The Front Porch Prophet

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 oh, baby’s and some spirited but bad piano playing with his nether regions. The more customary nomenclature, Pootie, stemmed from an unfortunate set of circumstances involving thirteen Krystal cheeseburgers-also known as gut bombs-a six-pack of hot Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, and the questionable wisdom of riding the Zipper at the county fair after ingesting all of that. The chemical reaction brought about by this combination was a tribute to digestive systems worldwide. The ride was cut short at the insistence of the other revelers, one of whom threatened to kill both the operator and Pootie if matters did not immediately improve. Because he was an amusement professional, the carny complied, but by then Roger Cork’s new nickname had stuck like gum to a desk bottom.

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.”