The Front Porch Prophet

CHAPTER 6

A.J.’S WALK WITH MAYHEM WAS ANCIENT HISTORY, but it had taken center stage in his consciousness when Eugene had chosen to refer to the incident, and A.J. had been in a foul frame of mind ever since. His mood remained sour until the following Wednesday, when he was summoned to the mill for an early meeting. At that point, his disposition really decayed. He normally reported at 4:00 p.m. and turned logs into boards until 2:00 a.m. the following morning. He called it the Bermuda Shift, because many hapless souls had wandered onto it over the years, never to be seen again. He was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee with John Robert when the phone call came.

“A.J., there’s a meeting at two o’clock,” said Marie Prater. She had been an institution at the sawmill for many years. “You have to be here.” Marie was John McCord’s secretary, and John McCord was president and general manager of McCord Lumber. She was a formidable woman, seldom wrong and rarely challenged. Her husband, Randall, was disabled, having suffered from a bad back since about the time he was old enough to perform any work. This affliction was hereditary and had stricken his father and grandfather, and others before that. Marie’s children-four teenaged boys with bad backs-amazed A.J., because he could not envision Randall expending the energy necessary to father them. In truth, none of the boys favored Randall much, and one of them was the spitting image of John McCord, so perhaps Marie had been forced to make other arrangements.

“What’s the meeting about?” A.J. asked, still groggy. The previous evening’s sawmill outing had been challenging, and he hadn’t been up long. He hated early meetings and had pointed out on numerous occasions that if they were periodically scheduled for 3:00 a.m., then the day staff would be afforded equal opportunity to come in a couple of hours early. This suggestion had yet to be acted upon.

“I’m not supposed to say, but what the hell?” Marie replied. “John sold the mill. The new owners want to meet all the supervisors and managers.” Rumors had been flying around the mill for weeks that a large lumber conglomerate was eyeing the property, and A.J. felt a stir of apprehension. The scuttlebutt had apparently been well-founded.

“Oh, shit,” he said into the phone.

“You’d be surprised how many times I’ve heard that in the last couple of hours,” was her reply. “Oh, hell, and goddamn have also been popular. All of you boys need to be watchin’ that language.” Marie was teasing A.J. in an attempt to lighten the moment. She was known throughout the Southeast and in three foreign ports for her richly descriptive turn of phrase.

“Sorry about that, Marie,” A.J. replied. “You know I don’t think of you as a woman at all. You’re just one of the guys to me.” His mind was on the news she had imparted.

“Thanks a lot. Two o’clock,” she said before hanging up. A.J. took a swig of coffee and sat quietly, thinking. Although the news at face value was not necessarily bad, he had a feeling that it would turn out to be so. He didn’t know a great deal about Big Business, but he knew enough to realize he had just made the transition from big fish in a small lake to small fish in the middle of the ocean, if he was lucky, and dead fish in the creel if he was not. He turned to John Robert, who was watching him.

“McCord sold the sawmill,” he told his father. “I have to go in to see who owns me now.” John Robert digested the information for a moment.

“Well, he’s older than I am,” he offered. “I guess it’s time for him to retire.”

“Hell, he’s already rich,” A.J. said. “Why does he want to be richer?”

“Don’t get upset until you know what you’re dealing with,” John Robert replied while refilling A.J.’s cup. “These new people will know a good man when they see one. You’ll land on your feet.”

John Robert had moved in with A.J. and Maggie six years previously after suffering a near-fatal heart attack. Luckily he had been in town and not somewhere out on the back forty when the bell tolled, so help was quick to arrive when he keeled over while having a cup of coffee and a couple of collision mats down at The Meek Shall Inherit the Chili-Mac Drive-In.

“That heart attack should have killed him,” Doc Miller told A.J. when they met in the emergency room in Chattanooga, the location of the nearest hospital of consequence. He seemed shaken. “His heart stopped on the way here in the ambulance. All you could hear was that long, steady tone coming from the monitor. Before I could do anything, and believe me, I was moving fast, his own fist slammed into his chest, and he yelled No! I’ll be damned if his heart didn’t start beating again.” Doc shook his head. “I’ve been a doctor for fifty years, and I’ve seen a lot in my time. But I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Nobody tells John Robert what to do,” was A.J.’s reply as he watched his father through the glass of the ICU. “Not even God.”

