The Front Porch Prophet

was spending its golden years as an ashtray, and an open can of gunpowder. A cigarette was burning in the hubcap like a slow fuse. A.J. reached down and removed the cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene looked up from his work and gestured at the other chair, an oversized rocker. He had taken a liking to it one night on Slim’s porch and had swapped a bus hood for it. A.J. sat.

Eugene finished loading the cylinder and slid it into the pistol. He raised the big pistol, cocked it, and took careful aim at the hackberry tree across the clearing. A.J. was gently tapping the porch rail with the bat while keeping a casual eye on the revolver. Eugene squeezed off a round at the hackberry tree. Bark flew.

“Ten dollars says I can hit that tree six out of six times,” Eugene said. He rocked gently in his chair. A.J. looked at the tree. It was riddled.

“Why are you shooting the tree?” A.J. asked. Eugene shot again. It was a hit.

“That’s two,” he said. He took a short sip from the bourbon bottle before lighting a replacement cigarette. “So how about it? Ten dollars on six out of six? I’ll even shoot left-handed.” He had won a tidy sum over the years with this inducement. Since he was left-handed, it was not the sporting proposition it appeared to be.

“A ten-dollar bet would put you under too much pressure,” A.J. observed. “If you missed, you might decide to shoot me to get out of paying. But if you need the money, I’ll give you ten dollars to shoot Rufus.”

“It would take a cold son of a bitch to shoot his own dog for ten dollars,” Eugene said, again putting his cigarette down in the hubcap and drawing a bead on the tree. He fired four more shots. The doomed hackberry shuddered, as if it could see its own short, sad future. “Make it twenty and I’ll call him up here.” He removed the spent cylinder and slipped a loaded replacement into the pistol. His movements were sure.

“How about if I pay you the twenty and just shoot him myself?” A.J. asked, reaching over to again remove a lit cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene was a grown man and could blow himself up if he wanted to, but it would have to wait until A.J. left.

“You know,” Eugene said, lighting yet another one, “if you’re out of smokes, I’d be glad to spot you a pack.” He took a deep drag before placing the cigarette in the hubcap. A.J. realized he was dealing with an immovable object so he picked up the can of gunpowder and moved it to the opposite end of the porch.

“No, I’ve got cigarettes. I just don’t want to get fried. Also, I’d like to find out why you called me up here. Have you decided to forgive me for whipping your tail?”

“Whipping my tail? Shit, what are you talking about? I was all over you like a cheap suit. I was on you like white on rice. I whipped you so bad your kids had black eyes.” He leaned back in his chair, obviously enjoying his own use of metaphor.

“You forgot like a dog on a pork chop,” A.J. replied. “I must have given you a concussion.”

In truth, it had not been much of a fight at all. A.J. and Eugene had been at the annual volunteer fireman’s barbecue and beer bust, and the leader of the organization, Honey Gowens, had done his usual excellent job of arrangement. Many fine young hogs had unwillingly given up their ribs to fuel the day’s events, and there was enough cold beer in the keg to extinguish a three-alarm blaze. Honey had arranged for a bluegrass band to play and had gone to the trouble to bring in his brother-in-law as a guest speaker. He was a real fireman down in Birmingham and had come up to give the men a talk on current firefighting techniques. The information was critically important to the members of the squad, since their usual method of dealing with a fire was to arrive late and stand around, slowly shaking their heads while the affected structure burned to the ground. Occasionally they would drag out the hoses and keep an adjacent building from going up, but by and large they were pitiful when it came to putting out fires. Captain Honey-who had made his fortune by marrying it and who had paid for the fire truck-was getting fairly disgusted and had put the squad on probation. If they didn’t get some flames extinguished soon, he was going to trade the truck in on a Winnebago, and he and Jerry Ann were going to head out for Yellowstone and all points west.

