The Front Porch Prophet (15 page)

“It’s always a sad thing to see someone crash and burn,” observed Fred Wallace. He loaded a good dip of snuff while casting a look that conveyed questionable intent.

“Whoa,” A.J. said, holding up his hands. “Don’t even think about lying down on these people. You can’t help me, and you’ll only end up hurting yourselves. Contract or no contract, they’ll fire you if they catch you screwing around. Just do your jobs, collect your pay, feed your families, and keep your mouths shut.” A.J. looked at them and wondered if they would follow the good advice he had given. It didn’t look promising.

“Sawmill’s a dangerous place,” offered the infamous Mayo Reese of Sand Valley fame. He had walked into the mill one evening seven years earlier and asked for a job. Any job. His wife was sick, his children needed shoes, and Outlaw Pete, King of Modular Living, was about to haul the double-wide back down to the land of E-Z Credit. A.J. had taken pity. Life had casually done to Mayo that which no mere mortal had been able to manage. It had beaten and humbled him. A.J. couldn’t stand it. He had given Mayo his hand and a job, neither to his regret.

Mayo expounded on his subject. “A stack of lumber could fall on him, or he could get sucked up into the chipper.” The conversation was taking an ugly turn.

“Mayo,” A.J. said, “do
not
kill the new boss. Don’t even hurt him. Hell, he may be a great guy. But even if he is a dick, I don’t want to be hearing about any accidents. I’m serious.”

Mayo shrugged his shoulders. A.J. could have it his way.

“A.J., I want to work
for you,”
said Brickhead Crowe, one of A.J.’s favorite people anywhere. Brickhead’s given name was Conley, and he and A.J. had known each other since boyhood. He was intellectually challenged, and his nickname stemmed from the undeniable fact that he was as dumb as a brick. His alternate nickname, Pick-head, further illustrated the point. He had acquired it by knocking himself unconscious with his own pickax.

“I want that, too,” said A.J., smiling gently at the large, slow speaking man. “But we can’t always have what we want. You just do as good a job for the new people as you’ve always done for me, and you’ll be fine.” A.J. hoped this would be the case, anyway. He had always made allowances for Conley. It was an unspoken agreement on A.J.’s shift that everyone kept an eye on him. To do otherwise was to invite the Longstreet wrath.

A.J. had started school with Conley and had been keeping tabs on him ever since. Conley’s mother, Eurlene, conceived him late in her life, long after the best eggs were gone. It is the way of children that they will harry a weaker member of the herd, but it became common knowledge among the pack early on that this was not to be done to Conley in front of A.J. He held a soft spot in his heart for his less capable schoolmate and would not tolerate any abuse of the slow but sweet child.

As was often the way in those days, Conley was passed from grade to grade, even though he had not mastered the work. Thus, he was allowed to remain with his classmates, and A.J. was afforded the opportunity to watch out for him. A.J. helped him with his schoolwork and ran interference when the necessity arose. Later on, when Conley felt the need to demonstrate his prowess on the gridiron, A.J. was there. The big boy was strong and could hit hard, but he had no clue when it came to memorizing plays. So A.J. showed him, play by play, what was expected. They would line up, and A.J. would point to an opponent and say
hit him, then pull left.
And Conley would hit and pull left. This arrangement became so formalized that Coach Crider came to hold A.J. responsible for Conley’s performance.
Goddamn it, Longstreet,
Coach would yell,
Brickhead missed his man by a mile and a half. What the hell is wrong with you boys?
So A.J. would talk with Conley and explain the error, and they would go at it again.

Some of the hardest words ever exchanged by A.J. and Eugene were over Conley. They were all sitting down at the depot one night sharing two quarts of beer when the conversation turned to Cyndi Hawkins. She was an older girl of twenty-one who had a small child, and legend had it that she would share the occasional favor. This subject was of great interest to Conley. His hormones had finally caught up with him, and he believed Cyndi was the most beautiful woman in the world.

In his halting manner, he asked how he might make his intentions known to her. He wished to declare on her and needed for his friends to coach him. He directed this query mainly to Eugene, who was the acknowledged swain of the group. By this point in time, Eugene had gotten lucky four times. Actually, he had been
astoundingly
fortunate once and had paid for it the other three. A.J., on the other hand, had not fared so well. He had almost managed to dance the waltz once with Diane, but there had been technical difficulties. So Eugene was deferred to on the matter at hand.

