The Front Porch Prophet Read online

  “How long would you say this car is?” A.J. had asked Eugene upon his first glimpse those many years past. “Thirty, maybe thirty-five feet? Nice wide whitewalls, too.” He was standing by the car, hands in pockets, lightly kicking at one of the tires as if he were a potential buyer.

  “Don’t talk about my car,” Eugene had replied from under the dash. He was in the preferred position for eight-track tape-player installation, upside down with his legs hanging over the back of the front seat.

  “What name would you put on this shade of green?” A.J. had continued, running his hand down the front fender. “I’ve seen this before, somewhere.” He was enjoying himself. He had been listening for some time to Eugene’s derisive comments about his own humble vehicle, a 1963 Chevrolet Impala that Eugene called the Hog Farm. So A.J. had been praying for a vehicle of the Lover’s pedigree to appear.

  “I told you to quit talking bad about my car,” Eugene said, sitting up while he plugged in a Led Zeppelin tape to try the stereo. Jimmie Page and Robert Plant sounded like they were gravely ill.

  “Led Zeppelin is a little raw for an automobile of this stature,” A.J. had observed, reaching into the ice chest for a beer. Eugene gave him a hard stare. Then he secured a beer of his own and began to wash the car. When he got around to the windows, A.J. noted that they could probably scrape the name off with a razor blade.

  “You have got to be kidding,” Eugene had said, looking at A.J. with disbelief. “The name is the best part.”

  A.J. emerged from his reverie of times dead and gone and smiled a little wistfully as he passed. He felt strangely happy to see the old Lover again. It was a monument to simpler days. Even now, long past her glory and rusting away on the side of Eugene’s Mountain, The Overweight Lover was one of a kind.

  A.J. entered the clearing that held Eugene’s cabin, a euphemistic term for an assortment of structures and objects that had been tacked together over the years. The core of the abode was a Ford school bus he and Eugene had accidentally acquired late one night many years upstream of the present. They were seniors in high school, and they were busy on that fateful evening borrowing a little gasoline from each of the school buses parked behind the school gym.

  This activity was considered to be entrepreneurship rather than theft by all the local boys, and Eugene and A.J. were up in the rotation on the night in question. As they were siphoning the last bus, Eugene discovered the keys hanging in the ignition. They both pondered the development briefly before deciding to borrow and hide the bus for a couple of days prior to easing it back into the bus line when no one was looking. They agreed that this course would be a good joke on Slim Neal, the local policeman, who would be quite upset by a missing school bus. In retrospect, it turned out to be one of those deals that looked really good on paper but in actual fact should have been reconsidered.

  But A.J. and Eugene were young and foolish, so they took the bus. A.J.’s partner in crime suggested the perfect place to hide it would be in the big clearing up on top of the mountain. The road had been recently scraped, and they figured they should be able to get the bus up there. Eugene drove, and A.J. followed along in the Hog Farm, and they were both nearly overcome with the hilarity of it all.

  When they arrived at school the next morning, they were faced with the realization that some people did not have their appreciation for fine humor. Slim Neal was livid, and there were times during the day when it seemed he might combust. He had called in the county sheriff, Red Arnold, to help with the investigation.

  Red was a law enforcement official from the old school and had acquired the reputation over time of shooting first and not bothering much with the questions later. The state police arrived before noon, and the Georgia Bureau of Investigation rolled in shortly thereafter. Slim had waited all of his life for the opportunity to use his CRIME SCENE-DO NOT CROSS tape, so the area was roped off and diligently patrolled by an armed and dangerous Leon Neal, Slim’s brother and erstwhile deputy for the day.

  Around one o’clock Slim started talking about bringing in a brace of bloodhounds, and Eugene and A.J. knew they had a deteriorating situation on their hands. Their joke had developed significant technical difficulties, and when they heard that a citizen’s patrol had been organized to keep an eye on the gas tanks, they realized it was going to be no easy task to return the bus. Both of their fathers had joined the patrol, and they figured that Johnny Mack, at least, would have them sent down to the state prison at Reidsville as a character-building exercise if he caught them. So, since there appeared to be no other viable options open to them, they kept the bus.

