“When the new boy gets here, he might not run so good,” said Luther Barnette. He had an ominous tone.
“He might run like a short pig in deep shit,” agreed Luther’s brother, Snake. He was a quiet man, and he had just doubled the number of words A.J. had ever heard him say at one stretch. There were grunts of approval and nods of assent throughout the room, as if they had all seen short pigs run and had liked what they had seen.
“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.