John Robert’s recovery was slow, and he almost died again during the bypass surgery that followed his attack. It was the surgeon’s skill rather than his own stubbornness that saved him that time, although to hear John Robert tell it, the man had nearly done him in. This trace of acrimony was due to a talk the doctor had with John Robert that was not altogether to the elder Longstreet’s liking. During the conversation, the physician extracted a promise from John Robert that the Pall Mall he was currently smoking would be his last. This was no small demand to make upon a man who had thoroughly enjoyed the two packs a day he had smoked for the last half century. The doctor explained that anything less than full compliance would be fatal. John Robert eyed him coolly for a moment. Then he stubbed out the item in question in a handy potted plant and quit on the spot.

Having survived two brushes with death and the loss of his favorite and perhaps only vice, John Robert should have been out of the forest. But he had one last blow to sustain. Upon his release with a clean bill of health, he and A.J. sat down on a cold winter afternoon and tallied the medical bills that had been piling up in the knife drawer for two months during John Robert’s convalescence. Life is cheap in many instances, but in John Robert’s case the price of continued existence was in excess of one hundred thousand dollars, not small change except to those who spend the public monies.

A.J. called Charnell Jackson to seek financial advice. Charnell was the only lawyer in Sequoyah and one of John Robert’s oldest friends. They had been boys together, and John Robert hadn’t held it against Charnell when he had chosen to read the law. Charnell looked over the debts and viewed the available assets. Then he advised John Robert to file for bankruptcy. John Robert’s reaction was negative, as if he had been advised to kick a good dog.

“I’m not broke,” he said. “I have a little money in the bank, and I own the farm outright.”

“The point is not what you have, John,” was Charnell’s patient reply. “The point is what you get to keep.”

“The point is, I owe the money. They did their part, and now I have to do mine.” He was quiet for a moment before rendering his decision. “Charnell, see if you can find a buyer for the farm. It ought to more than cover what I owe. Fix it so I can keep title to the cemetery plot and always have use of the road up to it. I’ll need to tend to Rose and Mama.” He looked at A.J. “I’m sorry about your inheritance.”

“I already have a house, John Robert, and I can’t farm for shit.” He smiled at his father, trying to make him feel better. “You’re doing me a favor.”

“When the farm sells, I’d like to come stay with you and Maggie. At least for a while.” A.J. was surprised John Robert had even brought it up; he and Maggie had been trying to talk him into moving in with them since Granmama had passed away.

Thus it came to pass that John Robert retired from farm life. The day after the farm sold, he arrived at the Folly with a truckload of belongings and was quickly incorporated into the household. A.J and Maggie had the impression John Robert was simply coming to live with them, but the elder Longstreet had more than mere occupancy in mind. The house was spotless before the first week was over, and three square meals per day began to grace the table. Maggie and. A.J. protested that he needed to relax and enjoy his golden years, but John Robert paid scant heed. Jobs that A.J. had been putting off were completed. John Robert washed windows, waxed floors, painted cabinets, mowed the yard, and did the shopping. He even dispatched the venerable repository known as the sewing barrel, into which many a torn item had been placed and forgotten.

“If I had known this,” Maggie observed one Saturday, “I’d have peeled you off years ago and married John Robert.”

“If I had known this,” came A.J.’s reply, “I would have burned the farm and given you away at the wedding.” He paused. “But I still make better lumber than he does.”

“Of course you do,” she replied, patting his leg absently as she turned the page of the book she was reading.

But all of that was long ago and far away, and A.J. was thinking of none of it as he prepared to depart for work to meet the new owners. He told John Robert to brief Maggie on what was up when she arrived, gave J.J. a kiss, and headed out into the wild, bad world, which was licking its chops as it awaited his arrival.

As was his custom, A.J. was working up to an agitated state, although his calm exterior gave no hint. He did not like uncertainty or change. He was a pessimist by nature, so by the time he drove into the sawmill parking lot, he had succeeded in losing all objectivity concerning the upcoming meeting. As he left the truck, he considered taking the Slugger with him in case he encountered a snake or two at the meeting. But he rejected the notion in favor of going for that good first impression.

A.J. had an itchy spot between his shoulder blades when he entered the conference room. He noticed the rest of the staff members were already there, looking nervous. John McCord was sitting in the front of the room with three somber men wearing nice suits. John wore blue jeans, as did the remainder of the attendees. The most solemn of the three newcomers looked pointedly at his watch as A.J. sat down. He was on time, but arriving fashionably early had apparently become a new company standard during the last couple of hours, and no one had informed him.

He had a bad feeling about the man with the watch. He leaned over and whispered to Ellis Simpson, his counterpart over at the planer mill. “I bet you five he’s wearing red suspenders to match that tie.”

“Shut up, A.J.,” Ellis hissed back. “This shit is serious.” Ellis had the habit of squinting one eye when he spoke, like Popeye. He was a good supervisor, and he, his nine children, and his wife, Raynell, all liked to eat three times a day.

