The Front Porch Prophet

When they reached the clearing, Eugene was not to be seen. Rufus crossed to the porch and stood patiently. A.J. parked and slid the Louisville Slugger from behind the seat. If Rufus was laying a trap, he was prepared. Wormy slid out the other door and landed lightly on the balls of his feet. He was tense as he scanned the perimeter. Old habits and old soldiers died hard.

“Don’t try anything you’ll regret,” A.J. said to the dog as he crossed the clearing. Rufus barked and looked at the door. Wormy was running a flanking movement from the right.

“Yeah, you’re Rex the Wonder Dog,” A.J. said. “But one wrong move and you’ll be out at the landfill next to Plug.” He eased up the steps to the porch. The dog barked one last time before entering the open doorway. A.J. followed, wary but concerned. His sense of foreboding was acute. Wormy materialized beside him.

The scene in the cabin was not as bad as he was expecting, but it was mean enough. Eugene lay on the unmade bed. His eyes were open, and he seemed semiconscious. He turned his head and cast an unfocused gaze on A.J. The breath rattled in his chest. A.J. moved in close. The smell of bourbon was heavy.

“I dreamed I went to the circus in my Maidenform bra,” Eugene croaked, sharing the wisdom of the ages with his visitors. He was drunk, high, and mortally ill. Everything was not going to be all right.

“That happens to me all the time,” A.J. responded absently while mulling his next move. Wormy nodded as if he, too, occasionally ran down to the big top in a frilly undergarment, perhaps an underwire for additional support. A.J.’s eyes roamed the room and alighted on the shower. He believed in the potency of a hot shower, and he stepped to the stall in the corner of the room and turned on the spigots. Once the steam began to build, he crossed to the bed and gently shook Eugene. Wormy stood at the ready.

“Wake up,” A.J. said. “It’s time to take a shower.” Eugene startled, his eyes wild. Then he seemed to grasp the situation, but his gaze lingered on Wormy.

“We’ll have to get to know each other a little better before we start showering together,” he growled. A.J. and Wormy helped him to his feet and dragged him across the room. They peeled his clothing.

“I’m afraid you won’t respect me in the morning,” Eugene complained as he was eased into the stall.

“I don’t respect you now,” A.J. intoned, delivering the universal response on cue. Eugene slumped in the shower and let the hot water work its magic.

“Is he sick?” Wormy whispered.

“He is sick,” A.J. confirmed. He dug around in Eugene’s foot-locker and came out with a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt. He laid the clothing over a chair and straightened the bed. Wormy rambled in the kitchen, muttering as he searched the cabinets. He turned to A.J. and spoke.

“What he needs is some coffee. I’ve got some in my pack.” A.J. nodded. A cup of coffee would be a good idea for everyone. Wormy walked out to the truck. He was followed by Rufus, and A.J. was glad they seemed to be getting along. From the shower came snatches of an old Elvis tune. A.J. pounded on the side of the stall.

“Uh, humma humma,” Eugene said as he stepped out. “Elvis has left the shower.” He was still as high as a ball-game hot dog. A.J. could not find a clean towel so Eugene dripped dry while singing sacred songs from Memphis.

“I’m freezing my dick off here,” Eugene complained.

“I wondered where it had gone,” A.J. replied conversationally as he handed Eugene his clothing.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t you worry about old Henry,” Eugene said as he propped on A.J.’s shoulder and pulled on his pants. He slipped on his shirt and continued. “If you’d bring some women up here, you’d be seeing him snap to attention.”

“I’ve been trying to line you something up,” he said. “Your face is on billboards all the way to Atlanta. I’ve had a few inquiries, but they all want more money than you have.” He handed Eugene a pair of running shoes.

“Shit. They’d be paying me!” Eugene hollered as he walked out to the porch. In the yard, Wormy was squatted in front of a camp-fire patiently waiting for the coffeepot to boil. Eugene sat in his chair and lit up a cigarette. A.J. sat next to him.

“What’s the story with Daniel Boone there?” Eugene asked.

“Just a guy I brought along to make the coffee,” A.J. responded.

“He sure is cute,” Eugene observed. Wormy poked his fire with a stick. Rufus the loyal coffee-hound sat by him, guarding him from danger.

“I’m glad you like him,” A.J. said. “I got him for you.”

“You want to run that one by me again?”

“It’s simple,” A.J. said. “You need someone around to give you a hand. Wormy needs a place to stay. I need a little peace of mind when I’m not here. You ought to give me money for coming up with this idea.”

“Wormy?” Eugene asked. “Fucking Wormy? I know about nine guys named Wormy. They all look like him.” Eugene was trying to be a tough sell, so A.J. brought out the big guns.

“He killed Estelle Chastain’s dog with a porch today.”