  “What the hell are we going to do with it?” Eugene asked a few days later. They stood in the clearing on the mountain and viewed their handiwork.

  “We could turn it into a snow-cone stand, but I don’t know how much business we’d get up here,” A.J. replied, staring at that yellow embodiment of ten-to-twenty if they got caught. “Maybe we should run it on into the woods and cover it up with brush,” he continued, thinking this action might prove useful should Slim decide to use aerial reconnaissance.

  “I can’t believe we stole a school bus,” Eugene said, shaking his head. But there it sat, quiet testimony to questionable judgment and bad luck.

  As time passed, it became fairly common knowledge around town that the master bedroom of Eugene’s cabin was the infamous missing bus. It was a tribute to Slim Neal’s investigative expertise that he was perhaps the only person in north Georgia who had no idea where it was, although Eugene considered it sporting to give him the occasional hint.

  As the bus became absorbed into the cabin, architectural necessity dictated the removal of some of its parts. These extra pieces would invariably work their way down the mountain and onto Slim’s front porch. A.J. had urged Eugene to discontinue the practice, but the temptation was too strong. Thus, every so often, Slim would step out with his morning coffee and stumble over a tire, or perhaps a fender. One time the engine was sitting there, cold black oil oozing all over Slim’s Protected by Smith and Wesson doormat. He invariably had a bad day after one of these discoveries, and it was best to avoid him until he had regained his composure.

  As A.J. neared the cabin, he saw Eugene sitting on the ramshackle front porch, rocking gently in an old rocker. He was methodically loading the Navy Colt his grandfather had left him, the same one that had dispatched Charles Fox in the previous century. Loading the Colt was a complicated business, and he did not seem to notice A.J.’s arrival.

  Eugene’s appearance was startling. His shoulder-length white hair was in desperate need of a combing. His long white beard hung to his chest and was reminiscent of Rip Van Winkle’s whiskers. There was translucence to his skin, as if the full light of afternoon was shining through. As he sat there on his front porch, he reminded A.J. of an Old Testament prophet, a modern-day Elijah perched atop Mount Eugene, preparing to read the Law to the unworthy and to enforce it, if necessary, with the Navy Colt.

  A.J. cleared his throat to warn of his approach, then stepped up on the porch. Eugene continued loading, and A.J. viewed his surroundings.

  An old wooden cable spool sat between the two chairs on the porch and served as an end table. Its contents included a quart of bourbon, several pill bottles, a scattering of loading supplies, one of the Lover’s hubcaps that was spending its golden years as an ashtray, and an open can of gunpowder. A cigarette was burning in the hubcap like a slow fuse. A.J. reached down and removed the cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene looked up from his work and gestured at the other chair, an oversized rocker. He had taken a liking to it one night on Slim’s porch and had swapped a bus hood for it. A.J. sat.

  Eugene finished loading the cylinder and slid it into the pistol. He raised the big pistol, cocked it, and took careful aim at the hackberry tree across the clearing. A.J. was gently tapping the porch rail with the bat while keeping a casual eye on the revolver. Eugene squeezed off a round at the hackberry tree. Bark flew.

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p; “Ten dollars says I can hit that tree six out of six times,” Eugene said. He rocked gently in his chair. A.J. looked at the tree. It was riddled.

  “Why are you shooting the tree?” A.J. asked. Eugene shot again. It was a hit.

  “That’s two,” he said. He took a short sip from the bourbon bottle before lighting a replacement cigarette. “So how about it? Ten dollars on six out of six? I’ll even shoot left-handed.” He had won a tidy sum over the years with this inducement. Since he was left-handed, it was not the sporting proposition it appeared to be.

  “A ten-dollar bet would put you under too much pressure,” A.J. observed. “If you missed, you might decide to shoot me to get out of paying. But if you need the money, I’ll give you ten dollars to shoot Rufus.”