“Boys,” John McCord began, “I have sold the sawmill, and I am retiring. The man to my left is Mr. Ralph Hunter. He is vice president in charge of lumber operations for Alabama Southern. You now work at that corporation’s fifteenth sawmill. They also own four plywood factories, a particleboard mill, two paper mills, and three chip mills. They are the big dogs. I believe Mr. Hunter has a few words to say.”

As John McCord sat down, his gaze met A.J.’s, and in that instant, A.J. knew. John looked old, and he looked tired, but more than that, he looked guilty. McCord averted his eyes quickly, but the truth had been revealed. A.J. realized with certainty his saw-milling days were drawing to a close. He grasped that a long career with Alabama Southern was not ahead. What he did not yet know was how he felt about that.

Ralph Hunter removed his jacket before addressing the troops. His red suspenders gleamed, and the way A.J. saw it, Ellis Simpson now owed him five dollars, although collection might prove difficult.

“Gentlemen, I bid you a good afternoon, and welcome to Alabama Southern,” he began. His manner was brisk, his voice atonal. He was looking no one in the eye, which in A.J.’s opinion was a bad sign.

“As Mr. McCord has indicated,” Hunter continued, “Alabama Southern is a diversified corporation whose primary focus lies in the direction of responsible fiber usage. We are a Fortune 500 company. We believe in the optimum interplay of our natural and human resources, which, when combined with strong strategic support from upper management and modernization of our physical facilities, guarantees our continued success as a leader in our industry.”

A.J. believed that holding a man to his word was difficult if he spoke in code. He looked around the room. Half the boys were clearly lost, and John McCord was looking at the tops of his shoes. He looked up, and A.J. was staring at him with intensity. John looked back down at his brogans. He had started the mill from scratch forty years ago and had labored hard and long to make it fly. He expected hard work and loyalty, and he paid well for good employees. He had always favored A.J. because he got the job done. Actually, A.J. reminded McCord of himself in his younger days. And A.J. had always liked and respected John, but he didn’t like him all that much today.

“At Alabama Southern, we believe that management is a team concept,” Hunter droned on. “Some of you in this room have achieved exceptional results.” He was looking at A.J., who looked right back. “Others in this room seem to be struggling.” This time he was looking at Harry Ford, who looked like he wished he were elsewhere and who most likely would be before long. “Regardless of how each of you is currently performing, let me make myself clear about your status. You will be scheduled to meet with Mr. Kramer, our human resources manager.” He gestured to the pallid individual sitting to his left. “He will interview you, and based on the outcomes of those interviews, you may be offered employment.” A.J. took a long look at Mr. Kramer, who appeared to be a humorless soul. Ralph Hunter continued. “You will each be interviewed, and it is my hope you all will be offered continued employment at Alabama Southern Number Fifteen. Mr. McCord has spoken highly of you all and has recommended to me that you all be retained. I have noted his suggestion, and we shall see what we shall see. Are there any questions?” There were probably no more than five or six thousand potential queries, but anonymity had become suddenly attractive and no hands were raised.

This was a group of men who had made money for John McCord over the years by running his business well. They were all family men with many obligations and had paid their dues the hard way. To A.J., the current situation had an odor about it that made sitting in the room an effort. He took another long look at Kramer. Then A.J. shrugged. He wasn’t going to survive the purge anyway, so he raised his hand. He hated set pieces. They tended to get his dander up. He believed that people’s lives were more than file folders and numbers on balance sheets.

“For those of us who don’t get offers, what do we take with us?” A.J. asked quietly.

“All of this will be covered by Mr. Kramer in the interviews,” Mr. Hunter began, “but in general it will work like this. Whether you stay or move on, each of you will receive your vested retirement in the form of a lump sum settlement. For those of you who leave, Mr. McCord has insisted upon an additional ten-thousand-dollar settlement, which I have approved. I understand he intends to match that figure out of his own funds, for a total of twenty thousand dollars on top of the retirement settlement. Those of you hired by the company will be started at the pay rate paid for new hires at your particular job levels. Unfortunately, this will result in a substantial pay cut for any man who is hired, which may be offset somewhat by our excellent benefit package. Your current health and life insurance will remain in effect for a ninety-day period. This will allow any of you who might be leaving time to make other arrangements. Those who stay will be covered under the company plan. I think this addresses the basic points of your question.”

A.J. was a bit surprised. The severance package was awfully sweet and seemed to offer a healthy bonus to anyone with enough sense to simply walk away. In all probability, it would be getting a lot of use. He raised his hand again. Ellis kicked him under the table.

