The Front Porch Prophet

“Maggie told me to ask you again to come to dinner Thursday,” he said. “So I’m asking. Why don’t you have Wormy bring you down?” This marked the third time he had asked, but Eugene was extremely resistant to the idea, stating that he didn’t have a hell of a lot to be thankful for.

“Do you think Diane will come?” Eugene asked, throwing a slow curve in A.J.’s direction. It caught the corner for a strike.

“Yeah, I think she will,” A.J. answered. What he didn’t mention was that she would likely be in the company of Truth Hannassey. The two had become a couple and were seldom separated. He still couldn’t believe that Maggie had asked Truth to come. He made a mental note to stop by the beer joint and invite Bird Egg in retaliation.

“I’d like to see her,” Eugene lamented. “And the boys, too.”

“Well, then, it’s a date,” A.J. said. He would just have to talk to Diane and Truth and get them to work with him on this. “We’ll eat, drink, and be merry. It will be good for you.”

“Let me see what Wormy says,” Eugene hedged.

“He wants to come,” A.J. said. “He told me that he has never been to a real Thanksgiving feast. Give him a break.” Eugene sighed.

“I’m looking pretty rough. I don’t want to offend any of your guests.” His Emily Post was showing, and his concern was laudable and touching.

“You have always offended everybody,” A.J. pointed out. “You may be the most offensive person who ever lived. The only difference now is that you’re thinner. You were getting a little paunchy anyway.”

“I wouldn’t talk,” Eugene countered. He was rolling a generous joint while he talked. “Unemployment has gone right to your hips.” A.J. looked down. He might have picked up a pound or two, but he believed he carried it well.

“Keep it up, and I’ll tell Angel where you hide the dope,” he responded. “Now, how about it? Are you coming?”

“Tell Maggie May I’ll be there unless I feel rotten,” Eugene said slowly, almost grudgingly. “But I’ll probably feel rotten.”

“If you don’t when you get there, you will after you eat the Indian pudding.”

“Oh, God,” Eugene said. “Is she bringing that?” He, too, had sampled the dish.

“No, I fixed it,” was A.J.’s response. “But beware of anything that has lime Jell-O as the main ingredient. That’s her fallback.”

“Knowing Estelle, she’ll whip up a bowl of lime Jell-O and horse shit,” Eugene observed.

They grew quiet, and A.J. realized Eugene had once again drifted off. He got up and threw a couple more chunks on the fire. Then he went inside to secure a bowl of Angel’s soup. He was sitting on the edge of the porch waiting for his portion to cool when Wormy arrived in Mom’s Taxi. He got out and cast a look in Eugene’s direction, then came over and sat.

“Get some soup,” A.J. suggested.

“I might have a bowl in a little while,” Wormy replied. He unscrewed the cap from the pint bottle he had removed from his jacket pocket and took a lengthy sip. “Want a taste?” he asked when he was through.

“No, better not,” A.J. declined. “If I go home with liquor on my breath, Maggie might beat me with a stout cane.”

“And the downside would be?” Wormy asked with a twinkle in his bloodshot eye. He had obviously been spending too much time in the Purdue presence.

“You’re getting quick,” A.J. noted. “I may have to tell Maggie you’re having discipline fantasies about her.” Wormy looked alarmed.

“Lord, Lord,” he said with concern. “Don’t do that. I really like your wife. I don’t want her to be mad at me.” He looked like he was about to cry.

“You just don’t want to get uninvited to supper,” A.J. said.

“I don’t guess we’re coming anyway,” Wormy said sadly. “Eugene doesn’t think he’ll feel up to it.” He sighed. “I could almost taste that turkey, too.” He looked off into the distance as if he could see it out there: tender, roasted poultry, forever just out of his grasp.

“I got him to agree to come,” A.J. informed him. “If you don’t let him back out, you’ll still get your drumstick.”

“I’ll try,” Wormy said doubtfully.

“Don’t try. Do.” A.J. pointed out in the yard to the sleeping figure by the bonfire. “He doesn’t have long. This could be the last time he gets out. If he won’t come, pick him up and put him in the van.” Wormy looked at Eugene and nodded.

“All right. I’ll get him there somehow.” He took another sip. “You’re right, though. He’s sliding. And it’s taking more of everything to keep him out of pain.” He lit a smoke. “More booze. More pills. More morphine.”

“What do you think about all that?’” A.J. asked.

“I think it’s his business,” Wormy said without hesitation. “I say let him have at it. I’ve seen a lot of people die, and there is no good way to go about it.” The wisdom of the ages as spoken by an alcoholic helicopter pilot. A.J. decided to broach a subject that had been lingering since Eugene had taken his latest downward turn.

“I know you like Eugene, but it’s starting to get a little rough now.” He considered how best to continue. He wanted to convey that if it was time to hat up, no one would think less of Wormy for going. “If you, uh…”