“I know it’s hotter than the hinges of Hell, but you’re all becoming insufferable.”  Apparently Lucinda had reached her limit.  “You can’t even find anything to look at on Bring a Trailer?  Come on!  So what if it’s triple digits outside.  It’s triple digits outside in Fort Stockton ALL SUMMER.  EVERY SUMMER!  Has whining about it ever made it different?”

Everyone around the table just looked at each other.  “I hate to be scolded,” Rusty from the hardware store said under his breath.

“Even more so by Lucinda,” New Guy said.

“Even more so when you know she’s right,” Sister Thelma said.  “What’s wrong with you boys?  You used to run around in this heat chasin’ women and cows and your next job and never even think anything about it. Now you come in here, drink coffee and complain about the heat.  You’re all gettin’ old and soft!”

Of course she was right, just like Lucinda was, but that’s not what anybody wanted to hear.  If we wanted to sit and listen to womenfolk criticize us and tell us what we already know, we’d have stayed . . . well, you know.  

“But it DOES seem hotter than it ever did when we had more hair.  Just the opposite of what you’d think.,” Rex pointed out.  “Seems like when we were all running around with long dark hair and full beards back in the day we’d have been a whole lot hotter than we are now.”

“That theory holds no water.  Look at Chad.  He’s half our age and complains more about the heat, and everything else way more than any of the rest of us,” the Bald Bomber noted.

“That’s just his nature,” Sister Thelma replied.  He’s been that way since he was a boy.  I blame video games and the internet.”

“It’s the pressure,” Chad said sheepishly.  “You have no idea what is involved in being the Assistant Manager at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Several of us stifled laughter.  Rex, the pharmacist in town, did not.

“Pressure?” Rex retorted.  “Let me tell you about pressure, Son.  I fill one prescription wrong and I could kill someone.  If I wasn’t paying attention and gave Mrs. Hargrove Brother Bob’s Viagra instead of the Flecainide that keeps her ticker pumping regularly, there would be Hell to pay.”

“Or she’d be up all night,” Chad said.  “I’m telling you just the Produce Department weighs on me to where I can’t sleep nights.  Then factor in this oppressive heat.  The kids.  The mortgage.”  His words trailed off as Lucinda came around with a fresh pot of Folgers.

“I just got a call from Mayor Goodman,” Lucinda said.  “The Texas State Soil and Water Conservation Board is working in partnership with the USDA-Natural Resources Conservation Service, Animal and Plant Health Inspection Service, Soil and Water Conservation Districts, Texas A&M Natural Resources Institute, and the Texas Wildlife Damage Management Association to to help address the issues that feral swine pose to agriculture, ecosystems, and the health of humans and animals.”  We all looked at each other with the expected amount of dazed confusion.  “They’re meeting here in Fort Stockton today.  They were supposed to have lunch at the K-Bob’s, but just found out the air conditioning has gone out at the K-Bob’s and they’re coming here instead.”

There is a look of dumbfounded incomprehension that only a group of upper-middle aged white guys can achieve that seems to drive women crazy.  And not in a good way.

“So?” Chad asked.

“I NEED THE TABLE!” Lucinda seemed to be at the end of her patience.  “That’s a whole lot of sweaty, overweight, bored, state officials that specialize in agriculture and wild hogs to squeeze into this joint and you guys are taking up way too much valuable real estate right now.”

“But this is where we go,” Rusty said.  “We wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves.”

Lucinda got to where she is by thinking on her feet.  And her back, but that’s not relevant to the story right now.  “Tell you what, boys,” she said calmly.  “I am sending you out on a journey of discovery.  I know it’s hot, but I have faith in you.  You each have a cell phone.  There are cars driving all over Fort Stockton.  Many of them have humorous bumper stickers.  You guys have two hours to go out and take pictures of the best ones you can find.  Nothing political; those aren’t funny, just sad.  You each get to show me your favorite when you meet back here in two hours.  The guy with the best bumper sticker on his phone gets a free piece of my best pecan pie, topped with a more than generous scoop of vanilla Blue Bell ice cream.”

Some were motivated by the challenge.  Some by sheer boredom.  A few by the thought of ice cold ice cream.  New Guy was motivated just by hearing Lucinda say ‘generous scoop’.  Whatever it was that gave them the incentive, a whole herd of guys was suddenly heading to the front door while an even bigger herd was heading to the same door from the outside, having just exited from a half dozen puke-green colored Chevy Suburbans with government license plates.  It was more chaotic than Black Friday at the Ben Franklin.

Two hours later, the Pig Patrol on the Government Payroll vacated the Grounds for Divorce and the first group of regulars filtered back in, each thinking he had the winning bumper sticker on his phone.  I don’t want to embarrass any of those involved by saying which guy submitted which bumper sticker.  Instead, I’ll just show you what they offered up:

About the time Lucinda finished looking over the first submissions, a few more guys came in who had been tied up in the Piggly Wiggly parking lot taking pictures of bumpers like they were the FBI at the wedding of The Godfather’s daughter.  To a degree, it was worth the wait.  Here’s what they had to offer:

Things were really getting interesting. It was a tight race, to be sure. New Guy thought he was a clear winner, having captured not only a primo bumper sticker, but a giant pair of truck testicles swinging from an F-150 over on Abbott Avenue. He wandered over to the dessert case next to the cash register to pick out the biggest piece of pie. And then Sister Thelma walked in. Pulled up the picture she’d taken on her iPhone (4.0) and slid it across the table, where it landed right in front of Lucinda, as if she was an old west bartender sliding a beer down the bar to the bad guy in an old western:

“Winner Winner, Chicken Dinner!” Lucinda shouted.

We all took turns admiring the winning picture on Sister Thelma’s phone.  “It doesn’t seem fair you should win with a picture of your own car,” I whispered in her ear.

“It was easier than walking all over town,” she replied.  “Just went back to Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, snapped the shot, and stayed cool in my office till it was time to come back.”

Sister Thelma gave the pecan pie to New Guy. He seemed to really want it. And that’s how she rolls.