Back about ’96 or ’97, Doctor Smuthers Holbein moved to Fort Stockton and brought a 240 wagon just like this one with him.

He’d recently ‘retired’ from a tenured position at Abilene Baptist University where he taught Post Reformation European Romance Literature, followed his much younger girlfriend to the Fort, and looked for work once he got here. He ended up taking a position as an adjunct professor of Pre-Renaissance Art, with a focus on the use of nudes depicting changes in society at the Pecos County Community College. He looked every bit the part of the college professor, from the tweed jacket with suede patches on the elbows, to the pipe he seemed to always be smoking, to the herringbone newsboy cap he wore even when it was triple digits outside in the shade. The Volvo was the perfect compliment to everything else he had going on, the 21 year old girlfriend notwithstanding.

He’d go into the Grounds for Divorce, where they advertised “Breakfast Served Any Time” and said, “I’ll have French toast, just prior to the Revolution.” Lucinda got the joke, but it was completely lost on Chad, on break from the Piggly Wiggly, sitting over at the lunch counter.

“Hundreds of years ago, vulgarity was commonplace, people were often drunk before noon, and public urination was commonplace,” he was known to say. Nonetheless, Officer Phil had to explain to him that kind of behavior didn’t fly in Fort Stockton.

Anyway, folks used to see him frequently at the Lucky Lady Lounge, especially on Trivial Pursuit Night. There was almost no beating the guy when it came to history. But then, one night he and Rusty Hammer from the hardware store got into a pretty damned heated competition. The lead would go back and forth between the two, each time the lead changed the new leader would have to buy a round of drinks for the house. It came down to the last question: “What do you call a volunteer at the Renaissance Fair?”

Rusty was stumped. Doc Holbein blurted out, “A free-lancer!” and won. Rusty, never known as the most gracious loser, muttered something about someone calling themselves a doctor who couldn’t even treat a cold or castrate a calf as he headed back over to the hardware store to lock up.

Meanwhile, Doc Holbein probably should have called a cab, but there was a better than 50/50 chance Orville, the only cab in town, would have been in worse shape than Doc when he arrived to pick him up. So he headed out to the Volvo, slid into the comfort of the cabin and onto the blue cloth seat and cranked up the 2.3 liter inline-four. It sounded like a well oiled sewing machine as he pulled out of the parking lot and headed to the cottage he shared with his young girlfriend outside of town.

He probably took the turn just past Earl’s Salvage Yard and Formalwear a lot faster than he should have. Normally it wouldn’t have been a problem, but Slim had left the gate open at the entrance to his place next door and one of his prized cows had wandered out into the middle of the county road. Not to be too graphic here, but the bovine did not fare well.

There was a hind shank up in the mud flaps. Rump roast was wedged under the wipers. There was a brisket bunched up in the Bilstein shocks and the front spoiler was wearing a coating of sweetbreads that would serve a small army.

Funny thing, after a trip through the Stockton Auto Laundromat, there wasn’t even a mark left on the Volvo. The darn things really are a brick. Even the ones that have been beefed up.