The Front Porch Prophet

“Have you given any thought to what you’re going to do now?” John Robert asked, looking at his son.

“I thought I might borrow Slim’s big shotgun and go kill them all in their beds,” A.J. replied.

“Will you be back by supper, or do you want me to make you a plate?” John Robert inquired, surprising A.J. Most of his attempts at kidding with his father were met with deadpan looks and stony silences.

“I’ll be back in time,” A.J. said with a broad grin.

“Want some breakfast?”

“No, I don’t think so.” A.J.’s years of shift work had left his eating schedule in ruin, and he tended to eat at different times than most people. He looked at the clock on the wall and noted it was time to be moving along. He had awakened this morning wishing he had not promised Eugene a visit. He was ashamed of this reluctance and strengthened his resolve, but he hoped to get the visit completed early in the day. He stood and stretched.

“I’m going up to see Eugene for a while,” he told his father. “I should be back around lunch. Maggie’s worn out, so let her sleep. She can go to church twice next week.”

“How is Eugene doing?” asked John Robert.

“I don’t think he has very long.”

“Tell him I’m thinking about him,” John Robert said in a somber tone. “Tell him if I can help him, to just let me know.”

“I’ll tell him.” A.J. left the house and climbed into his truck. It was balky in the cool morning, but he coaxed it to life after a few false starts and made the short drive to town. As he drove through Sequoyah, he noticed several vehicles parked outside of the Follow Me, and I Shall Make You Fishers of Pecan Pie Drive-In. One of them was John McCord’s truck. A.J. liked his loose ends tidied, so he entered and sat at the counter next to his former boss.

“A.J.,” John said, sounding truly happy to see his former employee. “Hoghead, bring some coffee and collision mats for A.J.” Hoghead appeared wearing a coat and tie and whistling what may have been “Will the Circle Be Unbroken,” but with his whistling skills it was hard to be certain. Sunday morning coffee and collision mats comprised Hoghead’s ministry. He opened early and provided them free of charge so that all comers would be fed and alert when they got to church. Around ten o’clock he would close up and go down to the Rapture Preparation Holiness Temple to get his weekly dose of rapture preparation.

“How is it going down at the mill?” John McCord inquired.

“Couldn’t really say,” responded A.J. “I lasted two days longer than you did, but I think your check was probably larger.” There was an uncomfortable silence that A.J. did nothing to mellow. He figured John needed to squirm. It would build character.

Finally, McCord broke the silence with a grunt. His movements were slow as he reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and retrieved his checkbook. As A.J. and Hoghead looked on, John McCord wrote out his portion of A.J.’s severance package. Hoghead whistled low. John stood up, leaving the check on the lunch counter.

“You know, A.J., I don’t owe you a damn thing,” he said with tension in his voice.

“You don’t now,” A.J. responded as he picked up his money. They faced each other. Then John turned and left.

“I think he feels bad about it,” observed Hoghead.

“We can hope,” said A.J. He finished his coffee and asked Hoghead if he would pour a large one for Eugene. Hog poured two and provided a sackful of collision mats, as well. A.J. thanked him and headed for the truck.

He drove slowly as he left town, enjoying the coolness of the morning as it blew in the vent window. He occupied his mind with the thoughts of the picnic he intended to take later in the day with Maggie and the children. As he drove, he passed the spot where Slim had arrested Patty Hearst years earlier, and he smiled.

That was the summer Patty Hearst had decided for some bizarre reason that robbing banks was intrinsically better work than being a millionaire heiress. The resulting nationwide girl hunt took on a circus air, and Slim Neal succumbed to the frenzy along with many of his law enforcement brethren. Patty Hearst loomed large on his mind, and the obsession led him to erroneous conclusions on the day he observed a road-worn young woman hanging about the outskirts of town. It was true the lass bore some resemblance to the fugitive in question, in that she possessed two breasts and lacked a penis, but other than that, the similarities were scant. Slim was never one to let facts deter a good investigation, however, so he scooped her up and ran her in. When the FBI agents arrived, they discerned fairly quickly that the woman Slim had in the slammer was not the infamous Hearst. Slim was impressed with the swift work of the Feds and wanted to know in detail how they had made such short work of the affair. Was it fingerprints? Were dental records used? Had they contacted Interpol?