“Luck is the idol of the idle.”  That’s what Skip Hall, Rex Hall’s cousin used to SAY.  And yet, secretly he kept hoping that luck would find a way to even the playing field, or maybe even tilt it in his favor for a change.

Skip felt like luck had been on his side when he convinced Trudy to marry him.  And, to a degree, he was right.  Skip had been the first one to ask her out after she’d been dumped by Stew Smathers whom she’d dated for nearly three years.  Proving she was over Stew, she quickly accepted the offer of a date, then of marriage only a few months later.  Trudy wasn’t fooling anyone, least of all Stew Smathers, but there was no going back at that point.

Skip was always careful with a mirror, not wanting to risk the seven year curse of breaking one.  He avoided walking under ladders, and kept a rabbit’s foot in his pocket.  Nonetheless, the rhythm method he and Trudy used for birth control left them with four children before they celebrated their sixth anniversary.  “Maybe I should have kept my fingers crossed during the act,” he joked.

“Maybe I should have kept my legs crossed,” Trudy replied, attempting to make it sound like a joke.

Skip was sure to never open an umbrella indoors.  He’d even go so far as to take Friday the 13th off work, just to be safe.  “Don’t need to take any chances,” he’d tell his boss.

Fast forward to summer of 1959.  Sixteen-hundred miles away in Dearborn, executives in the wood paneled suites atop Ford headquarters were rapidly coming to the conclusion that the whole argument for adding the Edsel brand was one that didn’t make sense.  Sure, the Recession of ’58 couldn’t have been foreseen, but it killed whatever chance the new line of cars planned to combat Pontiac, Old, Dodge, and DeSoto.  Questionable styling, sketchy quality, and overselling the new cars as anything more than Fords with doodads slathered on probably would have doomed them regardless of the economy.  And then, the name.  Whomever was responsible for the name alone should have been forced to walk the plank of their automotive career.

“We’ve got to strategically get rid of as many of these off the dealer lots as we can before we pull the plug on this whole thing,” one of the top execs said.  The marketing VP was told to think creatively.  

“Well, we could give them away,” he said.  Several around the table laughed nervously.  The laughter didn’t last long.

Someone else picked up the ball and ran with it.  “Wait a minute.  That might be part of the solution.”  Nobody was quite sure how to respond.  “We strategically pick spots all over the country.  We work with loyal dealerships in those spots.  We put together an ad campaign to give away an Edsel in each of those locations to build floor traffic.  Advertise on the radio to get people in.  If people think they might win one, they might come in and take a look.  Surely a few of them will be willing to actually buy one once they’re in the dealership.  Even if we have to discount the price.”

“Might be the only way we can get them in the showroom.  Not a horrible idea.  We give away 50 cars all over the country.  Maybe 100.  Better than sitting on thousands of them,” one of the other execs around the table said.  “We’ve got to do something.”

Twenty-four hours later, there were computer-generated green bar reports spread out all over the big mahogany table identifying regions, markets, and specific dealerships based on logarithms and reports from several other departments. “Where the hell is Fort Stockton, Texas?” one of the suits said as it appeared on the list of locales that would be getting a free Edsel to give away. They didn’t find out till months later, when the whole program was being reviewed by the Accounting Department, that the new girl running one of the reports had accidently added a couple extra zeros when inputting information from the Southwest Texas Sales Region.

Two weeks later, Skip Hall was on his way home from work at The Proving Grounds when he heard the ad on KFSX about the contest taking place at Frontier Ford-Edsel, “Home of the Straight Shootin’ Deal”.  “Come on in and see the car of the future you can win RIGHT NOW!” the announcer said.  “The car all the others will be copying next year and all the way into the sixties!”

That very day, Skip had seen a penny on the floor of the cafeteria, bent over, wiped off whatever substance was covering Lincoln’s head and slid it into his pocket. Right next to the rabbit’s foot. He turned around and headed downtown towards the dealership, and away from RoadRunner Estates where Trudy was finishing up dinner. He pulled the ol’ ’51 Custom Fordor Sedan into the parking lot of Frontier Ford-Edsel and saw the Presidential Red and Snow White Villager wagon on the showroom floor, lit up like a Christmas tree. He expected to see more people filling out entries.

“Any limit on how many times you can enter?” he asked the salesman.

