Murray Slidell dreaded whenever it was time to buy a new car.  Others looked forward to the event.  The ‘New Car Smell’.  The neighbors all coming out to see the newest addition to the driveways lining RoadRunner Estates.  That magical period of time before it got that first dent in the parking lot at the Piggly Wiggly because some lazy Fort Stocktonite didn’t return their shopping basket to the cart corral and the damn thing ended up rolling into the rear fender before the third payment was even made.

Murray just saw the whole thing as an endless series of choices he didn’t want to have to deal with.

First there was the whole issue of Ford or Chevy.  The classic battle that was almost as old as Good versus Evil.  Almost as divisive as Democrat versus Republican.  No matter which way he went, half the people he worked with, went to church with, or was related to would tell him he’d made a mistake.  Those who were solidly in the Chrysler camp never really bothered him; they were outliers.  But the battle between the General and Blue Oval was an ongoing battle that wouldn’t be as easily resolved as the one that had been settled at Appomattox.  

In 1967, when it was time to go through the painful process again, he dreaded it more than a root canal or colonoscopy.  He’d decided to go with Ford.  He wished he could claim that decision was based on lots of research using the Fort Stockton Public Library, or CONSUMER REPORTS magazines, but it was really just based on which side of the street Frontier Ford was located on.  Coming from his house, he’d have to make a U-turn on Sam Houston Boulevard, go across the flow of traffic, and quickly pull into Cactus Chev-OLDS.  That always made him nervous.  The Ford dealership was on the right, just before San Jacinto.  Easy to get into.

Subconsciously, the vertically stacked headlights on the Ford might have had something to do with the decision.  They looked more manly than the horizontal versions on the Chevys for 1967.  His youngest boy, Clint, had taken to sneaking into his mother’s closet and wearing her high heels as of late.  He thought the upright illumination devices on the Ford might somehow prove to be inspirational to the teenager.

Of course, that was the easiest decision to make.  Once at Frontier Ford, “Home of the Straight Shooting’ Deal,” the real frustration began.  Twenty-six exterior colors.  Twenty interior combinations to choose from.  Four different engine choices.  Eighteen different models in the full size Ford line alone.  It was a lot for Murray, who always considered himself a meat and potatoes kind of guy.  “When it comes to the garage and the bedroom, Murray thinks any kind of variety is a waste of time,” his wife told her sister after they’d had a few strawberry daiquiris a while back.  That only confirmed what her sister had suspected, anyway.

There was the whole competition thing with his next door neighbor, Sherm Baker.  Sherm and his wife had three daughters and were still driving their old Falcon wagon.  Murray had the advantage on him by producing a son, although if the kid wandered outside in his mother’s high heels that could cause the whole scorecard to be rejiggered.  A new Galaxie in the driveway and Clint staying indoors would keep Murray in a comfortable lead in the Road Runner Estates Neighborhood Derby.

His wife’s crazy aunt, Bertie-May, judged every new car by the amount of room in the trunk.  Unfortunately those details could only be correctly measured from the inside, which was kind of an embarrassment when the neighbors were watching through their picture windows across the street.  When she crawled into the trunk of her nephew’s Pontiac to determine whether it measured up or not, he was almost tempted to slam the lid down and put everyone out of her misery.

Bertie-May’s daughter, Gertie-June was the apple that didn’t fall too far from the tree, as far as the trunk thing goes.  She couldn’t refrain from shaking hers at family gatherings, especially religious holidays, after downing a few jelly jars of Thunderbird wine.  As Perry Como would be singing a holiday song on the Hi-Fi, Gertie-June would grab onto whatever was close by, bend over slightly, shake her tush and say, “Who wants some of this?”  Clint would just admire her shoes.

No matter what new car Murray brought home, he knew his in-laws would have something negative to say about it.  The two of them wore their Sunday best to the beach when they went to Hawaii and then complained about the heat and the sand in their shoes.  Looking at the picture of the trip on their mantel, Gertie-June mentioned it was the first time Gramps had been laid since Pearl Harbor.

At the dealership, Murray quickly abandoned the idea of actually ordering a new Ford.  The choices were all just overwhelming and too many to choose from.  He just picked the one that was on the showroom floor, next to the Men’s Restroom.  It had a dual exhaust system, 15″ wheels with LTD-branded covers, and dual mirrors as well as Comfort-Stream ventilation, woodgrain trim, and a push-button AM radio. Powered by an optional 390ci V8 paired with a three-speed automatic transmission, the car was finished in Line Gold Poly, which was basically green, with a black vinyl roof over green upholstery.

When he drove it to the Slidell family reunion, the trio of his aunts lined up just off to the left of the picnic tables gave it the once over as the new Galaxie pulled onto the parking area in the grass off the main road.  Melba was quick to note, “That new Ford is finer than cream gravy,” which Murray took as a compliment.  He felt good about the purchase and himself.  That is until she was behind him in line for the potato salad and said, “How old are you gettin’ to be now?”  When he told her he was going to be 46 on his next birthday, she replied, “The first gray pube is God’s way of tellin’ you to start wrapping things up.”

Family reunions were becoming almost as dreaded as buying a new car.