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Misti LuAnn Duvall was the product of a broken home and found herself bouncing back and forth between Fort Stockton, where her mother lived and Dumas, where her father was from.  It was never clear whether Misti’s parents were ever actually married, although Lucinda said something about them fulfilling the requirements of Common Law Marriage.  

“If God didn’t bless it, then they ain’t married, no way, no how,” was New Guy’s reply to that.  Rusty nodded along and Pastor Peterson, saying nothing to dispute the comment, pretty much convinced everybody that was the God’s truth and it was never brought up again.

“Seems like she had airs every time she came back from Dumas after spending the summers with her father and his people up there.”  That’s what Becky from the Ben Franklin always said, and she and Misti had been best friends all through their five years together at Jim Bowie High School, “Home of the Fightin’ Knives.”  They both had to repeat 11th grade, stretching their high school years into almost their 20th year on earth.

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Dumas, located about 50 miles north of Amarillo in the Texas panhandle, is the county seat of Moore County.  Residents of the town are quick to tell strangers, “You know we got our first fire truck in 1946!”  People never quite know how to respond to that statement, not knowing if it’s an embarrassment they just want to get out of the way or a point of pride they want to be sure and convey.  Since that very fire truck is on display at the Windows on the Plains Museum, one can only assume that it must be a point of pride.  Yet, most folks still walk away scratching their heads and looking for context.

Dumas like to refer to itself as “Halfway between Denver and Dallas,” which is ironic because it shares nothing in common with either of those larger, more cosmopolitan locations.  “It’s like bragging about being halfway between being a virgin and pregnant,” Lucinda says.  “What does it even mean?”  She might have a point.

Of course the other thing that Dumas is known for is I’m a Ding Dong Daddy from Dumas, a song written and sung by Phil Baxter, accompanied by Phil Harris and his orchestra in 1928. It was originally named after the town of Dumas, Texas. The radio station KDDD-FM in Dumas is named after the song, hence the three D’s stand for Ding Dong Daddy.

Once folks learn about the halfway point between Dallas and Denver, 1946 being a pivotal year for the town because of the fire truck, and the county courthouse for Moore County being right there on the square, they have pretty much learned all there is to know about Dumas and they move on to Shamrock or Pampa for greater inspiration.  Or, in the case of Misti LuAnn Duvall, they just come back to Fort Stockton.

When Misti came back to town at the end of the summer before her second attempt at 11th grade, she seemed different.  Someone said “more worldly.”  But going to Dumas to become “more worldly” is kind of like going to Houston to find God.  It ain’t impossible, but the chances are real slim.  Becky suspected  Misti had lost her virginity to some lucky cowpoke in the panhandle, but Misti was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing, no pun intended.

What nobody could deny was the fact that Becky had a pronounced predilection for Pontiac Trans Ams and men with mullets.  While there were plenty of the latter in Fort Stockton, the former were few and far between.  Trans Ams weren’t that popular in Fort Stockton when you could go down and buy one brand new from Big Chief Pontiac.  Once GM shut down the Pontiac Division and the local dealership, Big Chief Pontiac, closed and the building became the Unity Church, Trans Ams became rarer than a two dollar steak at K-Bob’s.

That year of her second 11th grade, Misti spent most of her free time wearing out her VHS tape of Smokey and the Bandit, trying out new shades of Clairol hair dye, and taking country and western dance classes at the VFW hall.  She seemed like someone lost and looking for answers to questions she couldn’t even define.  That is, until Travis Bodine walked into the VFW hall one Saturday night.

Travis Bodine wasn’t from Fort Stockton.  While that would turn a lot of local girls right off, it made him look even better in his Dale Earnhardt t-shirt to Misti than he would have otherwise.  The Skoal ring in the back pocket of his Levi’s called to Misti like a feral hog in rut.  When the David Allan Coe song, You Never Even Call Me by My Name started playing, Misti made her way across the dance floor and past the display of photographs of World War II wounds and introduced herself to the stranger.

