Mayor Goodman had kind of a running competition with his wife’s cousin going all the way back to their high school days.  Always attempting to one-up each other.  Going out to dinner with them and their wives was difficult, each trying to get the upper hand on the other with just about any topic that would ever come up.  Playing golf with the two of them was brutal.

About the time the Mayor was first elected to the city council in Fort Stockton Jim Dunham, the cousin, was hired on at General Motors.  Goodman moved into City Hall.  Jim and his wife moved up to Detroit.  Both settled in easily to the new cesspools of corruption they found themselves immersed in.  Shortly thereafter, Goodman was elected Mayor of Fort Stockton in a landslide victory of twelve votes over Trixie, owner of the Klip-N-Dye, in a special election after the previous mayor was found dead in unusual circumstances out at the Pecos Dairy.  There were whispers of irregularities involved in the election, but inasmuch as this was way before FOX News, none of them ever got legs and everybody just accepted the results as they were.

Bottom line, newly sworn-in Mayor Goodman thought he finally had the upper hand in the competition with Jim.  However, Jim had just been promoted to Vice President of Advertising & Marketing for Cadillac.  Most considered a Vice President of anything to be of higher rank than Mayor of Fort Stockton, yet the rivalry continued unabated.  That’s where things stood when Jim and his wife pulled into town in the spring of 1966 driving a prototype of the 1967 Cadillac Coupe DeVille convertible he’d been given as a company vehicle.  It made the Plymouth Valiant sedan provided the Mayor by Tumbleweed Chrysler-Plymouth-Dodge look like a turd in the punchbowl, sans the punchbowl.

Of course the Dunhams stayed at the Cattle Baron Hotel.  They wouldn’t have been caught dead at the Naughty Pine Motel, although it was plenty good when they were dating in high school.  They made arrangements to pick up the Mayor and his wife in the new Cadillac and take them to the Silver Slipper Supper Club out on Lake Leon to catch up.  Sitting in the backseat of the Tropic Green Firemist Cadillac convertible, Mrs. Goodman felt like royalty.  Like the prom queen she’d always wanted to be.  The seats felt like kid-glove leather, nothing like the seats of the Valiant which the dealership had covered in clear plastic to keep the resale value high when the car was turned back in.  “These seats are so soft and comfortable,” she mentioned as they pulled into the parking lot.  The Mayor hushed her under his breath.

Over cocktails Jim mentioned the fact that the Cadillac line-up for 1967 was the biggest in Cadillac’s history.  “We’re going to set records with these cars, he said.  “In sales.  And in executive bonuses,”  His wife nudged his knee under the table.  She didn’t like it when he bragged.  “Eleven models in all. My job too get them all photographed for the upcoming catalogs and brochures.  Pretty big responsibility.”

Talk turned to kids and how the Jim Bowie High School football team was going to look in the fall, and filling in the blanks with gossip on all the relatives who no longer lived in Fort Stockton.  But the Mayor had been thinking about Cadillac catalogs the whole time.  “You know Jim, with my connections and the wide open spaces west of town, I betcha we could come up with the perfect setting for those photo-shoots,” he said.  “Catch those Caddies at sunset.  Make ‘em gleam and twinkle.”

Of course, what he was thinking about was a film crew, drivers, models, and all the production people being booked at the Naughty Pine Motel, where he had arrangements to get a cut of all the bookings he brought in.  Similar arrangements were in place at the K-Bob’s, Lucky Lady Lounge, and Grounds for Divorce, so the Mayor stood to make quite a handsome profit if he could swing the deal.  Jim was less than receptive.  Pretty much shut it down without consideration.

The Mayor made his way to the men’s room just before the check came, figuring General Motors could pick up the tab.  They finished dessert and several after-dinner drinks and stumbled out to the Coupe DeVille.  Dan nor the Mayor were in much condition to drive, each of them carrying a brandy in a Styrofoam cup since it was years before open container laws would be passed in Texas.  About halfway back to the Mayor’s house in Road Runner Estates, red lights were flashing and a loud siren could be heard from behind the Firmest droptop.  Jim had to pull off the road, almost missing the shoulder and planting the Cadillac in the bar ditch beside the road.  Officer Phil in the ’62 Galaxie squad car came to a full stop behind the Caddy, adjusted his cap and holster, and had the ticket book out before he ever got to the driver’s side door of the convertible.

