Last Sunday I was at the Grounds for Divorce when Lucinda unlocked the doors.  First one in.  In fact, only one in.  Had to wait for her to make the first pot of Folgers.

“This is early.  Even for you.  Surprised to see you here on a Sunday,” she said as I sat in the booth over in the corner.  “You come in here to work on a story?”

“Oh, maybe,” I told her.  “Not sure.  If something hits me I might.  Just needed to clear the cobwebs, if you know what I mean.”

“Know exactly what you mean. I’ll leave you alone. You know how to get my attention if you need a refill, or anything else.” And with that she was off, headed to the blackboard to write the Specials of the Day in multicolored chalk with the loops and swirls of her handwriting matching the loops of swirls of her hair when they tumble out of her scarf and onto the back of her neck.

I somehow got lost in the rabbit hole of the 1961 Dodge Polara. After the styling coup Chrysler was able to pull off in the late 1950s that redefined an entire era of American automobiles, they went down a completely different path for their Chrysler, Plymouth, DeSoto, Dodge, and Imperial models. Recreational drugs began getting popular at the same time. Coincidence? I don’t think so.

I could make an argument focusing on any of those brands under the Chrysler umbrella, but I’m particularly struck by the Dodge version, just for the sheer absurdity of it. Only a couple 1961 Dodge Polaras have ever been listed on Bring a Trailer. One of them had been hot rodded, the other one listed as a Polara but it really wasn’t, so I had to go to other sources for photographic evidence to make my point, though I wasn’t really even sure what the point was that I was trying to make.

That’s when Pastor Peterson walked through the door.  Not sure whom amongst the two of us was the most surprised.  “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he noted.

“I darn sure didn’t expect to see you here!” I proclaimed.

“Good Lord, it must have been a full moon last night,” Lucinda said as she brought over a Captain My Captain cup for the pastor and he slid into the booth, across the table from me.

“Justin Shiner, the youth pastor, is preaching this morning.  He says it makes him nervous when I’m out in the audience and he prefers I not be there when he delivers his message.”  I must have looked askance.  “Last time he preached, he looked at me and called the four apostles John, Paul, George, and Ringo.”

“Anyone notice?” Lucinda asked, topping off his mug with Folgers hot enough to singe the taste buds right off his tongue.  

“The young people didn’t know the difference.  The old people couldn’t hear what he said.  Most of the people who actually knew who John, Paul, George, and Ringo were had their phones out and were checking football scores,” he noted.  “Any way, here I am.”

“You could do a lot worse,” I said.

“Haven’t seen you since the whole series, Perry’s Packard, came out on your blog. Really enjoyed the stories. Kind of looked forward to reading each installment with a cup of coffee every morning, right after my devotion. Sounds like it was a big hit all over Fort Stockton,” the pastor said.

“Thanks,” I replied. “Wasn’t sure folks would stay with it till the end, but took a chance on it. Turns out the series put me over 25,000 hits on the blog, views went up thirty percent that week, and a lot of folks bought me a cuppa coffee for the effort. By the way, I’ve got yours this morning.”

Pastor Peterson smiled.  “Who doesn’t love a free cuppa coffee?  You doing another series anytime soon?”

“Actually I’m just finishing the next one up.  It’ll start October 23rd and run seven days again,” I told him.

“Finishes on a Sunday again?” he asked.  “I thought we talked about that.”

“What do you think of the 1961 Dodge Polara?”  I asked him, trying to change the subject.  Slid the iPad over in front of him to show him some pictures.

“I think it looks like El Fusilado, particularly from the front,” he was quick to say.

“El Fusilado?”

“Yeah. He was a Mexican soldier who fought under Pancho Villa. Poor guy was captured during the Mexican Revolution. They dispensed with the formality of a trial and sentenced him to death right after they captured him. The manner of execution was firing squad and they wasted no time in carrying out the sentence. Shot him seven times in the body. Then, just for effect, one point blank to the head. They may have harbored a grudge,” Pastor Peterson explained.

Lucinda had caught most of the story while she was finishing up with the Specials on the blackboard and came over and sat down, figuring there had to be more.  Sure enough.

“His real name was Wenceslao Moguel,” Pastor Peterson continued. “Somehow, he survived all nine shots, unconscious but alive. The next day, he returned to consciousness and found himself amongst a pile of fellow participants who were not so lucky. He crawled out of the pile of corpses and drug himself three blocks to the church of St. James the apostle. A church member found him, took him in, and nursed him back to health.”

“Why did they call him El Fusilado?” Lucinda wondered out loud.

“It means, The Executed One.  His disfigured mug reminds me of the front of that 1961 Dodge Polara.”  Pastor Peterson said as he held up his CMC cup.  “Speaking of mug . . .”  Lucinda got up and headed back to the Bunn-O-Matic for the pot of Folgers.  “There’s no rest for the weary,” he shouted her way.

“The back end of the Polara looks kind of like the weapons pointed at poor ol’ Wenceslao right before his profile was forever changed,” I observed.

“Especially on the Highway Patrol version!” Pastor Peterson retorted. “Justice isn’t always pretty. Just ask Mayor Goodman.”

“That was a helluva tale, Pastor,” Lucinda said as she filled his cup back up to the top.  “Is that one of those stories they taught you in seminary to show the healing power of God’s mercy and love, and how the church needs to take in those who are hurt and wounded and do all they can to heal them and send them on their way?”

“No,” Pastor Peterson said. “It was just something that New Guy told me about the last time I was in for coffee. That guy has got some stories, I tell ya.”

“Well, at least Dodge, and all the other Chrysler products only had to live with their disfigurement for a few years in the early sixties,” I noted.  El Fusilado had to live with his for the rest of his life.”

“True enough.”  Pastor Peterson reflected.  “But, just as God instructs all of us to do, he made the best of it.  Counted his blessings.  He was on the Ripley’s Believe It or Not! radio program in 1937.  Lived a long life, dying at age 79 in 1976.  Even had a song written about him, appropriately titled El Fusilado and performed by Chumbawamba on their thirteenth studio album.  The Longest Johns rerecorded it earlier this year.”

“Did New Guy tell you that, as well?” I asked.

“No,” Pastor Peterson answered.  “The youth pastor, Justin Shiner, did.”

“All in all,” Lucinda said as she walked by and saw the pictures, “the world was probably a better place somewhere in between when El Fusilado survived being executed and when he died.  Look at the dashboard on that Dodge.  It’s a work of art.  The pushbutton transmission.  The way the back window goes half way into the roof on the coupe.”

“You’re onto something there, Lucinda,” Pastor Peterson said.  “Not a darn thing on it makes any sense, but somehow, it was still well executed.”  

I nearly spit out my coffee.  “More so than Wenceslao Moguel,” I said.

Pastor Peterson looked at his watch. “I gotta run. I need to be back to serve communion. Thanks for the coffee. Lookin’ forward to the next CMC series on the 23rd.” And with that, he headed to the door. He suddenly stopped, turned around, and said, “By the way, why aren’t you in church this morning?”

“I heard Pastor Justin was giving the message.”