Paul Dillon was stopping by The Grounds for Divorce for a cuppa coffee.

It was early on a Saturday. Most people in Fort Stockton were still asleep, except the paperboy delivering the weekend edition of the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch. Paul had waited for the kid to drive by on his red Schwinn Panther III and toss the paper on the front porch. Of course the little bastard was late. “When I had a paper route, my ol’ man made sure I was out of the house before 5:00 AM, just to be sure everybody got the news before they left for work,” he thought to himself. “The Old Man may have been tough, but so were the times. Made me a better man, growing up with a little discipline.”

As he finished the thought, the paper sailed past him and into the boxwood bushes in front of the porch. “Son of a bitch!” Dillon thought to himself. “If I’d have ever put the paper in the bushes, I’d have doubled back and dug it out. Laid it right on the welcome mat. I’m paying good money for that paper to be on my porch when I open the door, and not get my Hush Puppies muddy in the flowerbed, retrieving it from the damned bushes,” he said under his breath. “I need to tell Nelda not to give that kid a buck at Christmas this year.”

The Telegram-Dispatch was laid on the porch railing while Dillon slipped on the sport coat he wore on weekends, making sure his pipe was in the breast pocket, along with enough Sir Walter Raleigh tobacco for a smoke before lunch. The paper went under his arm and he walked briskly out to the ’56 Buick Roadmaster sitting in the driveway, just off the front porch. As he slid in, he wondered to himself why he was even trading the Roadmaster in. “It’s been a damn fine car, really no need,” he thought. Then he remembered the reasons. He was approaching retirement age. Needed to get one last new car in before then. Get it paid off. Make it last through the Golden Years. But he loved the Roadmaster and hated to see it go. It was as much for Nelda as anything. She’d been a good wife for forty years. She deserved a new car, though she rarely got behind the wheel herself, anymore.

Settling in the corner booth at The Grounds for Divorce and opening up the paper, he soon wished he’d left it in the boxwoods where the little bastard had thrown it. Kennedy had made the country look foolish with the whole Bay of Pigs fiasco. “Ike woulda never let that happen,” he told Krystal as she filled his cup. “That kid’s wet behind the ears.” Krystal just nodded, the bacon burning in the back taking precedence over anything happening in Washington, Cuba, or anywhere else.

By the time she brought out his pancakes, the newspaper had worked him up into a lather. “He’s advising us all to build bomb shelters in our own backyards!” Dillon said. “Can you image that? I didn’t fight for thirty-two months in the godforsaken Pacific to build a bomb shelter in my own back yard. What the hell has this country come to?”

She brought over the syrup from the next table. “I think he looks like a movie star.”

“Good gawd almighty,” he muttered. He threw down a buck for a tip when he finished his pancakes. Then picked it up and put two quarters down. Krystal’s ignorance and apathy had just cost her a quarter each. Dillon bristled at the fact that sales tax was added to the bill, Texas having begun the practice beginning that year. “Washington wants a bomb shelter in my backyard. Austin wants a cut of my pancakes. Can’t turn around without backing into a bureaucrat.”

Getting back in the Roadmaster and heading to Buckboard Buick, Dillon pondered why he wasn’t more excited about getting a new car. It used to be one of the highlights of life. He’d spend hours reading magazines and comparing models, always winding up with a new Buick. This time it was more like a chore. It stirred no emotion at all. “It’s for Nelda,” he said outloud, as though anyone could hear. His mind wondered to the night before. How they’d made love upstairs after watching Perry Mason. He wondered how many times they had made their way up those same stairs, locking the bedroom door behind them, even though the house had been empty for two decades. He reflected on the fact that it took him all night to do once, what he used to do all night. Shook his head back and forth slightly. “Everything changes,” he whispered to himself. “Requires more effort.”

Ken Knight was waiting for him at the dealership when he pulled the Roadmaster up to the front entrance. New salesman. The salesman Dillon had traded with for years retired in ’59. He’d sent Dillon this new kid’s card for when he was ready to trade in the Roadmaster. Dillon thought the kid looked like he was twelve, but Ken had actually been at the dealership nearly nine years.

Ken had done his homework on Paul Dillon. He knew everything about the last four Buicks Dillon had purchased. He’d been told Mr. Dillon was a “Straight to the point” kind of guy. He always bought nice cars, not necessarily the most expensive, certainly not he least. He’d had the lot boy bring four new ‘61s over to the parking lot right next to the showroom. Lined up were a couple sedans, a coupe, and a convertible. He had the top down on the Laguna Blue Invicta convertible, just for a little dramatic effect, but he knew Dillon would go for one of the sedans. Men his age always did.

