Hadn’t seen one of these since Tristan Newberry dragged one into Fort Stockton behind a ’51 Cadillac Fleetwood Seventy-Five back in early 1952.

Well, it looked like a Fleetwood Seventy-Five. It was actually a short wheelbase GMC school bus chassis that had been re-bodied with the body and interior of a brand new Cadillac. Mr. Newberry demanded the very finest, particularly if it rode on wheels. Of the 1950 Westcraft Capistrano he used to say, “I got it for my wife. Best trade I ever made.”

When it came to finance and figures, he had no peer. When it came to travel, very few people knew that he actually had a fear of flying. The Cadillac pulling the Capistrano was the solution to that phobia. It was the best combination of business and pleasure he’d devised since his buxom traveling companion and masseuse received her CPA certificate.

He decamped the coach on a bluff overlooking a small private lake outside of town so that the sunsets could best be captured by the bank of windows flanking the burgundy leather couch, and made his way into town to meet with the city leaders. His white suit was as crisp as the Benjamins folded in his wallet and as southern as his dialect.

“Gentlemen,” he started, “there are two things coming our way that will revolutionize life as we know it, and right now is the time to prepare for both of them.”

Mayor Goodman and the others were on the edge of their seats.

“Air conditioning and interstates.” he whispered.

The assembled group sat back in their chairs, disappointed, as he thought they might be. But he had their attention.

“Within a few years there will be air conditioning in every car on the road, and every building you enter. With its centralized location, Fort Stockton is poised to be the next vacation destination for all of America if you have the vision to make it happen.”

He went on to explain that with year-round sunny weather coupled with his vision of a permanent amusement park surrounded by expensive hotels and restaurants, all connected by a futuristic monorail system, he could make Fort Stockton the entertainment capital of the Lone Star State. “Maybe the whole southwest region of the country. Maybe all of America. And those who get in early will be rich.” he implored.

Mayor Goodman saw dollar signs. Marv Townsend saw the possibility of the need for a second Piggly Wiggly location. Others weren’t so sure.

Those are the ones who received special invitations to the air conditioned cobalt Capistrano. They were served aged Kentucky bourbon in Waterford tumblers while they puffed on Cubans and admired the woodwork that was of a higher quality than that of the boardroom of the Prairie View State Bank in town.

Those who owned ranches that served as potential sites for the entertainment fantasy Mr. Newberry was selling were picked up by the chauffeured Cadillac Seventy-Five and delivered to the Capistrano coach while Mr. Newberry’s traveling companion sat next to him in the backseat and flipped through artist’s renderings of the park’s proposed features. Many of them wondered just what that ride would be like to experience.

In the end, it was not to be. By a vote of 5-4, the town council rejected the proposal. Four of the five that voted ‘nay’ couldn’t get past the fantasy of air conditioning in every car and building, much less the broader vision. One just kept saying, “Why would we ever need a second Piggly Wiggly?”

Next day, the Cadillac and the Capistrano coach pulled out of town. From the backseat, Tristan Newberry rolled down the window and wished them well as he took one last spin around the courthouse square. He mentioned he had an appointment in two days with someone in Anaheim that understood entertainment. “If it all works out, hell, we might put one in California and one in Florida!”

Hard to imagine such a thing. And what it would be like to enjoy an evening in a Capistrano coach.