  “It would take a cold son of a bitch to shoot his own dog for ten dollars,” Eugene said, again putting his cigarette down in the hubcap and drawing a bead on the tree. He fired four more shots. The doomed hackberry shuddered, as if it could see its own short, sad future. “Make it twenty and I’ll call him up here.” He removed the spent cylinder and slipped a loaded replacement into the pistol. His movements were sure.

  “How about if I pay you the twenty and just shoot him myself?” A.J. asked, reaching over to again remove a lit cigarette from the vicinity of the gunpowder. Eugene was a grown man and could blow himself up if he wanted to, but it would have to wait until A.J. left.

  “You know,” Eugene said, lighting yet another one, “if you’re out of smokes, I’d be glad to spot you a pack.” He took a deep drag before placing the cigarette in the hubcap. A.J. realized he was dealing with an immovable object so he picked up the can of gunpowder and moved it to the opposite end of the porch.

  “No, I’ve got cigarettes. I just don’t want to get fried. Also, I’d like to find out why you called me up here. Have you decided to forgive me for whipping your tail?”

  “Whipping my tail? Shit, what are you talking about? I was all over you like a cheap suit. I was on you like white on rice. I whipped you so bad your kids had black eyes.” He leaned back in his chair, obviously enjoying his own use of metaphor.

  “You forgot like a dog on a pork chop,” A.J. replied. “I must have given you a concussion.”

  In truth, it had not been much of a fight at all. A.J. and Eugene had been at the annual volunteer fireman’s barbecue and beer bust, and the leader of the organization, Honey Gowens, had done his usual excellent job of arrangement. Many fine young hogs had unwillingly given up their ribs to fuel the day’s events, and there was enough cold beer in the keg to extinguish a three-alarm blaze. Honey had arranged for a bluegrass band to play and had gone to the trouble to bring in his brother-in-law as a guest speaker. He was a real fireman down in Birmingham and had come up to give the men a talk on current firefighting techniques. The information was critically important to the members of the squad, since their usual method of dealing with a fire was to arrive late and stand around, slowly shaking their heads while the affected structure burned to the ground. Occasionally they would drag out the hoses and keep an adjacent building from going up, but by and large they were pitiful when it came to putting out fires. Captain Honey-who had made his fortune by marrying it and who had paid for the fire truck-was getting fairly disgusted and had put the squad on probation. If they didn’t get some flames extinguished soon, he was going to trade the truck in on a Winnebago, and he and Jerry Ann were going to head out for Yellowstone and all points west.

  It may have been the pressure of being on fire probation that caused Eugene to lose his perspective that day, or it may have been the large quantity of cold beer he had consumed. Or it could have been the fact that he was often foolish, a theory many felt held water, A.J. chief among them. In any event, A.J. was talking to T.C. Clark and Skipper Black, accomplished fire-watchers both, when up stormed Eugene with murder in his eye.

  “Right here in front of the whole damn town,” he said, voice full of menace. “Did you think I wouldn’t see? Did you think I didn’t know what was going on?” He had moved in close to A.J.

  “What do you think is going on?” A.J. asked. He figured Eugene was drunk, which he was, and that he was having his little joke, which he wasn’t.

  “Don’t try that shit with me!” Eugene spoke loudly. A small crowd had gathered. “I saw you and Diane together. I saw you touch her arm!” Now A.J. knew what the fuss was about. Eugene had seen him talking to Diane a few minutes earlier. During the conversation, A.J. had apparently inadvertently touched her arm. It was Eugene’s opinion that payment for the transgression was due.

  “You’re not serious, right?” A.J. asked. “I touched Skipper’s arm a minute ago, too. Do you think I’m screwing him?” Skipper was uncomfortable with this analogy and brushed at his arm as he edged away.

  “What I think is that I’m going to break your damn head!” Eugene yelled, sounding like he meant business.

  “Eugene, nothing happened,” A.J. said emphatically. “Diane was asking about a job for her brother. Period.” Diane’s brother had a history of being discriminated against by various employers, most of whom seemed to unfairly want some work out of him between paydays.

