The Front Porch Prophet (8 page)

Clyde Cordele did not fare well on first shift. A smarter man would have acknowledged a near miss and vowed to change. But this sanity was beyond Clyde, and he never skipped a beat as he slammed into the day crew like a tidal wave. Ironically, Clyde’s ultimate downfall occurred over a set of circumstances eerily similar to those that had gotten him sent to day shift in the first place. Karma will find a way.

Not long after his arrival on his new shift, Clyde became enamored of Beatrice Beaufort England, a weaver otherwise known as Betty B. Although she in no way encouraged Clyde, he took every opportunity to present his attentions and to make a general nuisance of himself. This situation continued for some few weeks until the fateful day of Clyde’s professional and very nearly personal demise arrived.

On that day, Clyde finally became completely overwhelmed with desire and actually reached out and touched one of Betty B.’s breasts. No one would argue the fact that they were dandies, a point that formed the core of Clyde’s defense. But dandies or not, his urge constituted sexual harassment even by the extremely liberal standards of the textile industry of the day.

Betty B.’s husband, Rocky, was the day shift forklift driver, and he was not known for his tolerance where his wife’s breasts were concerned. When Howard Hoyt and Security arrived, Clyde was bound head to foot in a length of winding and was standing on a pallet raised ten feet in the air by Rocky’s forklift. There was a strip of heavy denim looped around Clyde’s neck, the other end of which was tied to a ceiling joist directly above. Rocky had decided to hang the scoundrel, which was better than he deserved, and Clyde had not handled this reversal of fortune well. Luckily, cooler heads prevailed, although it appeared at the time that Howard left Clyde standing on tiptoe somewhat longer than was absolutely necessary before he was cut down and fired. Rocky had to go to the regional hospital for an evaluation but was pronounced sane. He was allowed to come back to work with a write-up in his file and a stiff warning about hanging management.

As for A.J., he had enjoyed his fill of textiles and did not take advantage of the employment opportunity that Howard Hoyt had offered. Eugene urged A.J. to come help him run a little import business he had started, and A.J. was intrigued at first. But ultimately he took a pass when he discovered that Eugene’s fledgling enterprise consisted of high-speed runs in the Lover to Denver, where the old Chrysler was loaded with as many cases of Coors beer as it would hold for transport back to Cherokee County for resale at three times its purchase price.

“You’re missing the boat,” Eugene said in an exasperated tone when A.J. informed him that he appreciated the offer, but he felt he wasn’t cut out for the occupation. Instead, he hired on dragging slabs at a little sawmill down in the valley. The work was unpleasant but not intellectually demanding, so he had plenty of time to think. And what he thought about was Maggie.

IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON ON THE FOLLOWING SAT
urday when A.J. rolled into the clearing for his second visit with Eugene. He parked Johnny Mack’s old bulldozer next to Eugene’s Jeep, which had deteriorated appreciably during the previous week. He left his bat on the dozer and climbed down. He and Rufus had already enjoyed their reunion for the day, and it had gone poorly for Rufus. The big canine left the encounter visibly shaken, as if the sight of A.J. banging the Louisville Slugger against the track of the Cat while yelling
It’s showtime!
had upset him. A.J. had not intended to offend his foe’s sensibilities and almost certainly would have veered away before impact, but Rufus hightailed it before A.J. had the opportunity to explain. For a large dog, Rufus was extremely fleet of paw when the need was upon him.

It had taken most of the day to reclaim the road, and A.J. was tired. He walked slowly to the porch where Eugene sat, quietly rocking. The scene appeared much as it had the week before, with one notable exception. The Navy Colt lay on the cable spool with its barrel split and flared. The proud old gun’s Jeep, tree, and Fox shooting days were over. They had come to an end as all things eventually must, saddening A.J. in a way he could not readily explain. He sat down heavily next to Eugene, who was busy loading his replacement weapon of choice, a twelve-gauge pump shotgun that looked vaguely familiar.

“What did you do to Rufus?” Eugene asked conversationally. “He came tearing through here awhile ago like he was on fire.” He raised the shotgun and sighted down the barrel. “Pull,” he said. Then he shot the Jeep.

“Rufus doesn’t like the bulldozer,” A.J. explained, reaching for a beer in the cooler on the floor. “I may need to make Johnny Mack an offer on it.”

