The Front Porch Prophet

“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.