“What you have to do, Brick, is be direct,” he began. “You have to walk right up and ask ’em. What would it take to get some of that pussy? If they’re interested, they’ll tell you what it will take. If they’re not interested, they’ll let you know that, too.” A.J. immediately objected to this advice.

“Conley, that’s all wrong,” he said, glaring at Eugene. “What you have to do is be nice. Be polite. Maybe buy her some flowers.” Conley looked back and forth between his advisors. He was confused. A.J.’s method sounded promising, but there was no getting around Eugene’s impressive track record.

“Brickhead’s not wanting a girlfriend,” said Eugene. “He’s just wanting some of that thing. You’re going to mess him up, A.J.” Eugene was amused.

“No, a girlfriend would be okay,” Conley responded seriously. He had seen some pictures of that other business in a magazine and found it all a little hard to believe. But he was trying to take it on faith.

“What would it take to get some of that pussy?” Eugene intoned. “You listen to me, and I guarantee she’ll be crawling all over you.” Conley held both sides of his head, which was his way when presented with a quandary. He could only process so much information and was definitely in overload. He began to walk toward his car, still holding his head. A.J. walked with him.

“Eugene is full of shit,” he assured Conley. “Do what I told you to do, and you’ll be fine. If it doesn’t work out with Cyndi, don’t give up. It will work out with someone.” He patted Conley on his shoulder and sent him on his way.

Eugene was still chuckling when A.J. walked back up and slapped the beer bottle out of his hand. It crashed on the pavement, spilling warm, brown foam onto the road.

“How many times have I told you to leave him alone?” A.J. asked. They were nose to nose. The humor had left Eugene’s eyes.

“Fuck you, A.J. I was just having some fun. You know he’s not going to buy her flowers
or
ask her for any. Women are not for poor old Brickhead.” A hard tone entered his voice. “You owe me a beer. And the next time you pull this kind of shit, I’m going to have to hurt you.”

“Hurt me now,” A.J. said, pushing his shoulder. “Come on, Eugene. What would it take to get some of that ass?” They eyed each other a moment. Then the interlude passed, and the slow process of de-escalation began.

“You’re crazy,” Eugene said as he brushed past A.J. on the way to the newly acquired Lover.

“Leave Conley alone,” A.J. hollered at his back. “I don’t care who else you screw with, but leave Conley alone.”

The postscript to the evening’s events proved one of the pieces of advice had been valid and one had not. After much deliberation, Conley determined that A.J.’s suggestions would suffice. Stylistically, he was the Typhoid Mary of romance, but his heart was in the right place. Thus it was that Cyndi was inclined to kindness when Conley walked up to her and shoved a bouquet of slightly bent flowers into her arms. She smiled as he stood there, holding his head with both hands while inquiring about her health. She had known him since their childhood and knew him to be a harmless, gentle soul, one of the few she had encountered.

Cyndi’s lot in life up to that point had been to hoe the hard row. Her mother, Louise, was unparalleled in her ability to select marginal members of the male gender with whom to frolic, and the only positive result from her many unions was Cyndi. Cyndi’s father, Earl Hawkins, left for parts unknown via the Merchant Marine soon after impregnating Louise. He was a sensitive man, and had he known about his young wife’s condition he would have gone anyway, but he would have felt bad about doing it. Cyndi never knew him, and none of the misfits who took his place during her childhood made much of an impression on her, except to produce in her a general uneasiness about the male of the species. In retrospect, those were the good years, and they ended upon Louise’s marriage to Skim Murdock.

Skim was a man for whom the veneers of civilization held no appeal. He came to town with the county fair during the fall of Cyndi’s fourteenth year and elected to stay on when the fair slipped off a day early while Skim was passed out due to an excess of alcohol, cocaine, and two of the employees of the girlie show. During his tenure with the organization he had offended the sensibilities of an entire carnival, and they unanimously took their opportunity to cut and run when they saw it. When Louise and Cyndi arrived at the fairgrounds looking forward to a little fun, they found instead a large amount of garbage, a broken car from the Tilt-a-Whirl, and Skim, sitting on the ground eating a corn dog while wondering what in hell he was going to do now.