“Pull,” Eugene said, again shooting his faithful vehicle. “You need to quit scaring my dog like that. He might get skittish, and I like a dog to have plenty of spirit.”

“No problem. He’s loaded with spirit.” A.J. took a sip of his cold beer. “What happened to the Colt?”

“I guess it was too old to work for a living,” Eugene said. “It was a fine gun, and I hated to see it go.” He sounded melancholy. “Pull,” he continued, blasting away at the Jeep. “You want to take a crack at it?” he asked. “You used to be pretty good with this shotgun.” A.J. thought he had recognized it, and now he knew from where.

“Is that it?” A.J. asked, accepting the shotgun from Eugene. He hefted the gun and sighted down the barrel. “Yeah, this is it. I had almost forgotten about that night,” he said absently, remembering. He looked over at Eugene. “You nearly got us both killed.”

   “Killed? No. Seriously injured, maybe.”

“I should have just shot
you
,” A.J. said. “I could have told everyone it was an industrial accident.”

“An industrial accident with a shotgun?” Eugene asked dubiously.

“We were in Sand Valley, Alabama. I could have sold it.”

On the night in question, Eugene and A.J. were cruising the Lover across the state line in Alabama where, everyone knew, the romantic pickings were easy. They were young bucks at the time and accepted as hard scientific fact the supposition that Alabama girls put out. Alabama boys knew better and were all trolling in Georgia where, in theory, the damsels were waiting impatiently for love.

Eugene and A.J. rolled into Sand Valley around midnight, having heard about a set of twins living in that small town who were wild and could not be satisfied. The boys weren’t equipped with names or addresses, but such is the nature of the decision-making process when optimism and testosterone are involved. They were apparently of the impression that these girls would be at the outskirts of town, holding a sign written in lipstick that read:
FRISKY TWINS LOOKING FOR GEORGIA BOYS—NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY,
or something to that effect. Unfortunately, this had not occurred. Quicker Georgia boys seemed to have beaten them to it, so they ended up parked by the depot splitting a bottle of very cheap wine before they undertook the long ride home.

After they finished the bottle, A.J. stepped behind the depot for a moment to relieve himself. While he was indisposed, he began to hear strident conversation from the front of the depot. The discussions seemed urgent, but their raucous tone did not prepare him for the scene that greeted him when he returned to the Lover. There in the middle of the street was Eugene, engulfed by four of Sand Valley’s farm-raised, corn-fed finest.

The misunderstanding had occurred over remarks made by Eugene regarding the boys’ mamas and sisters. These comments had been good-natured jest, an icebreaker of sorts, but the boys took it all wrong and hostilities ensued. Eugene was briefly holding his own, but sheer weight of numbers was destined to bring his downfall. A.J. had to act quickly, so he reached into the Lover and removed Eugene’s old twelve-gauge pump shotgun from the back floorboard. He cocked and shot it in the air, twice. Then he aimed at the melee in the street. All was quiet in Sand Valley, Alabama.

“Let him up,” A.J. said. He was in deep water, but no better ideas had occurred to him, so he guessed he was stuck with the one he had. The largest of Eugene’s assailants disengaged himself from the pile and stood. He and A.J. recognized each other at the same moment.

“Longstreet,” he said, drawing the name out slowly like an incantation, his voice dark and full of menace. “You’re Longstreet.”

“Yeah, you big son of a bitch, I
know you,
too,” A.J. replied with his shotgun still leveled at the crowd. The other three continued to hold Eugene down. “I told you to let him up.” A.J. spoke in a quiet tone that in no way reflected the panic he was feeling.

He was on enemy turf facing Mayo Reese, who stood six-feet, six-inches tall and weighed about two-hundred eighty pounds on the hoof. They had encountered each other on one previous occasion, when Sequoyah met Sand Valley on the gridiron in a preseason exhibition arranged by their coaches. The match was semilegal since the teams were from different states, but Southern high school football coaches are entities unto themselves provided they posted winning seasons, and both coaches decided the game would be a good way to toughen the boys up.