“What factors will you look at when deciding who will be employed?” Ellis kicked A.J. again, harder this time. He continued. “The mill has exceeded production goals five out of the last six years. Everyone in this room is a professional. What else could possibly matter?” Ellis didn’t kick A.J. this time, and all eyes were on Ralph Hunter. Hunter’s eyes were on A.J.

“You men certainly know how to make lumber, and plenty of it,” Hunter began. “This will be taken into account. In addition, we have other requirements with respect to our supervisory personnel. But we will leave all of this in the able hands of Mr. Kramer. For now, we will adjourn. Some of you have shifts in progress, and a supervisor’s first job is to supervise. So let’s get at ’em.” Hunter had tried to be one of the boys with his last statement, but he simply wasn’t up to the task. A.J. hoped he would hire one of the real boys to be hale and hearty for him, because the need would occasionally arise and most or all of the group would need the work.

“Mr. Simpson, I wonder if you would mind meeting me in the personnel office?” asked Mr. Kramer, although it wasn’t really a question at all. Ellis froze. Then he looked at A.J., who was a little surprised that the weeding process was beginning so soon.

“Welcome to the Fortune 500, Ellis,” A.J. said softly. “Show them what you’ve got.” He slugged his friend on the shoulder. Ellis left looking worried, his thoughts no doubt consumed by visions of nine hungry children without shoes watching their mama, Raynell, working her fingers to the bone taking in ironing. A.J. thought they should have at least offered him a blindfold and a cigarette. He hoped maybe they were starting with the ones they were keeping, but in his heart of hearts he knew it wasn’t so.

“Mr. Longstreet, can I have a minute of your time?” Ralph Hunter asked, and again, it really wasn’t a question at all. The room had cleared out. “There are some things we need to discuss.” A.J. was certain that the hardball was about to begin. They were moving him up to the head of the line. It was a compliment, really, like shooting the rogue steer first so the rest of the herd would be easier to control.

“Mr. Longstreet,” Ralph began, briskly flipping through the pages in front of him in a businesslike manner. “According to the information I have been provided, your shift has exceeded its production goals by substantial margins ever since you began your supervisory duties on night shift.”

“Yes,” A.J. commented.

“Additionally, your absentee rate is lower than industry average and none of your employees have ever suffered a serious injury.” Hunter put his papers down and looked across the table at A.J. He leaned back and lit a cigarette. “How do you do it?” he asked.

“How many of the men who just left this room are going to be offered jobs?” A.J. countered. “I know I’m history, but what about the rest?” It was very quiet in the room.

“You will be offered a position, Mr. Longstreet,” Ralph Hunter answered. A.J. couldn’t believe it. There had to be a catch. Hunter continued. “Alabama Southern does not plan to offer any of the others salaried jobs. They will all be given the choice of leaving or filling hourly positions in the mills. Monetarily, those who move on will do quite well. Those who stay will be able to make a living. I believe I am correct in my understanding that they all promoted up from the ranks in the first place, as you did. We will fill the slots they vacate with excess supervisory staff from our other locations. All veterans, all more qualified.” A.J. had to give Hunter credit. He hadn’t blinked. He apparently had more than a little of the rough stuff under his belt, which was no doubt why the Lumber Executives had sent him on this mission. It was why Ralph got the ham hock in his beans.

“Well, you were honest,” A.J. admitted. “The problem is, I can’t think of a more qualified group. What are you looking for that they don’t have? Why are you offering them all twenty thousand dollars to leave? They know how to make this mill run. They know the machines and the employees. Why don’t you want them?” A.J. had made his pitch.

“We require that all members of management have a college degree,” Ralph Hunter replied. “None of your co-workers has a degree, and three of them did not graduate high school. Additionally, we have historically had less than satisfactory results when we assimilated an existing supervisory staff. It just does not work out. As you pointed out, we are making leaving a very attractive option. We do try to be fair about these things. And any who stay will not be singled out. There will be no hit list, unless, of course, the job performance is not satisfactory, which is sometimes the case in demotion situations. To keep all of this in perspective, you need to remember that we could simply fire you all on the spot. No options, no money, no anything.” A.J. knew he had a point.

“I have a college degree,” A.J. replied, “and it isn’t worth a damn down in the mill. It didn’t get me the job, and it hasn’t helped me keep it.”

“We have our requirements,” said Ralph Hunter. “And I disagree with your statement that your degree has not helped you. In spite of your antagonistic demeanor throughout this meeting-which I understand and sympathize with, incidentally, whether you believe it or not-I would like to offer you employment.” The words hung there.

