The Front Porch Prophet

“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?”

“He gets drunk with me and cooks birds in the yard.”

“I saw the bird,” A.J. said, handing the guitar back to Eugene. “It looked like Wormy hit it with the helicopter. My advice is to go with some of the Spam I brought you.” Eugene was even a bigger fan of Spam than A.J. was. He was the only person A.J. knew who had actually baked one, just like the optimistic picture on the can.

They chatted awhile, and A.J. related the tale of Duke and the hand dryers. Eugene was appreciative of the symbolism.

“That Duke is a pistol ball,” he observed.

“Oh, that Duke,” agreed A.J. When Duke had been his responsibility, A.J. had not thought him so droll. Wormy appeared before them, looking sheepish.

“The colonel wants me to fly the helicopter out of the road,” he said. “I told him I would take it as far as Chattanooga. Then I’m coming back here.” Having spoken his piece, Wormy went back to his bird.

“You gotta admire loyalty and a sense of duty,” Eugene said.

“That Wormy is a jewel,” A.J. agreed.

“I think I’m going to fly with him. I’ve never been on a helicopter, and I’m running out of chances.”

“Bad idea,” said A.J. “The reason they need Wormy is because there’s probably no one else crazy enough to do it. The helicopter is bent in some places it shouldn’t be. I don’t think it’s going to fly too well. It may even crash.”

“Now you’re talking,” Eugene said. He clapped his hands and rubbed them together briskly. A.J. shook his head. He walked to the truck and unloaded some supplies as Eugene sauntered out to the barbecue pit to secure his travel arrangements.

In exchange for six-hundred forty dollars, Eugene was allowed to make the trip. The odd sum represented all the cash Eugene had on hand, and he had to sign a document that released Maniac from all liability for everything,