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“Women are stupid and men are no damn good.”

If I had a dollar for every time I heard Lucinda mutter those words I’d be able to buy new shocks for the Fairlane 500.  Pastor Peterson always cautions her to not paint people with such wide brush strokes.  But most of us know she’s only referring to how they interact with the opposite sex, not really intelligence or behavior traits overall.

And most of us know she’s right, too.

There probably isn’t a better example of that theory than Angelina Panola.  She’s a local gal, bred and born right here in Fort Stockton from good Christian folks who went to church every Sunday and contributed to the community.  She was an attractive girl when she was younger. Real attractive.

That’s no doubt what attracted her to Dean Panola.  Dean was an athletic, handsome young man when he and Angelina met at Jim Bowie High School, “Home of the Fighting’ Knives”.  But he was the type of guy that would climb a tree to tell a lie when he could have stayed on the ground for the truth.  “You know how you could tell when Dean was lying?” Lucinda used to ask.  “His lips were moving.”  Beyond trouble with the truth, Dean had issues with keeping his pecker in his pants.  And alcohol.  Often those two things were entwined.

Though nearly everyone else in town knew Dean for exactly what he was, Angelina saw something different in him.  How, nobody ever figured, nor just what that was.  But she did.

Dean’s greatest talent seemed to be telling women what they wanted to hear. Most saw through it. Angelina did not. Flirtations turned to promises. Promises turned to clothes falling off in the front seat of Dean’s Camaro the summer after graduation.  There were promises that he’d be careful.  The third time it took place Dean ceased being careful and it resulted in the conception of Angelina’s first son and a hasty trip down the aisle. Dean’s resentment fueled his drinking. His drinking fueled his womanizing. Both contributed to Angelina’s overall conclusion that she may have made a mistake. A second pregnancy served to cement Dean’s decision that the family life was not for him. His quick departure was a welcome relief from the abuse, but it cast Angelina into a financial purgatory, as it does far too many single mothers with irresponsible former husbands.

She was forced to move out of the rent house she had shared with Dean and into a small flat at the Alamo Arms. Store brand macaroni and cheese out of the box became a staple. When the boys were older, oftentimes she would go without so they could have seconds. They never really understood they were even poor till years later when they were out on their own and looked back on those years in the apartment. 

What she provided for herself and her sons that was even more important than the roof over their heads or the food on the table was education. She made sure that no matter what, none of them would ever be trapped by their own circumstances. She saved every penny she could, even when there were few pennies available. Those pennies and scholarships, government programs, and loans allowed both boys to graduate from state colleges and go on to careers never available to their father, or even some of their more fortunate classmates. 

Angelina saw that education would be the only thing that would permanently lift herself out of the poverty that poor choices had put her in, as well. She took night classes at Pecos County College while working at K-Bob’s, earning an associate’s degree, and then a bachelor’s degree online. A passion for helping others led her down the path to nursing school. In a journey that took twice as long as it took people who’d traveled down easier roads, Angelina was eventually hired as an RN at Fort Stockton Memorial Hospital and Animal Research Facility. She eventually became the charge nurse in the ICU, a position that made her the envy of many. 

Of course, when Dean heard of her good fortune he wasted no time in heading back to Fort Stockton, leaving his fourth wife and various other offspring behind in Graham. He’d hoped to borrow some money for a “fresh start”. What he was doing in reality was proving the second half of Lucinda’s theory correct. For her part, Angelina had learned her lesson and was no longer willing to submit to the first half of Lucinda’s theory.  Nor would she submit to Dean’s pleadings. He was sent back to Graham half drunk and pockets completely empty. 

Having funded the education of herself and her sons, Angelina was able to save a down payment and eventually purchase a small frame home not too far from the hospital. It was as cute as a bug’s ear, the yard a perfect little English garden.  And then she splurged on something that surprised her friends, her family, and even her sons. She bought an old used 1975 Pontiac Grand Ville Brougham Convertible.  Manny over at Manny’s Motors had it out on the corner of the lot,  raised up on a makeshift platform, so folks couldn’t miss it.  Her youngest boy had gone to school with Manny and he made Angelina a good deal on the car.  “Tell Kyle I said ‘Hey’, and that I took good care of you!” Manny told her as he watched her drive off in the massive black boat.