They had squared off on a hot and humid August night. Sequoyah dressed out seventeen gladiators for the game including the three boys who never got to play, so it was another iron man night for A.J. and Eugene, offensive and defensive right guard and tackle. The Sequoyah Indians kicked off, and Sand Valley returned the ball to their own thirty-yard line. The trouble began on the first play from scrimmage. Big Mayo hit his stance about five yards behind the line, and when the ball snapped he lumbered straight for A.J. When he plowed into old number nine, A.J. knew he had been hit. To make matters worse, as he ran over A.J., he slugged him hard in the solar plexus. A.J. grabbed Mayo’s leg when he went by, and when the play was over he found himself under a pile of sweating, swearing country boys with Mayo on top of him biting his calf. A.J. knew he was in for a long game.

The first half was a study in pain, with A.J. doing everything he could think of to keep his opponent at bay. Even so, Mayo sacked the Sequoyah quarterback five times during the first half and spent most of the rest of his time chasing the beleaguered general all over the backfield.

“A.J., you’ve got to stop that motherfucker,” Booger Brown told him during one huddle. “He’s gettin’ here faster than the ball is.” Booger was the quarterback. Luckily, he was a fast one or he would have already been killed.

“I could shoot him,” A.J. growled, “but I’m afraid it would just piss him off.” He was in sad shape and not receptive to criticism.

Sequoyah was down twenty-eight points at halftime, and Coach Crider was not happy with the way the first two quarters had gone. “I don’t know what you pussies think you’re doing out there, but you’re damn sure not playing football! Hell, I could dress your
mamas
out and do better than this! This is the most pitiful excuse for a football game I’ve ever seen!”

Football was very important to Coach Crider. He had played professionally for two years with the Chicago Bears back in the days when a good lineman made twenty-five thousand a year and was proud to get the work. Unfortunately, he had received two torn ligaments in Cleveland and a bus ticket home shortly thereafter, which was how the pigskin used to bounce in the National Football League.

Homing in from the general to the specific, Coach Crider turned his attention to A.J. “Longstreet, just what the hell do
you’re
doing out there? I’ve seen legless nuns in wheelchairs hit harder than you’re hitting that damn hog.” A.J. was lying on his back on the floor wondering why he was playing football at all and where, exactly, Coach had seen legless nuns play. He supposed it was one of those Chicago things. His nose was smashed. His jersey was ripped, and his pads were hanging out. He had what felt like a cracked rib, and his arms were solid blue, just two long bruises. He was bleeding from several bites, and his left thumb was broken and taped to his hand. Mayo had beaten him like a drum.

“You want to go hit him?” A.J. asked wearily, holding up his helmet to the coach. He was beyond fear or caution, even with Coach Crider. He felt that nothing anyone could ever do to him again could possibly compare with what Mayo had already done. He had underestimated. Coach got down on his hands and knees and positioned his face about an inch from A.J.’s.

“Get your weak, sorry ass up and go out there and take that big piece of shit
out!
You get him, or you’ll be running laps until your feet are gone.” Coach had a dynamic effect on the boys, and they were always eager to please him. A.J. climbed to his feet and went and stood, uniform and all, under a hot shower, preparing himself mentally for one final attempt.

It was and is a Southern tradition to send adolescent boys to men like Coach Crider to learn to play the game of life. A.J. was not particularly
interested
in the game of life at that point, but neither was he yearning to run laps for the next three decades or so, and Coach was not prone to idle talk. After the kickoff for the second half, Sequoyah returned the ball to their own twenty-three-yard line. In the huddle, A.J. outlined his plan.

“Booger, take the snap and lie down. Eugene, hit him in the nuts as hard as you can. I’m going to hit him in the throat. If we’re lucky, he’ll die.”

It was a simple plan, but it had potential. The ball was snapped, and they executed Operation Mayo. He came thundering in, and A.J. and Eugene fired like cannonballs at their targets. Charlie Trammel, the Sequoyah center, got a mean elbow into Mayo’s kidney for good measure.

After the play, everyone got up but Mayo Reese. He was in the fetal position, vomiting while trying to swear at A.J. and Eugene. They were both standing there shaking their heads, as if it were just a darned shame the young athlete had been hurt and was now being dragged to the bench by his coaches. He wasn’t terminal, but he was out for the game. Unfortunately, so were A.J. and Eugene, thrown out for unsportsmanlike conduct. As they approached the bench, Coach Crider came up to them. They figured they were in for it for sure.