  “Period this,” Eugene said as he swung a roundhouse right that loosened one of A.J.’s molars but did not knock him down as Eugene had intended. Then Eugene had troubles of his own as A.J. smacked him open-palmed over both ears before dealing him a sharp blow to the sternum. Eugene hit the ground hard but was back up in a moment, barreling into A.J.’s midsection. A.J. went over backward with Eugene on top, and they rolled around and swore at each other for another minute or two until several of the boys hauled them apart. Slim Neal arrived and sent them both home; he wanted to run them in, but the big storage room in back of the library that was used as the lockup was occupied at the moment by all three members of the Ladies’ Literary Society, who were having their weekly book chat.

  Now, three years later, A.J. was sitting on Eugene’s porch, and they were slowly becoming accustomed to being in each other’s company again. “I may have been… hasty… at the barbecue,” Eugene said, coming as close to an apology as he was genetically able. He looked away as he spoke, up at the sky over the clearing. The moment passed by silent agreement, the tension dissipating like leaf smoke in the fall, an acrid memory on the wind.

  “Forget it,” A.J. said, realizing the magnitude of Eugene’s gesture. “But next time I’m trying to tell you something, listen.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” Eugene said vacantly as he continued to study the sky. Then he turned and looked at A.J. “How about a drink of bourbon?” he asked.

  “No, it’s a little early in the day.” Eight to ten hours early, in fact.

  “How about a beer, then?”

  “A beer would be all right,” A.J. said. He really didn’t want anything, but his grandmother had raised him to observe the social niceties. He went inside to get the beer. He came back out with two and handed one to Eugene, who opened it and downed about half.

  “Nice housekeeping,” A.J. said as he sat back down and opened his beer. “There’s something alive in the sink. I would have killed it, but I thought it might be a pet.”

  “It’s hard to get good help these days,” Eugene explained. “I tried to get Diane to straighten up while she was here the other day, but she didn’t seem interested in the idea.”

  A.J. choked on his beer.

  “I bet she loved that,” he said, coughing. He watched while Eugene topped off his half-empty beer bottle with most of the remaining bourbon. He then opened up two of the pill bottles, removed several tablets, and washed them down with the alcohol. A.J.’s curiosity got the best of him. “Got the flu?” he asked. Eugene’s answer was evasive.

  “I have to take them every four hours. Doc Miller said it was very important to be punctual.” Eugene was gazing again, seemingly preoccupied. A.J. could not fathom what was on his mind, but he supposed Eugene would spill the beans in his own good time.

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p; “What did Doc say about washing the pills down with boiler-makers?” he asked Eugene.

  “We didn’t actually cover that,” came the reply.

  “Probably just as well,” A.J. conceded. Doc was known to have a touchy streak. “So what’s the deal?” A.J. waited for his answer. The silence grew long and oppressive.

  Finally, Eugene sighed. When he spoke, his voice was lifeless, as if a rock were talking.

  “I have cancer. I’m rotten with it. It’s terminal.” Eugene stared at his lead-poisoned hackberry tree. His words hung over the clearing like a gas attack over the Argonne. A gentle breeze blew through the branches, but the words would not dissipate. Overhead, a contrail made slow progress against the backdrop of soft sky. A.J. heard Rufus down the mountain, barking. The scene etched itself into his consciousness, the sights and sounds permanently fixed in blacks and whites and shades of grey, as if Currier & Ives had come to high Georgia to find a little work and had walked up to the clearing in their tight Victorian pants and top hats to capture the moment forever. A.J. did not know what to say, so he said nothing, and stillness reigned.

  Finally, Eugene took a ragged breath and turned to A.J. “But

  I’m not dead yet,” he said. He began fumbling with his reloading supplies. A.J. was subdued as he retrieved the can of gunpowder for his friend. Eugene quickly and efficiently reloaded the spent cylinder. Then he offered the Colt to A.J. “Ten dollars says you can’t hit the tree six out of six.”