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Joan never really cared for the Turnpike Cruiser.  It reminded her of a time of despair and disappointment, just the opposite of what such a grand touring car should do.  She never suggested they get rid of it.  She knew it had been purchased as a thoughtful gesture to move beyond losing their second child and being told there would never be a third.

For his part, Bud regretted buying such an ostentatious vehicle.  Yet, in his defense, 1957 was a time period in which nearly every American-made offering showed signs of grotesque excess.  But Bud’s practicality kept him from trading the Turnpike Cruiser in before it was fully depreciated.  Both Joan and Bud were glad when the five year mark came around in 1962 and it was time to make a trip to Frontier Ford-Mercury and pick out something to replace the Cruiser.

“You go,” Joan told him over breakfast the morning he announced it was time.  Cars had come to symbolize sad chapters in her life.  Picking out a new one held no appeal.  “I’ll like whatever you pick out.”  She meant she’d tolerate whatever he brought home.

With Joan still in mind, Bud decided on a brand new 1963 Mercury Monterey S-55 Breezeway coupe.  In a sense, it was another pink and white car, but much more toned down.  “That Metallic Rose is a gorgeous color.  Won’t age poorly like the one you’re trading in,” Roger told him.  “Looks almost gray in some light.  It’s an eye catcher, to be sure.”

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Bud liked the sportiness of the bucket seats, center console, and floor shifter.  It kind of reminded him of the custom 1939 Mercury 8 of his youth, back when he was a Rebel Without a Cause, long before he became The Man in the Gray Flannel Suit.  The fact that the back window could be lowered made the car cooler in the Fort Stockton summers with the added ventilation.  It would help dispel the smoke from Joan’s cigarettes on long trips.  Air conditioning was a rare and expensive feature not many paid extra for.  Certainly those who were accountants didn’t.

The business grew in the sixties.  Ranching, oil, and real estate all flourished in Fort Stockton, and all those required the services of a good accountant.  Bud and Joan slipped into a comfortable routine of middle age.  Bud became a deacon at the church; Joan volunteered at the library.  They joined the Fort Stockton Country Club and maintained a small circle of friends.  Bud would make it into the Grounds for Divorce now and again, but never really held a permanent seat at the round table.

Whereas most couples have children to focus on and keep them glued together, Bud and Joan lacked that focus.  The upside was the ability to travel frequently and have more funds to spend than those who were raising a family.  The downside was the bond that children create was lacking.  Bud wondered at times how life would have been different had things not taken the turn they did.  Their first child would have just been starting high school.

By 1969 Bud was in his early 40s.  He stopped off at the Lucky Lady Lounge for a beer on his way home from work one night in April, celebrating the end of tax season.  Proving just how much fate influences life, two people were in the bar that evening who impacted the days that would follow.

Trixie from the Klip-N-Dye was at the bar, and may have been for a while by the time Bud made his way to the stool next to hers.  They knew each other socially; Trixie had done Joan’s hair for years.  As she finished her third margarita, Trixie’s words were a bit slurred, her lipstick slightly smudged.  She whispered to him something about Pearl Harbor, which Bud didn’t fully understand.  “I’m sorry?” he said.

“Why don’t we go out to your car and I’ll blow the hell out of you?” she replied.

When it dawned on Bud what Trixie was hinting, suggesting, or downright offering, he was taken aback.  The reason for that was not that he thought Trixie was above such a thing.  Fort Stockton is a small town and Trixie has a big reputation.  No, Bud was more surprised by the fact that Trixie would have found him an attractive and willing target.  Granted, the margaritas had probably influenced her judgement.  But still.

Bud’s head was spinning.  

‘Maybe I still have it,’ he thought to himself.  ‘Perhaps there’s enough of the Bad Boy left in me to block out the Accountant and make me attractive.’  He glanced up and caught his reflection in the mirror behind the bar.  The glass was gold-veined and smoked, so the guy looking back looked a little younger, a slight bit slimmer, and with less of a bald spot than the reflection he saw in the mirror while shaving that morning.

The fact that he was looking at his own reflection in the mirror and sizing it up rather than over at Trixie sitting on the stool next to him should have been a sign to Bud.  It certainly was to Trixie.  It was only Roger, from Frontier Ford-Mercury, walking up and standing between the two of them that broke whatever spell may have been being cast.  “Fancy finding you both here!” Roger noted as he signaled Hank behind the bar to bring him a cold Lone Star Longneck.  “I needed to talk to both of you!”

