Southwest of Fort Stockton, Thornton Goodnight owned a spread that most said was second only to the King Ranch in size. Folks may have been exaggerating when they said it stretched almost all the way to Ozona, but it was a fair-sized piece of real estate that yielded cotton and cattle and some sizable legends regarding Mr. Goodnight, himself. When he first met someone who didn’t know him and they asked him what the name of his ranch was he’d tell them, “The TG Rockin’ R Triple Diamond Circle T Bar S.” They’d always follow up by asking him how many head of cattle he had and he’d tell ‘em, “Not that many. Most of them don’t survive the branding!” and then slap ‘em on the back and double over at his own gift of humor.

Thornton went down to Cactus Chrysler-Imperial-DeSoto every year when the new models came out and ordered the most expensive Imperial convertible the Pentestar people could produce. When his baby blue ’58 Imperial Crown convertible came in he drove it straight over to the Lucky Lady Lounge to show everybody and bought the house a round of Lone Star longnecks to celebrate its arrival.

When Rusty, from over at the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store, commented that the little crown emblems sprinkled liberally around the car reminded him of the King Ranch, Thornton didn’t take kindly to the comment. As soon as he got the new car home he had Sparky, the ranch blacksmith, custom fabricate little moons out of solid gold and replaced all the crowns on the Imperial with symbols of his own. Thornton Goodnight didn’t want to be reminded that he had the second biggest anything, much less ranch.

One day Thornton was heading to town in the Imperial, top down and driving faster than a prairie fire with a tailwind, when he passed Reverend Peterson’s wife broke down on the side of the road. The hood was up on Pastor Peterson’s old Plymouth Cranbrook and steam was shooting’ out of the hood like Satan himself was hiding in the radiator. Thornton pulled the long Imperial over to the side of the road and told Mrs. Peterson and little Timmy, her son, to climb in and he’d give ‘em a ride back to town.

Thornton attended Second Baptist in Fort Stockton and Mrs. Peterson’s husband shepherded the flock over at the Almost United Methodist Church so they weren’t overly familiar with one another. She felt slightly uncomfortable with the way he would not even try to hide the fact he was looking down at her legs. He even crossed the double yellow lines down the middle of the highway a couple times while doing so.

When they got to town and drove past the Lucky Lady Lounge where there were several young, heavily made up, short skirt-clad ‘ladies’ on the corner, Timmy asked his mother who those women were. “They’re just waiting for their husbands to pick them up and take them home, Timmy,” Mrs. Peterson explained.

“For cryin;’ out loud, ma’am. Don’t lie to the boy. They’re hookers!” Thornton bellowed.

As the grand Imperial pulled up in front of the parsonage, Timmy asked his mother, “Mommy, do hookers have children?”

Mrs. Peterson opened the three foot long passenger door and slid out of the convertible, grabbing Timmy’s hand to help him decamp from the sofa-like front seat. “Of course they do, Timmy. Where do you think ranchers come from?”

A ’58 Imperial is the epitome of class. Perhaps not so, everyone that could afford to drive a new one.