Louise cast her eyes upon this banished remnant of the rites of autumn and decided he was the finest man she had ever seen, which wasn’t saying much, considering what all she had seen. As usual, her instinct about men had failed. Louise was a moral woman, and all of the many souls who had visited her personal valley of paradise had first had to acquire title to the tract. So she married Skim Murdock in short order and moved him into her happy home, a well-kept trailer house sitting just across the Southern Railway line.

Cyndi had the misfortune to be an early bloomer, and by the time the honeymoon was over, Skim began to notice that she had flowered quite nicely, indeed. Unbeknownst to Louise, who worked the second shift over at the glove mill, Skim began to make improper advances upon Cyndi. Thus it came to pass that Cyndi was forced to gain carnal experience at the hands of her newest stepfather. Louise was blissfully unaware of the family dynamic she had created, so Cyndi determined her best course was to run away. Late one night right after she turned fifteen, Cyndi made her break. She had only walked about forty feet, however, when her small plan evolved into a grand scheme that held permanent solutions.

In front of her, the drunken and immobile form of Skim Murdock was draped across the Southern Railway line. He had apparently decided to have a few drinks before coming home and had been thirstier than he thought. Cyndi looked at her watch and noted that the coal train was due. Time being a luxury granted the young, she sat down, reached into her rucksack for a Coke, and calmly sipped while she waited. She loved trains and suspected she would absolutely adore this one. It was quiet except for the crickets and the snores of Skim. In the distance she heard the thrum of her salvation.

As the train neared its target, the victim began to stir. He was feeling the vibrations through the steel ribbons. The engines came around the bend and bathed his form in bright light. The engineer saw the body on the tracks and applied the brakes as he began to blow the horns repeatedly. The lights and noise roused Skim from his stupor, and he saw his predicament. Then he saw Cyndi, who appeared to be taking a drink of Coke.

“Goddamn it, girl, help me,” he roared at her as he attempted to gain his hands and knees. It has been noted that young girls do not always know their own minds, but Cyndi knew exactly what she wanted, and Skim knew it, too, as their eyes met for the final time. She reared back and chunked the Coke bottle at him, and he screamed when it hit his forehead. The scene was ghostly as the train slid past with horns blaring and sparks flying. Skim was frozen in the harsh glare, and then he was gone, given a boost down the highway to hell courtesy of Southern Railway, Jim Beam, Coca-Cola, and Cyndi.

The freight train finally stopped about a mile down the tracks. Most of Skim had reaped the whirlwind, but enough was found to bury, although pieces of an unlucky raccoon were irretrievably mixed in with him. Cyndi removed the Coke bottle from the small pile of remains before they were shoveled into the bucket. It was a keepsake marking the best time she had ever had with Skim. All in all, no one seemed to be much upset over the incident except Louise. Fortunately, she got over her loss fairly quickly with the help of a grave digger from Boaz who took a shine to her at Skim’s funeral based mostly on how nice she looked in those tight, white jeans. Time heals most wounds, and love will find a way.

Cyndi turned wild and acquired the reputation for being bountiful with her indulgences, a relative rarity in a culture where milk was seldom dispensed without prior cow purchase. So she was popular, but her full dance card brought her no joy. She was punishing Louise, God, and herself, but neither of the first two seemed to take much notice.

Cyndi’s salvation arrived in the form of a five-pound, seven-ounce baby girl whom she named Hope. She didn’t know who the baby’s father was, but it didn’t matter, because they were all pretty much the same anyway. What counted was her determination that the child never know the trials Cyndi had known. So she gave up her wanton ways and set about the business of raising her daughter.

And this was the new-and-improved Cyndi for whom Conley had set his cap, but he was making no headway. Although she was always nice to him, she seemed immune to his charms. He consulted A.J., who advised him to be patient, because these things take time. So Conley devoted more effort and ingenuity to the endeavor. Cyndi would come home to a freshly mown yard, and there would be Conley, head in hands, staring at his shoes. Gifts began to appear on her porch, dime-store luxuries he believed to be grand, and he was always available to carry groceries, take out the trash, or wash the car. Cyndi knew he had a crush on her, and although she in no way encouraged him, she was patient. She did not want to hurt his feelings and felt he would soon grow tired of pitching his woo. She was incorrect, for she did not understand the depth of the feelings he had for her.