“There’s just too much to love about this ’55 Studebaker President,” Rusty said, holding up his iPhone.

“There hasn’t been anything to love about a President since Reagan,” Rex noted.

About then Lucinda stopped by to see if anyone was going to actually order anything, or if it was just another morning of maximum Maxwell House and minimal tips.

“Can I ask you something about the menu please?” New Guy asked her.

“The men I please are none of your business,” Lucinda retorted, “but there are enough of ‘em in Fort Stockton for you to get a first hand review, if you’re so inclined.”

Chad, on break from the Piggly Wiggly, just chuckled.

It wasn’t all that busy at the Grounds for Divorce, so Lucinda had plenty of time to push the sarcasm lever up to the next level.  Luckily, New Guy seemed to have thicker skin than the off-brand sausage links Lucinda serves with the Sunday Special, which is saying something.

“The world was a better place when there were three distinct colors, all on the same car, instead of three shades of silver across the entire line up,” noted Cornfield Dave.  “Black, white and red are glorious all together on this Studebaker.”

I don’t believe that’s what this Studebaker came with originally,” noted Rex from Rex Hall Drug, the pharmacy here in town.

“The same could be said of Lucinda’s bosom, but in both cases it was a worthy upgrade,” Brother Bob replied.

“A Cadillac V8 in a Studebaker President?” Chad asked.  “Might be an even better upgrade than the color scheme.  And a La Salle transmission.  What’s a La Salle?”

“Google it,” Pastor Peterson told him. His patience for millennials has been on the decline ever since he started the ‘Shepherding the Singles’ class over at Almost United Methodist Church. The efforts to slow the spread of online dating here in Fort Stockton may have backfired.

“Them are simulated.  Damn sure ain’t real, purdy as they may be,” Rusty said loudly.  Lucinda shot him a stern glance as she walked back to the kitchen.  He was quick to point out he was talking about the wire wheel covers on the Studebaker.  “I meant no disrespect.”

“I’d keep those seats exactly like they are.  Worn leather, diamond stitched.  They tell a story, I’ll bet,” Rex offered.

“Every car tells a story,” I remind him. “The seats are good for a few chapters by themselves.”

Lucinda refills everyone’s Captain My Captain coffee mugs. New Guy takes a second look at the Studebaker. Sits back in his chair. Gazes up at the ceiling for a moment. “Pretty sure I recognize this one,” he says.

Funny how many cars on Bring a Trailer have a history that can somehow be traced back to Fort Stockton.  It’s uncanny.

“Monroe ‘Mad Man’ Montgomery used to race one just like this over in Marfa. The hood scoops give it away. I remember an uncle telling me stories of trying to pull Mad Man over for speeding once. Uncle Jerry said he was driving a new ’59 Chevrolet Biscayne police cruiser. Said Mad Man put the pedal to the floorboard in the President and left him in the dust,” New Guy said.

“Not the last time a President got away with a crime,” Lucinda casually observed.  “Or several.”

“Now that you mention it,” Sister Thelma said, “I vaguely remember Mad Man Montgomery from back in the day.  Whatever happened to that crazy ol’ coot?”

Luckily, New Guy has an impeccable memory and a penchant for detail.  “Back in 1962 he was out on his porch, getting some fresh air, having a cold beer while the family watched that week’s episode of Bonanza.  They’d just got a new portable TV down at the White Auto Store with Mad Man’s disability check.”

It’s slow enough that even Lucinda has pulled up a chair and is listening to New Guy tell the story.

“That’s when he saw an armadillo rooting in his garden between the rows of sweet Vidalia onions and mustard greens.  Nothing made Man Man Montgomery madder than something messin’ with his mustard greens,” New Guy explains.  “He goes into the house and comes back out with his Winchester Model 67 bolt action .22 caliber rim fire rifle, squeezes off a single round, and hits the pesky vermin right in the middle of his massive shell.”

At this point we’re all entranced.  Nobody is getting a refill till this story is over.

“This is where the story gets interesting. The bullet ricochets off the armadillo. You can’t kill an armadillo with a .22, their shells are like armor,” New Guy says. “Bouncing off the armadillo, the bullet changes trajectory and hits the Studebaker on the chrome piece between the hood and the grill. Right above the ‘R’. Leaves a ding and changes direction again.”

Sister Thelma glances at her watch.

“In less than a heartbeat, the bullet goes right through the thin aluminum skin of the Montgomery mobile home and into the back of the BarcaLounger his mother-in-law is sitting in waiting for Bonanza to come back from a commercial break featuring the new lineup of 1962 Chevrolets.  It stopped just a fraction of an inch shy of her aorta,” New Guy tells us.

“What happened to the Speedster?” Chad asked.

I found that to be an insensitive question, given the uncertain disposition of the mother-in-law at this point in the story.  Then I remembered some of the stories Chad had shared about Prudence’s mother.

“They impounded the Studebaker President Speedster as evidence,” New Guy said.  “But they let him keep the Winchester.”

“This is Texas, after all,” Lucinda noted.

In Southwest Texas law enforcement circles, the case became known as the ‘Magic Bullet Theory’, but only for a year. After 1963 they called it ‘Mad Man’s Mother-In-Law’, not to confuse it with the other, more famous, Texas event .

About then, the phone rang behind the counter, next to the cash register.  It was the Piggly Wiggly, wanting to know if Chad was still there.  The work of an Assistant Manager is never done.

I had so many questions.  But New Guy slipped out behind Chad, leaving them unanswered.

Life is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.  Or stuffed in the trunk of a Studebaker, in this particular case.