” Pootie promised as he backed away from the bat.
“We’ll get some Krystals and drink some beers,” came A.J.’s reply. He was saddened by his setback, and climbed into the Hog Farm with the firm intention of having a smoke and a think. Pootie left several dollars’ worth of
