“Big Jim” and his wife Judy had lived in Fort Stockton their entire lives, worked hard, saved, and were finally ready to retire and enjoy the good life.
As a retirement gift to himself and a surprise for Judy, Big Jim had gone down to Cactus Cadillac in early November of ’63 and traded in his ’59 Buick Electra 225 on a ’63 Cadillac Series 62 convertible. He’d always bought Buicks in the past, but felt like he’d finally earned a Caddy. It made it a little easier that the white over red convertible was the last ’63 on the lot, so he got it at a better price than expected.
The car just oozed class and seemed to say out loud what he’d only thought to himself for years, “I made it. I didn’t only compete, I won.” Sliding on to the red tufted button bench seat and gripping the wheel at the 10 and 2 positions he felt like a king sitting on the throne he’d been waiting for.
Several years earlier their only daughter, Janice, had gone off to college at Texas A&M, met a young man and married as soon as they both graduated. He got a job offer from Dallas Mercantile Bank and they settled in Oak Cliff, a suburb just south of downtown. In no time Janice’s husband was promoted to VP, their third child was born, and she began trying to convince her parents to move up to Dallas to be closer.
Now that Big Jim had retired, those talks intensified. Judy was on board, but Big Jim had dug the heels of his size 12 Justin boots in pretty hard. After dinner and a couple Scotch and Sodas one evening, Judy proposed taking the brand new Cadillac north on a road trip for an extended visit to see Janice over Thanksgiving.
The next morning Janice called long-distance to continue the pressure. “You can break in your new car, spend time with the grandkids, and get a feel for Oak Cliff. Bring your clubs; we’ve joined a country club just up the street. You’ll love it. I promise.”
The women in Big Jim’s life had long ago figured out how to wear him down.
Two weeks later they loaded several Samsonite suitcases and Big Jim’s set of Sam Snead clubs into the massive trunk of the convertible and headed for San Antonio where they had reservations at the Munger Hotel, right next to the Alamo. The next morning Judy suggested they skip breakfast in favor of staying in the room for a round of slap and tickle, after which she told Big Jim to put the top down on the car for the trip into Dallas. She was making sure every single box was checked.
They cruised north at 70 MPH and pulled into their daughter’s driveway mid-afternoon. Damn nice house. The boy had done well for himself. They passed the Oak Cliff Country Club as they turned onto their daughter’s street of manicured lawns. Big Jim felt right at home in the Caddy.
On the second day Big Jim and Judy loaded the kids into the convertible and took them over to the shoe store on West Jefferson Boulevard to spoil them a bit, and then take them to the Dallas Zoo, just a few blocks away.
While writing a check for the Buster Browns, Big Jim noticed a man slip into the store who obviously wasn’t looking for shoes. The owner thought he recognized the man from something he’d heard on the radio. Suddenly the guy runs out the front door of the shoe store, trips on the curb and hits the front fender of the Cadillac, leaving a greasy dent in the fender with something held in his hand.
Big Jim was beside himself. He ran out the door to confront the young man who had just run into the Texas Theater without a ticket. Big Jim tried to follow him in, but was put off by the arrival of 15 Dallas PD squad cars out of nowhere, one of which threw the door open right into the back of Jim’s car leaving a crease in the sheet metal and a long black scuff just under the fin.
Trying to find out who was going to pay for the damage, Big Jim was completely ignored as they wrestled a 24-year-old guy named Oswald out of the theater and into the back of one of the black and white cruisers, the very same one that had damaged the fender on His new Caddy.
A lot of history changed that day. One thing that didn’t? Big Jim and Judy never moved from Fort Stockton.
7 responses to “COLLATERAL DAMAGE”
Wow, 60 years ago today! I nearly forgot! I was a lad of only 7 then. I still think that we DO think we have a better chance of finding out who shot JFK than we do who started the plannedemic however!
I was just short of my 8th birthday and have no memory of the event, maybe some vague recollection of my parents bring pretty upset but nothing else. The elementary school wouldn’t have announced over the PA to the lower grades. I’m sure my parents didn’t want to unduly upset me or my little brothers. Now, June of 68 is very clear…
Well who was responsible for repairing the Caddy?
Did New Orleans mobsters, the KGB, LBJ, the CIA, Cubans, and/or lone wolves carry insurance?
Each of us will always recall November 22nd, and where we were at the moment we heard the news – and some of the wild rumors, as well.
November 22, 1963 was a Friday – a warm sunny Friday for those of us at the New Jersey Shore. I had just completed my last class of the week at Monmouth University, West Long Branch, NJ, and headed for my prime spot in the student lot. Pulling the zipper to fold back the driver side of the black tonneau, I slid into the bucket seat of the Matador red 1958 Triumph TR-3, fired up the snarky four-banger, and smiled as the modified exhaust blatted an authoritative series of notes. Oil pressure was up, a couple of cute co-eds smiled, and the temp started its rise, I flipped on the aftermarket Motorola (strictly AM), knowing it was too early for Alan Freed or Murray The “K” and his Swingin’ Soiree – but finding good Rock ‘n Roll was easy despite the quality of the built-in speaker. I finally tuned in WOR – New York, and sat stunned, listening to the horrible words of the broadcast. Headed the 60 miles home, northbound on the Garden State Parkway I found myself well in excess of the 60 mph limit, as if racing toward some rendezvous where I could actually affect something – anything – then slowed, remembering I already had
“Points” on my license from other speeding events. The Motorola’s continued updates provided no positive support, and then the ultimate – hope against hope – and it hit like a ton of rocks.
Arriving home, Mom’s Mah Jong/Canasta ladies were gathered at the card table in the living room, but not with their usual chatter. The somber mood affected every segment of life. For several days radio and TV broadcast only dirges. My buddy Johnny and I had pre-arranged to meet our dates Saturday evening off the NYU campus, but even the movie and dinner seemed “off”.
That moment, and the ensuing days are permanently etched into our psyche.
Each of us will always recall November 22nd, and where we were at the moment we heard the news – and some of the wild rumors, as well.
Each of us will always recall November 22nd, and where we were at the moment we heard the news – and some of the wild rumors, as well.
Rumors were rampant-
Who might be next?
LBJ ?
Speaker of the House?
Amen, CaptainMyCaptain.
November 22nd is one of those days we all remember where we were and what we were doing. We were living in the Texas Panhandle town of Tulia. I was a Junior at Tulia High School.
Along with my friend Kelly Clowers, and the exchange student from Denmark, Peter Overgaard, we were sitting in Jody White’s red and white ’58 Ford Custom 300 listening to the Oklahoma City radio station KOMA at lunch, bracing ourselves for Mr. Appleton’s Algebra class after lunch by sharing a bottle of cherry schnapps Peter had brought from Denmark.
When the news came over KOMA that Kennedy had been shot, the three Texas kids in that Ford all looked at each other and exclaimed at the same time: “Lyndon is behind this.”