The Front Porch Prophet

A.J. found the helicopter sitting in the middle of the county road on the other side of the ridge. The landing gear looked bent, and so did the pilot. He was crouched in the open doorway, steadying his nerves with Old Granddad. The aroma of hydraulic fluid pervaded the scene.

“I hate it when this shit happens,” the man confided in A.J. “Call me Wormy.”

“I wouldn’t think it happened that often,” A.J. observed, his untrained eye checking for signs of trouble, such as fuel pouring out of a rupture or flames dancing within.

“This is my fifth time,” Wormy quipped. He tossed the empty pint bottle into the woods.

“House moving must be a rough business,” A.J. concluded. After further discussion, it turned out that the other four times had been over the Mekong Delta, random occurrences orchestrated by dedicated employees of that wily rascal, Ho Chi Minh.

“I sort of thought I was through being shot down,” Wormy said ruefully, as if he were ashamed. “You don’t know who got me, do you?” It was an odd question, but it seemed important to the downed flyer, a pride issue, perhaps, or something to do with insurance. The man was looking at A.J. with anxiety etched on his features.

“Crazy guy who lives across the ridge,” A.J. lied. He could not say why. “Ex-Marine. Shoots stuff down all the time.” It was not a convincing fabrication, but Wormy had been softened up by near death and plenty of alcohol and was not a tough crowd. He nodded, as if he knew several guys just like that. Good boys, but a little hasty on the trigger.

“Real badass, huh?” he asked with a grin. He apparently liked being taken out by the best. A.J.’s hunch was correct. It would have been cruel to inform the pilot he had been aced by a little old lady in a fit of revenge over a squashed pooch. He had undergone enough already. They decided that the helicopter would be fine where it was. It required repair to make it airworthy, and Wormy needed to check with his boss now that the load had become kindling.

“You think somebody’ll hit it, sitting there?” Wormy asked as they climbed into the truck. A.J. perused the landing site. The machine was sitting on a straight stretch of road and was far enough off the shoulder to allow vehicles to pass one at a time.

“I only know one person who would be in any danger of hitting it,” A. J. replied. “And she’s tied up right now with a dog problem.” He fired up the truck, and they headed for a phone.

“Dog too mean?” asked Wormy conversationally. He was fishing around unsuccessfully for something to smoke. A.J. removed a pack from over the visor and tucked it into Wormy’s pocket.

“Dog too flat,” he responded. Wormy nodded his head as if he understood just how much trouble a flat dog could be.

A.J. drove to the broken cabin and arrived just in time to witness the culmination of a misunderstanding between Truth and Slim. The problem revolved around two issues, the first being the house in the road and the second being the car in the house. Neither made Slim happy, and he could not seem to convey the extent of his unhappiness to Truth. Admittedly, it may have been his presentation, which was limited to stammering with rage while waving a loaded gun. Still, A.J. could see what Slim wanted as soon as he drove up.

He got out of the truck and sauntered over to the point of impact. He made plenty of noise as he came near; he didn’t want to end up dead just because the skittish gendarme was having a mood. He squatted and looked up under the cruiser, then hollered to Wormy to bring the log chain from the back of the pickup. They attached one end to A.J.’s truck and the other to Slim’s patrol car, and they had the cruiser extracted from its historic garage in no time. A.J. unhooked the chain from both vehicles and tossed it into the back of the truck. Slim was still waving his pistol and mouthing soundless words, but he seemed to be recovering from the conniption.

“There, Slim,” A.J. said pleasantly. “You can have your car back. I don’t know what we’re going to do about this house, though. Maybe Johnny Mack can push it out of the way with his dozer.” It sounded like an expedient plan, but it upset Truth.

“You can’t just push my house out of the way with a bulldozer!” She folded her arms. “This is a National Historic Dwelling!” A.J., Slim, and Wormy all looked at the remains of the house.

“It’s in pretty bad shape,” A.J. said.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” She turned to Wormy, who was exhibiting the post-disaster flush of someone proud to be requiring oxygen. “Rig it back up, get your helicopter, and let’s get back to work! I’m paying good money for nothing right now.” Wormy smiled disarmingly and gave her a full-body shrug.

“I’d be happy to, but no can do,” he replied. “My helicopter is out of action since the crazy guy shot it down.”

“What crazy guy?” asked Slim.

“Never mind,” A.J. interjected.