Of course, it didn’t make any sense to most folks. Angelina had always been so thrifty and practical. But the Pontiac represented something to her that spoke to her very heart. It was the big, luxurious, comfortable car that she could never have bought when it was new. It was a treat. A reward for all of the sacrifice and hard work she’d put into overcoming the odds. Of course she never would have purchased it if she didn’t live so close to where she worked; the gas mileage was as deplorable as her former husband. But she felt like a queen when she drove it, and 25 years younger when the top was down and the sun was out.  The Pontiac was an indulgence, one of the few she ever succumbed to.  “The fender skirts make the thing look even longer, more luxurious, and even more elegant,” She’d told Manny.  He couldn’t disagree.

The Pontiac wasn’t transportation, it was automotive therapy. 

The Saturday afternoon Angelina wheeled the big Grand Ville into the parking lot of the hospital for her shift through the night, she parked it in the garage, away from any other cars, in the area normally reserved for doctors. She wasn’t authorized to park there, but there were never any doctors in that section on Saturday nights. She figured she’d earned the privilege. She left the top down on the convertible. She wasn’t worried about theft or vandalism. Clive, the night watchman in the parking garage, always kept an eye on it. After a long 12-hour shift, she liked seeing it waiting for her as she made the walk from the ICI ward through the garage and over to where it was parked. It just made her smile. Angelina had gone through a lot of years where she didn’t have much to smile about.  The fact that an old car could make that happen was a fortunate circumstance.

Inside, the first thing that caught Angelina’s attention was the marine in full dress uniform in the hall standing outside one of the rooms in the hall down from the nurses’ station. He reminded her of her oldest boy. He was stoically handsome, stone faced and somber. She wasn’t twenty minutes into her shift when bells started going off at the nurses station. She got up and hurriedly went down the hall where an old man was barely clinging to life. He obviously didn’t have long. 

Coming out of the room, she walked over to the marine. “Your father is wanting you to come in.”  The marine followed her back into the room. The old man looked up, but it wasn’t clear how much he could understand. The pain and the medication had taken most of his energy and ability to communicate. He held out his hand. 

The marine stepped over to the bed and held the old man’s hand. Angelina stepped out of the room. Her experience had taught her that privacy and respect were the best way to approach instances like these. She went back to her station, but checked back often. Every time the marine stood erect beside the bed, holding the old man’s hand. Neither tried to communicate. 

After midnight, she brought in a chair so the young man could sit and have some relief. He refused the offer, continuing to stand at attention, never letting go of the frail weak hand in his. 

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Around dawn, what little grip was left in the old man’s hand was released and he slipped away.  The monitors he was connected to ceased to perform their duties any longer.  The marine went to tell Angelina.  She quickly rose from her desk and went into the room to do what had to be done.  The marine waited at the nurses’ station.

When she got back to her desk, she started to offer her sympathies, but was cut off by the marine. “Who was that man?”

Angelina was startled.  “Well he was your father, of course,” she said.

“I’ve never seen him before in my life.  What was his name?”  The expression on the marine’s face didn’t change and Angelina knew he was being dead serious.

She shared the deceased man’s name, forgetting all about the HIPAA rules that would forbid such a thing.  “Why didn’t you say something when I called you into the room?”

“The man was needing his son. His son, for whatever reason, was not able to be here.  I was. Probably for a reason.  Holding a dying man’s hand as he prepared to leave the bounds of earth was an honor.  I would hope someone would do it for my own father, if given the chance.”  

An orderly came up to the desk about another matter and when Angelina turned back around the marine was gone.  She heard his measured and precise footsteps walking down the hall.  She never did get his name, nor even find out what had drawn him to the hospital the evening prior.

But the example of his compassion for a stranger stuck with her. When her shift was over she walked down to the parking garage.  The sight of her big black Pontiac Grand Ville, top down and welcoming in the corner, put a smile on her face, just like it normally did.  She took the long way home to feel the morning sun on her face and the wind blow through her short, thinning silver hair.  She put her foot into it and the 455 V8 roared to life out on Highway 10.  She could actually watch the gas needle head to the left as the Poncho came to life.

She was pleasantly surprised at how much just a short trip down a long road in an open convertible could put things in perspective. And she felt like she’d seen a man who proved her wrong about what men were, other than her two boys, of course.  She was thankful for huge old American boulevard cruisers and men who showed character and honor.

Granted, she vowed that if Dean Panola ever came back to Fort Stockton asking for money, she’d run the sumbitch over with the chrome front bumper, trim, rubber bumper guards, and cornering lights, and not even give it a thought.  But there was hope. And hope is a good thing to have, whether you’re an ICU nurse or not.

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