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Back a few decades ago there was an evangelist preacher that came to town every spring named Cleetus Harker who drove a Cadillac almost exactly like this one.

Call me crazy, maybe even Plum Crazy, but in all my ecclesiastical studies I never got the impression that this is what Jesus would drive.

But every late March or early April he would roll into Fort Stockton, rent a carnival tent from Clint over at Clint’s Rents Tents, set it up just outside of town and the crowds would follow.

He made sure the car he drove was an Eldorado rather than a DeVille because that was just too close to ‘Devil’ for comfort.  The flames were already pushing the envelope; any subtle references to Satan would have been too much.

Harker, who preferred to be called ‘Hark’ (as though the herald angels would sing at his appearance), would somehow arrange to speak at an assembly of the entire student body of Jim Bowie High School, “Home of the Fightin’ Knives”, while he was in town every single year.  Lucinda always found it strange that he would park the Cadillac outside the entrance to the Girls’ Locker Room instead of the Guest Parking spaces right in front of the cafetorium.  But she was never one to ring the alarm bells unless the facts were indisputable.  “Nonetheless, a wink is as good as a nod to a blind man,” she’d say.  Most of her customers at the Grounds for Divorce weren’t even sure what that meant, but they could tell it was cautionary.

It can be pretty hot in Fort Stockton by Spring Break, but nothing like the hellfire and brimstone Cleetus could bring to bear at those assemblies.  When he would get all worked up over immorality it would get to the point that even the adults would have to stop by the Lucky Lady Lounge and have a beer or three, just to cool down.  Apparently they had missed the part of the presentation on the evils of alcohol as well.

If I didn’t know better, I would say this could be the same car.  His air conditioner was disconnected, too.  Cleetus felt it important for whomever the passenger was riding next to him (usually a young female, okay always a young female) to be able to look herself in the eye in the vanity mirror and make an important decision.  A life changing choice.  It was better if there was some sweat on her brow when going through that process.  It made it more dramatic, and drama leads to more memorable decisions.

Little things make a big impact.

Over the years crowds began to dwindle as questions began to surface as to exactly what Cleetus’ qualifications were.  The doves that he used to release at just the right moment that seemed to be symbols directly from God were overfed and no longer really got airborne over the crowd.  They tended to just walk around the gym floor looking for dropped popcorn and nacho bits left over from the basketball game.  Again, it’s the little things.  Or not-so-little in the case of the doves.

One Friday, Pastor Peterson at the Mostly United Methodist Church arranged to have lunch with Brother Bob from the Second Baptist Church and Sister Thelma from Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern.  The three met over at the Friendly Frijole just off Freeway 10 to discuss the situation over Mexican food.

Anytime you could get the Methodists, Baptists, and Catholics to all agree on anything was like turning water into a frozen house margarita with a salted rim.  So when the three of them agreed to pen an editorial together that would be published in the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch questioning the evangelist’s qualifications, background, and intent, Hark didn’t stand a chance.  Nothing traveled through town like the STD with a controversial editorial.

Turns out they didn’t need to worry about it.

Seems there was a very young girl over in San Angelo at the Liberty Cosmetology Academy that was with child and it was not an immaculate conception.  The finger was pointed at Hark.  The herald angels may have been singing in the Eldorado, but more likely it was Fleetwood Mac on the local radio station as he drove her to the A-1 Motel in Toyahvale.  There was certainly a conversion that took place in Room #3, but it was not of an ecclesiastical nature.  “It was almost like the original Christmas story,” Rusty Hammer from the hardware store noted.  “Except it was lacking a virgin and any wise men.”

Regardless, Cleetus took Judas’ way out of the situation.  He downed a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine and drove the Eldorado at full speed,  over the cliff of what would later become Fiesta Texas.  Kind of a Thelma & Louise ending, but in a Cadillac rather than a Thunderbird.  He’d left a note in the glovebox.  It was about the only thing that didn’t burn in the resulting fireball at the bottom of the cliff.  It read, “What we do here echoes in eternity.”  When Lucinda read that in the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch, she threw the paper down and said, “It damn sure does.  It DAMN sure does.”

When the wind blows just right, over the roar of the roller coaster you can still hear Mick Fleetwood, the 429cubic inch V8 producing 340 horsepower under the hood of a flame painted purple Eldorado, and Cleetus Harker all wailing a song that is forever out of tune.

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