Did you hear about The Wall?” Dillon asked the kid as he shook the his hand. Ken didn’t have even the slightest idea what Mr. Dillon was asking him.

“Sir?” he said.

Walking over to the hardtop coupe, Dillon said, “The damn Ruskies are building a wall in Germany. Separating East and West. Won’t be long before we’re having to fight those bastards just to make Europe free all over again.” Dillon looked over the new ‘61 model Buicks. They looked absolutely nothing like his Roadmaster. The Roadmaster suddenly looked like it was fifteen years old, instead of five.

Ken pointed him in the direction of the sedan, and away from Europe.  “Brand new styling this year.  Space-Age.  Nothing else like it on the road.”

“Good Lord, it looks like it has missiles on the front of it. Like a rocket from the side. Everywhere I look is rockets and missiles these days,” Dillon noted. “Is this a Roadmaster? Looks nothing like the one I’m trading in. I’ve always liked the ’56 Roadmaster I bought here last time. Damn fine automobile.”

“The last Roadmaster was sold in 1958, Sir,” Ken carefully explained.  “Buick changed all the model names in ’59.”

“Oh yeah,” Dillon noted. “I remember hearing that.” He thought to himself it was just one more change that didn’t need to be made. Just what the hell does ‘Invicta’ even mean? ‘Roadmaster’ carries some weight. Some respect. LeSabre? Electra? Please.

Nothing about the ’61 models looked like his Roadmaster. Nothing. He walked right past the sedan. Then past the coupe. He peered down into the convertible. Looked like a jet aircraft on the inside, just like it did on the outside. Seemed like there was more plastic than the Roadmaster had. Nonetheless, he thought about Nelda sitting inside the Laguna Blue convertible. She’d look damn good on the multi-toned blue bench seat. It made him think about the finer moments of last night for a minute. A grin broke out on his face. Ken had no idea what to make of it. “What are you thinking, Sir?”

“None of your damn business, kid!” Dillon shot back.  “I’ll take this one.  Write it up.”

That wasn’t at all what Ken expected, but Dillon reminded him of his dad, and hid dad was full of surprises, too. They went inside to do the paperwork, passing a new girl at her desk inside the dealership. “This is Sandra,” Ken said. “She’ll be guiding you through the sales agreement.” Dillon tried to grasp the idea of a woman selling cars, or having to do anything with the process. He sat down and waited with the same apprehension he had during his last prostate exam.

“The Laguna Blue Invicta convertible?” Sandra said, trying to hide her shock. “That is one attractive automobile. You will look dashing behind the wheel.” Dillon couldn’t help but notice that Sandra had more than a passing resemblance to Nelda when they’d first met at a high school dance, forty-five years ago.

“Thanks. What in the hell is that?” he said looking down at the contraption on Sandra’s desk.

“It’s an IBM Selectric. The newest thing in typewriters. Just came out. Sleek, isn’t it?”

“You mean there’s a golf ball that spins around for each letter, each time?” he said.

“Exactly. Most modern, up to the date technology there is,” Sandra explained.

“You don’t worry about that thing flying off and hitting a customer upside the head?” Dillon asked. “It could put their eye out.” Sandra just chuckled and thought how cute old guys were. Whatever happened to contracts written in cursive and sealed with a handshake, Dillon wondered.

Dillon gazed out the big plate glass window of the dealership, beyond the rows of new cars. Beyond Fort Stockton, really. Cars that looked like missiles. Missiles that threatened his own back yard. Walls being built to separate a country into two that he fought to defeat eighteen years earlier. A movie star running the country. Kids selling cars. Women working in dealerships. Golf balls writing contracts. It was all almost more than he could wrap his mind around.

“Sir,” Ken said.  The kid had come up behind him out of nowhere, it seemed. Dillon never even heard him.  “I need the keys to the Roadmaster so I can have the Used Car Manager determine the trade-in value for Sandra.”

Dillon pulled the keys out of his pocket. Fumbled with them in the palm of his hand for a minute. Then he shoved them back into his pocket. Reaching into the breast pocket of his Saturday sport coat, he pulled out his pipe and tobacco, slowly filled the bowl of his pipe with Sir Walter Raleigh and lit it.

“I won’t be trading in the Roadmaster,” Dillon said.  “I’ll keep it for myself.  The convertible will be for Nelda.”  Sandra and Ken looked at each other and shrugged.  Sandra put a new contract in the Selectric and started typing.

“I’m sorry Sir,” Ken begrudgingly said.  “There’s no smoking in this facility.”