Harlan Holmstead taught Advanced Mathematics at Jim Bowie High School and was always a numbers guy. What he lacked in charisma he made up for with his knowledge of intricate formulas, or so he reassured himself. His horn-rimmed glasses and Hush Puppies made sure no one ever confused him with James Bond, to be sure.

Having started his teaching position in late ’64, just after a stint in the Peace Corps, he was still driving the ’59 Chevy Biscayne he bought used in college. He had been saving for a new car, something he’d never experienced before, and once he had the full amount saved up he made the drive down to Cactus Chev – Olds in downtown Fort Stockton to order just the car he’d been dreaming about for the last several years. 

He sat down across the grey metal desk across from Earl, the Chevy salesman, and methodically went through the option sheet for the new 1972 Chevrolet Biscayne he was ordering. Four door sedan was the way to go for practicality. Brown over black because it showed less dirt. Radio delete, the distraction would not be safe on road trips. Nor would cruise control. Full wheel covers were not a necessity when dog dish hubcaps performed the same function. Roll-down windows, no A/C. A vinyl top? Seriously? He ended up with the automotive version of horn-rims and Hush Puppies, a stripped Biscayne. 

They worked out the nearly nonexistent trade in-value for his ’61 Chevy and wrote a contract for the new car of his dreams.

When he got a message about eight weeks later that his new car had arrived, he actually got a substitute for his classes that day so he could go down and pick it up. He was as excited as the day he’d first learned the Pythagorean Theorem when he saw the monument to blandness parked in front of the dealership. Before even going into the showroom he opened the door of his new car and breathed in the ‘new-car smell’ he’d waited a decade to call his own.

He was still intoxicated with the scent when he glanced over at the OK Used Car lot on the north side of the parking lot and glimpsed, under the multi-colored fluttering flags, a 1968 Pontiac Bonneville convertible parked on the elevated stand on the corner. Like a moth to a flame, Harlan made his way over to the Pontiac and gave it a look over. Not usually given to such extravagances, Harlan was somehow captivated by the long lines of the Bonneville. The bucket seats and wood grained accents of the interior beckoned him like a strip club calls out to a sailor on shore leave. A convertible. “Is there a car any more impractical?” he muttered under his breath as Earl trotted across the pavement with the keys to Harlan’s new Biscayne in his hand.

By the time Earl was on him, Harlan was up on the platform and behind the wheel, looking like he was leading the Homecoming Parade down Main Street. He pondered how Miss Chandler, the new Chemistry teacher, would look sitting in the bucket seat right next to him.

“You ready to sign the paperwork on the Biscayne?” Earl asked him.

“How much is this one?” Harlan asked him.

“Why it’s the exact same price as the brand new one you ordered, but this is three years old and has 30,000 miles on it,” Earl told him.

Harlan took a deep breath. He didn’t get that new car smell. What he got was the scent of testosterone, and sex appeal, and a few fries from the Dairy Twin under the driver’s seat.

Harlan had a decision to make. One that couldn’t be worked out with theorems or formulas, but one that would impact the rest of his life. And possibly Miss Chandler’s.