Fate.  Sometimes it shows up to do the work of the Lord.  Sometimes it shows up to do the work of the devil.  There’s a thin line to be walked that separates the two.  On this particular evening, Fate walked the line holding hands with Roger from Frontier Ford-Mercury.  

“Your Cougar needs to be brought into the dealership for the Complimentary Six Month Service,” Roger told Trixie.  “We’ve got to keep everything rotated and lubricated.”  With those words Trixie’s gaze shifted from Bud to Roger, as did her intentions.  “And you, my friend,” Roger said as he turned his attention momentarily over to Bud, “You need to come in and see the new lineup of 1969 models.  I’ve got some real lookers on the showroom floor, and it’s past time to trade in that old ’63 S-55.  I’ll still give you top dollar for the trade-in, but it’s getting long in the tooth.”

Roger was right.  It was time for a new car.  Trixie was right, too.  Roger still has a little gas left in the tank.  Yeah, the mirror behind the bar was smokey.  But Trixie had forced Bud to see himself in a light that had been dimmed over the last decade.  He ordered another Lone Star as Trixie and Roger made their way out to the parking lot.  By the time he’d paid his tab, and Roger’s, and headed out to the Metallic Rose ’63 Mercury Monterey coupe, Bud had a bit of a spring in his step.  He felt like someone who may have dodged a bullet, but at the same time learned he didn’t have to bite one.  He barely even noticed the way Roger’s Grand Marquis demonstrator was rocking violently at the far end of the parking lot.

The next morning was Saturday.  A sunny day, one of the rare ones in Fort Stockton where it feels more like San Diego.  The perfect seventy degree temperature under wide blue skies was only dotted with clouds.  Joan had breakfast ready for Bud as soon as he finished shaving.  There may have been a bit of a glow in her cheeks from the night before, when Bud came home from the Lucky Lady.  Bud had taken her into the bedroom and given her instructions rather than suggestions.  He was still wearing a smile on his face as he came into the kitchen for bacon and eggs.

“Smells good.”  He sat down and ate quickly and without much conversation.  “I’ve got to run a few errands in town.  Be back either side of lunch, I’m guessing.”  

Bud was waiting for Roger at Frontier Ford-Mercury when it opened.  The styrofoam cup of coffee he picked up at the Dairy Twin was cold by the time Roger showed up.  “Didn’t know if you really wanted to make a sale today, or not,” Bud said to him, although it was still about ten minutes before the dealership was supposed to open.  “How’s the missus?”

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Roger felt like he’d been put on notice that his indiscretion in the Grand Marquis in the parking lot of the Lucky Lady the night before may have placed him at a distinct bargaining disadvantage in the trade that was about to take place.  He was right.  Tossing his keys down on the desk, he said “I figure it’s about time for you to move up to the top of the line.  Go Grand Marquis this time.  You deserve it.”

“Well, I noticed last night how softly they’re sprung.  I’ll bet the ride was nice.  But I’ve already found the one I want.  Write up the red Monterey convertible out front.”  Bud was confident that would be all he needed to say.  He’d known Roger for going on twenty years, Roger’s wife a bit longer.  He was the CPA for the dealership.  There was never any real negotiation to trading cars.  The reference to roasting the broomstick outside of the Lucky Lady ensured he got dealer invoice and full Blue Book for the ’63 coupe he was trading in.

When Bud got behind the wheel of the ruby red Monterey convertible, fresh from the Saint Louis factory where Ford had built it, he was transported back a quarter of a century to the last Mercury convertible he’d driven.  Time did nothing to dispel the satisfaction of piloting a beautiful car in the open air.  Bud didn’t feel like he was 18 again, with a greased back pompadour and a black leather jacket.  But he did feel younger than he had in a long long time.

When he pulled the big drop top into the driveway, Joan saw him from the window over the kitchen sink and was nearly as surprised as she had been the night before.  Granted, not as surprised as she would be once he came through the door and locked it behind him.  She had no idea what had gotten into her husband, but couldn’t wait to tell Trixie about it when she had her hair done that afternoon. 

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