The Front Porch Prophet

“What about you, A.J.?” Harry asked. He had not yet had his interview and held a touch of hope. “What did they say to you?” Harry was a mediocre performer but a very nice guy. He was employed for the sole reason that John McCord liked him and did not have the heart to put him on the street. His title was special manager, and his duties included making coffee and saying “Yes, John.”

A.J. knew that Harry was doomed even though he made great coffee. Hunter had plenty of college boys with more seniority to brew for him, men who would brew loyally.

“They offered me a job I couldn’t take, just like they did Ellis.” Harry looked dejected. A.J. merely shrugged. There was no way to soften the blow. “Boys, we’re all screwed. They don’t want us.”

“So you’re taking the money?” asked Ellis.

“I’m taking the money,” A.J. replied as he threw his empty coffee cup onto a pile of bark. He hoped the action didn’t constitute production sabotage. “My advice is keep your mouth shut, hang on long enough to get your check, and give them the finger on the way out the gate.” He sighed. It was very strange, but he realized he was going to miss the place. He stuck his hands in his pockets and headed on in. He had at least one more shift to run.

CHAPTER 7

I have pictures of your husband with two hookers from Memphis.

– Excerpt of posthumous letter from Eugene Purdue to Misty

Hunter, wife of Ralph Hunter, Vice President, Alabama Southern

A.J. SAT IN HIS TRUCK, PARKED UNDER THE HANGING tree at the foot of Eugene’s Mountain. It was just before dawn on the Saturday following his meeting with Ralph Hunter, a date that would live in infamy. He couldn’t explain why he was there, except to say it was as good a place as any to be, and better than some. He sighed and flipped his cigarette out the vent window. With any luck at all it would start a forest fire and burn down several thousand acres of pine trees destined to become Alabama Southern lumber. He had been unemployed now for about five hours, and even though he had known it was coming, he had not yet arrived at complete objectivity regarding the condition.

The shift following the meeting with the mortal incarnations of Alabama Southern had passed without incident, although the mill was abuzz with rumors, and the men were unsettled. A.J. decided to call a meeting right after break to address the crew’s concerns. He arrived at the break room as the crew was filing out. Luther Barnette had just won the Wednesday night pool, and everyone milled around outside for a few moments out of respect for Luther’s abilities.

The second shift’s Wednesday night flatulence contest was legendary, and a respectable sum had changed hands over the years based upon its results. The competition was divided into three categories-decibel, duration, and effect-although there was some overlap due to the inexact nature of the groupings. Side bets were common, arguments were frequent, and any contestant who could clear the canteen took home the pot. Many exotic dishes were consumed by the hopefuls during the hours preceding the festivities as the aspirants searched for a combination of edibles that would provide the extra edge. The man to beat was Luther Barnette, who suffered from a blood condition that required his daily ingestion of a prescription drug containing sulphur. He usually won with authority.

Once they were able to reenter the lunch room, A.J. called the meeting to order. “This will be short,” he said when he gained their attention. “I’ll tell you everything I know, which isn’t much. John McCord has sold the mill to an outfit called Alabama Southern. They’re a big company with a lot of mills, and as of now you all work for them. I’m sure there will be some meetings to explain your benefits and such, and since this is a union shop, I don’t see how any of you can get hurt on the deal. They have to honor your contract for its duration. After that, it’s up to you. As for me, I’m history. The new owners are bringing their own supervisors with them. I don’t know when that will happen, but it’ll be soon.” There was some murmuring and stirring. A.J. had always tried to be a good boss and was popular with his employees.

“When the new boy gets here, he might not run so good,” said Luther Barnette. He had an ominous tone.

“He might run like a short pig in deep shit,” agreed Luther’s brother, Snake. He was a quiet man, and he had just doubled the number of words A.J. had ever heard him say at one stretch. There were grunts of approval and nods of assent throughout the room, as if they had all seen short pigs run and had liked what they had seen.

“It’s always a sad thing to see someone crash and burn,” observed Fred Wallace. He loaded a good dip of snuff while casting a look that conveyed questionable intent.