The Front Porch Prophet

“Get out of here,” came Eugene’s skeptical reply.

“Swear to God,” A.J. replied. “Then he dropped a whole house on Slim’s police car.” Eugene cocked his head sideways and gave Wormy a long look.

“Well,” he said grudgingly. “The boy may have a little potential. Slim make it out alive?”

“Yeah, he got out,” A.J. admitted.

“These things happen,” mused Eugene with mild disappointment in his voice. “I guess the important thing is that he made the attempt.” Out in the yard, Wormy looked up and smiled.

“The coffee is ready,” he said. A.J. arose and scratched up a measuring cup, a mug with no handle, and a small soup bowl. They savored the hot drink in silence. Wormy broke the quiet before it became oppressive.

“Did the crazy guy blow up your cars?” he asked Eugene, pointing at the carnage on the other side of the yard.

“What crazy guy?” Eugene replied.

“Never mind,” said A.J., holding the bridge of his nose. It had been a long day, outlandish and fraught with peril. His head was tired, and he wanted to go home. Wormy arose, walked out to the truck, and returned with both half gallons of bourbon. He broke the seal on one and turned it up in a long, slow swig. When he finished, he sucked the air in through his teeth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

“Does anyone mind if I have a little nip?” he asked as a courtesy.

“I like a man with manners,” Eugene observed, tipping the other jug for his own extended guzzle. A.J. could tell that Eugene was warming up to Wormy. The pair started to talk.

A.J. eased out of his chair and moved inside. He found pencil and paper and made a list of supplies that needed to be trucked in. He could hear laughter and easy talk coming from outside. The boys were hitting it off and slugging it down. He returned to the porch and viewed his handiwork. There were apples in their cheeks and twinkles in their eyes. Eugene lifted his bottle and offered a toast.

“To Saint fucking A.J., the founder of the feast,” Eugene proposed. He was two drams to the right of sober and generous in word and thought. They drank.

“To all the boys who died in the attempt,” Wormy said solemnly, and they quaffed again. It looked to A.J. like it was going to be a long evening.

“To the women I’m not going to get around to,” offered Eugene with a trace of melancholy.

“To how my eyes will be looking in the morning,” intoned Wormy. He seemed to be planning on staying.

“To how everyone’s eyes will be looking in the morning,” came Eugene’s reply.

“How will your eyes look in the morning?” asked A.J.

“Like two cigarette burns in a blanket,” said Wormy.

“Like two piss holes in the snow,” said Eugene.

“Like two road maps of Georgia,” said Wormy.

A.J. figured it was one metaphor past high time to leave, so he slipped off the porch. They were doing fine and wouldn’t miss him. He started the truck, and the boys didn’t even turn to see him go. As he bounced down the mountain, A.J. thought that the matchmaking was a success. At least for awhile, Eugene was not alone. It was not a perfect solution, but it wasn’t bad as a temporary expedient. Wormy seemed to be the proverbial rolling stone, but maybe he would gather some moss before moving on.

He headed to town. When he neared the city limit, he turned up the county road that led to Jackie Purdue’s place. He rounded a long, slow curve and came to the straightaway that held Wormy’s crippled ship. Slim stood in the road. With him was a stern-looking man in military garb. He reminded A.J. of a coiled spring. A.J. pulled up and rolled down his window.

“Slim, could you move your car?” he asked, pointing at the slightly dented cruiser blocking the way.

“Sure, I-” Slim began to respond, but the man with him cleared his throat and impatiently tapped his leg.

“Is that a swagger stick?” A.J. asked, smiling. He had never seen one in person and was enchanted. From Wormy’s description, A.J. realized he was in the presence of Maniac Monroe.

“Um. This officer informs me that you may know what has become of my pilot.” Maniac tapped while he talked, his tone indicating he was comfortable in his role as a leader of men.

“You must be Colonel Monroe,” A.J. said. Maniac stood as stiff as a starched Georgia pine. “Wormy told me all about you.” A.J. offered his hand.

“Um. Yes,” responded Maniac. “Do you know where I might find Captain Locklear? I need to speak to him about moving this helicopter.” A.J. could sense the situation was not as shipshape as the colonel would have liked.

“The last I saw of Wormy, he was too drunk to fly. And he was under the impression that he was unemployed. He is talking to someone about another situation as we speak.” A.J. didn’t want to rain on Maniac’s parade, but he had dibs on Wormy.

“Can you take me to him?” Colonel Monroe asked.

“Not today,” A.J. responded, but not unkindly. “It’s late, he’s sloshed, and I have something to do. I’ll take you to see him tomorrow. Meet me at the diner in town about ten in the morning, and we’ll ride on up.” Maniac nodded. It would have to do.