“I haven’t read the fine print,” Stew Smathers, the Sales Manager said.  “Load it up, I say.”

Skip spent an hour filling out entries and tossing them into the barrel beside the Edsel.  By the time he got home, dinner was cold on the table, the kids were planted in front of the black and white TV in the den watching Laramie, and Trudy was mad as a three legged dog trying to bury a turd on an icy pond.  Skip ate some cold meat loaf, popped the top on a Lone Star Longneck, and sat in his easy chair with the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch for the rest of the evening.

It was a completely different story two weeks later when Trudy was standing uncomfortably next to her old boyfriend, Stew Smathers, Skip on the other side of Stew, and all the kids all sitting in the brand new Edsel Villager, posing for photos being taken for the weekend edition of the Telegram-Dispatch.

Trudy’s aunt and uncle were a bit of an acquired taste, one that Skip hadn’t been able to acquire yet.  A lot of time was spent checking the oil on the 332 cubic inch V8 and the fluid level of the Mile-O-Matic automatic transmission.  By the end of the week, Skip made his way to the local Edsel dealer and bought a full can of Ford Polishing Wax, spending twelve hours straight in the driveway, putting an incredible two-layer  luster on the Presidential Red and Snow White finish.

Two weeks later, the Villager was loaded, Trudy had a Thermos of piping hot Folgers on the front seat between them, and they headed out on a two week trip to Reno to visit Trudy’s aunt and uncle in Nevada and see the Grand Canyon.  

After several long, uncomfortable days, Skip felt like he’d had enough. In order to avoid any more of Aunt Stella’s tuna hot dish and Uncle Dale’s gaudy display of the scars he earned defending democracy across the pond, Skip loaded up Trudy and the kids and headed to a casino.  “This is like nothing you’d ever see in Fort Stockton!” Skip said, wandering through the slots.  The family eventually wandered over and sat down at the progressive slot machine carousel.  Amazingly, the jackpot had advanced to one million dollars and they were able to experience the feeling of possibly becoming instantly rich beyond their wildest imaginations with each pull of the handle.  

In the middle of the excitement, one of the little ones ran off from the family and Trudy ran off to track him down.  As she grabbed him and headed back to the table, the lights went off, bells and whistles sounded, and mayhem broke out.  The one million dollar prize had been won.  And it had been won by the Hall family.  

This is where the story takes a turn.  

A photographer makes his way over and a growing crowd assembles around the table to record the entire affair for prosperity.  Trudy is in tears.  Skip is short of breath.  The kids, even the littlest one, are clamoring to be heard and seen.  Then, the crowd parts and a stern, balding, middle aged man walks towards the table.  He presses a note into Skip’s hand.  Skip visibly slumps, as tears form in his eyes.  The note has only one word:  INVALID.

Seems that in running the tapes back from the security camera, it was obvious that nine-year-old Cindy had been the one that pulled the handle rather than Skip who was standing right next to her.  Signs located throughout the casino stand that were clear, “You Must Be 21 to Play”.  The prize was denied.

They loaded up the Edsel, stopped by Stella and Dale’s to pack up the car and headed home.  They drove straight through, over twenty four hours in total, trading off driving duties, skipping the Grand Canyon.  Almost no words were exchanged.  It was like the air had been sucked out of the car.  Finally, somewhere in southern Arizona, Skip spoke.  “At least we won a brand new car.  How many people can say that?  We need to be grateful that Lady Luck  smiled on us in that way.”

Trudy was silent for about three miles.  Then, she spoke slowly, but with purpose.  “Two things.  First, we won an Edsel.  They’re giving them away for a reason.  Second, do you think they just happened to pull your name out of the entry barrel?”

Skip looked over at her, his face pinched with a painful curiosity.

“Stew pulled your entry out of the barrel so I could be driving a new car,” Trudy said.  Skip was quiet for the next sixty miles or so.

“A brand new car given to us by an old boyfriend?  I got the girl and the car!  Having a million dollars, even for only about ten minutes?  Most people never experience that!  Birth control that gave us four kids? I don’t care what you say,” he told her.  “I gotta be the luckiest guy alive.”

It was just that kind of goofy, naive optimism that made Trudy glad she’d married Skip. Stew Smathers never had that.