“If you’re dumping everyone else,” A.J. finally said, “I guess I’m gone, too. I can’t be the only one who gets out alive. Get the checks ready.” A.J. hated to have to make the decision, but he knew it was the right thing to do. He did not have what it took to make a side deal, and he simply did not like Ralph Hunter, even though, as Ralph had pointed out, they could have canned everyone outright. He hoped Maggie would understand.

“You misunderstand,” Hunter said. “I’m not offering you your old job. I do think, however, that you may be the man we’re looking for to fill a training position we’re creating. We need someone who knows the facility and the people to work with our new supervisors and bring them up to speed. That is the job I am offering to you. It will be a temporary position, but it could last as long as a year, depending on how things go.” A.J. wasn’t quite sure he had heard correctly. From the moment he had walked in the door, he knew he was going to be fired. He knew his reputation as unsecured artillery had preceded him. He had thought the best he would be able to manage would be to exit with dignity. Then Ralph Hunter had offered up the ultimate insult. A.J. slid back his chair and stood. He looked over at John McCord.

“Did you know about this, John?” He stared at McCord, who appeared to be inspecting the wood grain on the tabletop.

“Mr. McCord and I discussed the idea earlier today,” Ralph said. “He told me that you would decline. I believed you might accept. The possibility exists that opportunities might be found for you at other facilities if the transition period here goes smoothly.”

“I told him that you would tell him to stick it,” John McCord commented, still inspecting the furniture.

“You told him right,” A.J. said, turning to Hunter. “Stick it, Ralph. I’m not interested, and I won’t go back to working hourly in the mill. I’ll make room for the new talent.” A.J.’s mind had been in a small cloud, but now he was clear as a bell. It was time to move on. “When do I get my money?” he asked.

“Mr. Kramer will be handling the details of all the severance packages,” Hunter said. “Until such time as he deals with your case, you are expected to continue your usual duties.” Hunter cleared his throat and directed a stern look in A.J.’s direction. “The very generous exit settlements we are offering are contingent upon your best efforts until you go. Negative actions such as production sabotage, work slowdowns, or attempts to sway hourly opinion against Alabama Southern will result in termination without benefits.”

John McCord grimaced. A.J. gazed coolly at Ralph.

“Ralph,” A.J. began, “you’ve insulted me twice now, and we’ve barely met. You are at your limit.” Hunter lowered his eyes. Strangely, A.J. wasn’t too upset. There were other jobs. He had begun to savor the freedom that came with unsalvageable situations. He headed for the door, thinking it had been a mistake, after all, to leave the bat in the truck.

When he entered the mill he was met by Ellis Simpson and Harry Ford. Harry handed a cup of coffee to A.J. and they walked out onto the log deck to lean up on a railing and discuss their troubles. A.J. was surprised to see Ellis was through interviewing with Kramer. It appeared that quick and clean was the Alabama Southern way. Ellis spoke.

“I’ve worked at this sawmill for nineteen years, and do you want to hear what job Kramer offered me? Laborer, that’s what! I am forty-seven years old. I can’t go back to pumping a shovel ten hours a day for $6.90 an hour. I haven’t been screwed this good since my wedding night.”

Ellis did have a small safety net of sorts. Raynell had a separate income as owner, manager, and sole employee of Raynell’s Klip and Kurl. She plied her trade out of a small salon built with McCord lumber acquired piecemeal over time. Raynell gave a bad haircut but did a brisk business nonetheless, particularly among older gentlemen, due to her seemingly unintentional habit of poking an ample breast into the eye of the haircutee at least twice per session. So the Simpson family wouldn’t starve, but neither would they be spending many sleepless nights worrying about the best investment strategies for their surplus revenues.

“What about you, A.J.?” Harry asked. He had not yet had his interview and held a touch of hope. “What did they say to you?” Harry was a mediocre performer but a very nice guy. He was employed for the sole reason that John McCord liked him and did not have the heart to put him on the street. His title was special manager, and his duties included making coffee and saying “Yes, John.”

A.J. knew that Harry was doomed even though he made great coffee. Hunter had plenty of college boys with more seniority to brew for him, men who would brew loyally.

“They offered me a job I couldn’t take, just like they did Ellis.” Harry looked dejected. A.J. merely shrugged. There was no way to soften the blow. “Boys, we’re all screwed. They don’t want us.”

“So you’re taking the money?” asked Ellis.

“I’m taking the money,” A.J. replied as he threw his empty coffee cup onto a pile of bark. He hoped the action didn’t constitute production sabotage. “My advice is keep your mouth shut, hang on long enough to get your check, and give them the finger on the way out the gate.” He sighed. It was very strange, but he realized he was going to miss the place. He stuck his hands in his pockets and headed on in. He had at least one more shift to run.