This is cooler than a snow cone in Anchorage, and much more satisfying. Don’t imagine there were many of these to be seen in ’68, much less a half century later.

Only one anyone can ever remember seeing in Fort Stockton was about a decade ago. Same colors. It even had California plates, as well. Everyone remembers it. The guy that drove it wore Hawaiian shirts, khaki shorts, and Birkenstock sandals. Lucinda over at the Grounds for Divorce was impressed with his long blond locks and said he smelled like Old Spice and an escape.

More than just a time or two he’d load up Lucinda and a picnic lunch from the Piggly Wiggly, put the top down on the Jeepster, and head towards Lake Leon for the afternoon. That may be the reason he stayed in town longer than he’d planned. In fact, he stayed the whole summer, enough time to earn a nickname. Locals called him ‘Hollywood’. Chad from the Piggly Wiggly didn’t take too kindly to Hollywood, being that he still kind of had a thing for Lucinda at the time. When someone mentioned ‘Hollywood’ and ‘Commando’ in the same sentence, Chad wasn’t sure if they were referring to the stranger’s car, or the fact that he was rumored to not wear undergarments according to Lucinda.

Anyway, Hollywood started paying for his room over at the Naughty Pine Motel by the week, then by the month and eventually looked for a job close by.

As chance would have it, the Vandercleves were looking for help at their winery, The Grapes of Wrath. Mr. Vandercleve’s dad had been the taster at the winery, but his gout got to the point where the doctor said the alcohol was getting to be too much and he needed to stay off his feet.

Hollywood heard through the grapevine there was an opening, so he drove the red and white Commando out to the winery to apply. Mr. Vandercleeve harbored ill will towards anything from California since he’d lost a bundle betting on the Lakers, and had no intention of hiring Hollywood, but couldn’t come right out and say that to his face.

To humor Hollywood, Vandercleeve handed him a glass and had him sample it. Leaning against the flared front fender of the Jeepster, Hollywood sniffed the contents, swished the liquid around in his mouth, closed his eyes and thought. “It’s a Muscat. Three years old. Grown on the southern slope and matured in steel canisters. Not the highest grade, but acceptable.”

Vandercleve nodded, went back into the winery and came out with another glass. When he returned, Hollywood was sitting in the red bucket seat of the Commando enjoying the sunshine with his Birkenstocks up on the padded dash. Handed the second glass, he went through the same process of tasting it and then pronounced, “A Cabernet. Seven years old. Grown on the northwestern slope and aged in oak barrels, matured at eight degrees. It’ll require three more years to achieve optimum results.” Vandercleeve was astonished and headed back inside.

Handing Hollywood a third glass, he waited. Hollywood turned down the Beach Boys playing on the radio, “Pinot Blanc Champagne. High grade. Full bodied and exceptional.”

Back inside, the irritated Vandercleeve instructed his attractive young secretary to fill a glass with urine. Standing beside the shiny red Jeep, he handed the glass to Hollywood. The blond haired Sommelier Commando swished the liquid around in the glass and breathed the aroma in deeply, finally taking a sip and swishing it around in his mouth. “I’d say it’s a blond. Twenty seven years old, and three months pregnant. Give me the job or I’ll name the father.”

The man knew fine wine, women, and cars.