It may have been the pressure of being on fire probation that caused Eugene to lose his perspective that day, or it may have been the large quantity of cold beer he had consumed. Or it could have been the fact that he was often foolish, a theory many felt held water, A.J. chief among them. In any event, A.J. was talking to T.C. Clark and Skipper Black, accomplished fire-watchers both, when up stormed Eugene with murder in his eye.

“Right here in front of the whole damn town,” he said, voice full of menace. “Did you think I wouldn’t see? Did you think I didn’t know what was going on?” He had moved in close to A.J.

“What do you think is going on?” A.J. asked. He figured Eugene was drunk, which he was, and that he was having his little joke, which he wasn’t.

“Don’t try that shit with me!” Eugene spoke loudly. A small crowd had gathered. “I saw you and Diane together. I saw you touch her arm!” Now A.J. knew what the fuss was about. Eugene had seen him talking to Diane a few minutes earlier. During the conversation, A.J. had apparently inadvertently touched her arm. It was Eugene’s opinion that payment for the transgression was due.

“You’re not serious, right?” A.J. asked. “I touched Skipper’s arm a minute ago, too. Do you think I’m screwing him?” Skipper was uncomfortable with this analogy and brushed at his arm as he edged away.

“What I think is that I’m going to break your damn head!” Eugene yelled, sounding like he meant business.

“Eugene, nothing happened,” A.J. said emphatically. “Diane was asking about a job for her brother. Period.” Diane’s brother had a history of being discriminated against by various employers, most of whom seemed to unfairly want some work out of him between paydays.

“Period this,” Eugene said as he swung a roundhouse right that loosened one of A.J.’s molars but did not knock him down as Eugene had intended. Then Eugene had troubles of his own as A.J. smacked him open-palmed over both ears before dealing him a sharp blow to the sternum. Eugene hit the ground hard but was back up in a moment, barreling into A.J.’s midsection. A.J. went over backward with Eugene on top, and they rolled around and swore at each other for another minute or two until several of the boys hauled them apart. Slim Neal arrived and sent them both home; he wanted to run them in, but the big storage room in back of the library that was used as the lockup was occupied at the moment by all three members of the Ladies’ Literary Society, who were having their weekly book chat.

Now, three years later, A.J. was sitting on Eugene’s porch, and they were slowly becoming accustomed to being in each other’s company again. “I may have been… hasty… at the barbecue,” Eugene said, coming as close to an apology as he was genetically able. He looked away as he spoke, up at the sky over the clearing. The moment passed by silent agreement, the tension dissipating like leaf smoke in the fall, an acrid memory on the wind.

“Forget it,” A.J. said, realizing the magnitude of Eugene’s gesture. “But next time I’m trying to tell you something, listen.”

“There won’t be a next time,” Eugene said vacantly as he continued to study the sky. Then he turned and looked at A.J. “How about a drink of bourbon?” he asked.

“No, it’s a little early in the day.” Eight to ten hours early, in fact.

“How about a beer, then?”

“A beer would be all right,” A.J. said. He really didn’t want anything, but his grandmother had raised him to observe the social niceties. He went inside to get the beer. He came back out with two and handed one to Eugene, who opened it and downed about half.

“Nice housekeeping,” A.J. said as he sat back down and opened his beer. “There’s something alive in the sink. I would have killed it, but I thought it might be a pet.”

“It’s hard to get good help these days,” Eugene explained. “I tried to get Diane to straighten up while she was here the other day, but she didn’t seem interested in the idea.”

A.J. choked on his beer.

“I bet she loved that,” he said, coughing. He watched while Eugene topped off his half-empty beer bottle with most of the remaining bourbon. He then opened up two of the pill bottles, removed several tablets, and washed them down with the alcohol. A.J.’s curiosity got the best of him. “Got the flu?” he asked. Eugene’s answer was evasive.

“I have to take them every four hours. Doc Miller said it was very important to be punctual.” Eugene was gazing again, seemingly preoccupied. A.J. could not fathom what was on his mind, but he supposed Eugene would spill the beans in his own good time.

“What did Doc say about washing the pills down with boiler-makers?” he asked Eugene.