The Front Porch Prophet

“Bring the shovel,” A.J. instructed as he grabbed the Plug-sized piece of porch he had saved. He needed to displace one Plug’s worth of dirt for the mound to look right. They walked over to the area of interment. A.J. began to dig a hole next to Parm’s grave. Wormy was busy inspecting the statuary.

“Is one of these guys buried here?” he asked, pointing at the sculptures.

“The one who looks like he’s saying Oh,” A.J. replied. He was down about a foot and wanted to go another.

“So who’s the other one, the one who looks like he’s about to puke?”

“That’s his mortal enemy.”

“This is cool,” Wormy stated. “I want one of these when I go. Maybe a helicopter.” He took the shovel from A.J. and began his turn. “How deep do we want to bury this wood?” he asked.

“Just a little more,” A.J. said. Wormy took out a few more shovelfuls. Then he stepped out of the hole and stood, silent and respectful. He had no clue what was going on, but he knew that he was participating in a solemn rite of some sort.

“Parm, I’m sorry about this,” A.J. said as he dropped the wood into the hole. “It’s what Estelle wants, and you know how she can be.” The breeze rustled through the fallen leaves, as if Parm were sighing in agreement.

“Is Parm the guy saying Oh?” Wormy asked as they filled the grave.

“He is,” said A.J., shaping the mound.

“Is that his stick we’re burying?” Wormy asked, attempting to pull together the many pieces to this puzzle.

“It’s his wife’s dog,” A.J. said, dusting off his pants. Wormy nodded, as if it all made sense, now that he knew it was the wife’s dog being committed to the ground.

“Was Parm a warrior?” Wormy asked.

“He was arguably the bravest man who ever lived,” A.J. replied, picking up his shovel and heading for the truck. Wormy stood silent and cast a salute. It was his tribute to a fallen brother-in-arms, there at The Parm Shrine, adjacent to The Tomb of the Unknown Porch.

“Where are you staying?” A.J. asked conversationally as they drove away. “I’ll drop you off.” Wormy was still a bit overcome and could not immediately reply. After a moment, he regained control.

“Not staying anywhere,” he responded. “Not doing anything.” He related the details of his loss of employment. While A.J. listened, his mind began to form a plan. Wormy seemed like a decent sort. He needed a job and a place to stay. A.J. needed some help. Eugene needed full-time attendance. What would be wrong with Wormy?

“How about riding to see a friend of mine?” A.J. asked casually. He would see how they got on.

“Great,” Wormy responded. “Let’s go see your buddy. Uh, I hate to go empty-handed, and I could use a drink, myself. Is there somewhere around here we could buy a taste?”

“I can arrange that,” A.J. said. They drove out to the county line and pulled up behind Eugene’s beer joint. It was still closed due to the stiletto in Bird Egg’s liver, but A.J. had a key. He opened the back door and invited Wormy in.

The beer joint’s effect on the pilot was profound. He wandered with his mouth slightly agape, touching various containers of alcoholic beverage. He sat silently at the blond dinette table and fingered the poker chips and the playing cards. He observed the many photos taped to the walls, pictures of young women burgeoning forth, looking come-hither at Wormy.

“This is a good place,” he observed. “Whose is it?”

“Mine,” A.J. responded. Technically, it wasn’t true, but it would be gospel soon enough. “Get what you want and put it in the truck. It’s on the house.” Wormy selected a case of beer and a half gallon of bourbon. A.J. picked up a jug for Eugene in case he was running low.

It was midday when A.J. and his passenger arrived at the foot of the mountain and began the journey up to the clearing. As he wheeled up the road, A.J. looked for signs of Rufus but saw no trace. When he rounded the last curve and entered the straightaway to the cabin, however, there sat the hound in the middle of the road. His paws were firmly planted, and his eyes were on A.J. This behavior represented a fair example of an old dog and a new trick.

“Bear in the road,” noted Wormy. He had fallen naturally into the role of spotter for the expedition. A.J. halted about ten feet from Rufus. He didn’t want to hit him-except maybe a couple of times with the bat-but the animal showed no intention of moving. He blew the horn, but there was no response. He hung his head out the window.

“Move, Rufus!” he yelled. Wormy raised his eyebrows. He seemed surprised that A.J. knew the bear. Then an extraordinary sequence of events occurred.

Rufus stood and looked over his shoulder at the road up to the cabin. Then he looked back at A.J. He barked once and headed up the track. A.J. slowly followed the dog.

“That’s a dog, not a bear,” Wormy corrected.

“That’s the one you want to be dropping porches on,” A.J. confirmed. “It’ll probably take two.”