Jim, words slurred, told his wife to open the glove compartment.  When she did, it was as empty as Al Capone’s vault.  No registration.  No insurance.  Not even an owner’s manual since the car was just a prototype.  Jim handed Officer Phil his Michigan driver’s license and he headed back to the Galaxie to call Mavis on the radio and have her run the plate, it being out of state.  Mayor Goodman leaned over, his elbows on the green leather front seat.  His voice was faint, but his intentions clear.

“Best I can tell,” the Mayor said into Jim’s ear, “we’re looking at about seven violations here.  Technically they could haul you in.  Impound this big ol’ emerald gem you’re driving.  Wouldn’t look good for the man in charge of selling Cadillacs losing his license and not being able to drive one.”

Jim’s grip on the wheel tightened.

“Now, I’m no Vice President of anything,” Mayor Goodman went on, “but I got a little pull here.  Guessin’ that if we get a few tourism dollars that would come along with a photo shoot of the 1967 Cadillacs, it would go a long way to makein’ this thing like it never happened.”

Jim dropped his head on the rim of the three spoke steering wheel, admitting defeat.  His wife leaned forward and opened her door so the Mayor could get out of the Cadillac and go back to the front of the Galaxie and have a word with Officer Phil.

“I got here as soon as I could,” Officer Phil said in a whisper.  “Mavis told me you called her from the supper club.”

“You done good, Phil.”

Two weeks later, two car transporters carrying eleven new 1967 Cadillacs rolled into the parking lot of the Naughty Pine, followed by a fleet of rented Chevrolets, each carrying sleepy, hungry corporate types who’d never seen anything like West Texas before.

Next morning, Lucinda opened up the Grounds for Divorce early so the whole bunch could come in for breakfast before they headed out of town to shoot.  The whole day ended up being grayer than Cooter’s mule and they didn’t take a single picture.  Same was true the second day.  And the third.  On day four the sun came out and on day five, the shots they got were perfect. All eleven Cadillacs sparkled in the sun like golden trinkets from King Tut’s tomb.  

Jim was relived.  Mayor Goodman was figuring up his cut of the lodging and food in a spiral notebook he kept in his shirt pocket and a number 2 yellow pencil.  The crew was exhausted and ready to head back to Michigan.  That’s when things took an unexpected turn.

The sky turned aluminum gray.  Then blood red, a color the folks from up north had never seen before.  And in an instant no one could have prepared for, nothing could be seen at all.  The baptists in the group thought it was the apocalypse.  Folks ran for cover in whatever shelter they could find.  Mayor Goodman sent his assistant back to town with specific instructions, though she wasn’t even sure which direction she was driving.  Fifteen minutes in Hell passed.  Then, it was over just as quickly as it had started.

People ventured out from their hiding places and saw the sun again.   There was a thick red coating of dust on every surface, an inch thick in some spots.  The Cadillacs, all lined up in a row by model, looked like their surfaces had been sandblasted.  The chrome was pitted like they had been sitting in a junkyard for decades.  The glass was no longer clear, but looked frosted.

The women that were part of the crew were figuring out how to spit and still remain ladylike, a talent that would serve them well later in their careers.  Jim Dunham walked between the Cadillacs, seeing nothing but carnage, trying to figure out what to tell Detroit when he made the call.

Mayor Goodman found him and put his arm around his wife’s cousin.  Drew him in close and with compassion.  “Looks bad right now,” he said.  “But I’ve already got someone heading to the body shop at Cactus CHEV-Olds.  They can make these Caddies look like brand new.”

“They are brand new,” Jim whimpered.

The note the mayor’s assistant handed the owner of Cactus CHEV-Olds read, “A lot of business headed your way.  Need repairs done quick.  I’ll take fifteen percent, as usual.”

Sometimes a mayor beats a vice president.  Almost always in Fort Stockton.