For his part, Travis Bodine was nearly as transfixed on Misti LuAnn as she was on him.  “Ain’t you just a big ol’ sweet Moon Pie!” he said as he spun her on to the dance floor.  By the time the disc jockey was playing Wynona’s Big Brown Beaver by Primus, the two of them were stuck together on the dance floor like Bisquick and cast iron.

After about the third song and fourth beer, or the other way around, Travis leaned down and whispered into Misti’s ear, “What say we go out to the parking lot and see what this leads to?”

Misti wasn’t inclined to make herself appear to be the cheap sort and acted like she wasn’t that kind of girl.  But when he whispered, “When’s the last time you was in a Trans Am?” she wasn’t sure which would hit the floor first, her lower jaw of her panties.

Sure enough, parked out under the old pecan tree next to a field of bluebonnets was a 2013 Chevrolet Camaro 2SS RS Coupe Trans Am Tribute.  Misti couldn’t tell if it was the 7 Pearl beers, the way the light from the moon was diffused by the limbs of the pecan tree, or the animal magnetism being generated by her new best friend, but the black and gold car in front of her sure looked like a Trans Am.  It had the Firebird Trans Am-style body kit, which consisted of revised front and rear fascias, front fenders, a shaker hood, taillights, and simulated quarter panel scoops. Additional exterior details included a sunroof, a rear spoiler, quadruple exhaust outlets, fog lights, and xenon headlights with LED halo rings.

While she thought Camaros were only driven by peckerwoods, the car in front of her had 21” alloy wheels wear Pontiac-branded center caps that were mounted with Pirelli P-Zero tires measuring 245/40 up front and 275/35 out back.  She figured it had to be a Trans Am.  “Braking is handled by red-finished Brembo calipers over drilled rotors at all four corners,” he told her as his hands wandered to places they had no business going.  Twenty minutes later, the rotors weren’t the only thing that had been drilled.

Misti LuAnn Duvall was lucky to get through her second 11th grade.  Going for 12th grade was dicey.  She and Travis Bodine were as inseparable as they were insufferable and her attendance at school suffered as a result.  At the VFW dances she’d tell girlfriends in the bathroom, “We’re going to get married.  He hasn’t asked yet, but I know he’s going to.  He can’t keep his hands off me.”

Meanwhile, out back of the VFW hall where the men would go who only had to do a Number One, he’d tell anyone within earshot, “That girl can suck a bowling ball through 40 feet of garden hose!”  Not exactly the thoughtful proposal or affirmation of love that one would expect, but an admirable admission, nonetheless, given the large discrepancy in the diameters of the two objects noted.

And so it was for months.  Lust.  Love.  Moon Pies and Dusk Mojave leather.  Everything a girl could ever want except the offering of a ring and promise of marriage.  And then, in a brutal discovery of betrayal, just after graduation Misti found out that Travis’s utterances of love were as fake as the “Trans Am” he drove.  Misti was confronted with evidence that Travis had been the meat in a Trixie and Shannon Hudspeth sandwich.  The threesome from Hell.  She couldn’t have believed it had it not been posted for everyone to see on the Klip-N-Dye Facebook page.

Misti went into a rage, but kept it within herself.  She waited until the next time the two of them were to go out dancing at the VFW.  She came on to Travis all night, as though there was nothing wrong.  Getting him hot and bothered, she suggested he give her the keys to the Trans Am so she could wait in the car.  “You go back behind the hall and empty your bladder.  I’ll be waiting for you in the car.  Buck naked.”

Ten minutes later, as he walked around the side of the VFW in anticipation of the kind of romance that can only take place in a tribute car, Misti was waiting behind the wheel.  Slapping the fake Poncho into gear, all 400 horses were raring to go at the far end of the parking lot.  The 6.2-litre L99 V8 was unleashed and headed straight for Travis Bodine.  The last thing he ever saw was the shaker hood scoop, just before his head slammed into it, as Misti got the Quasi-Pontiac up to about 50 MPH.  The beak of the Blue Ray Metallic over Dusk Mojave leather sports coupe almost cut him in half.

The coroner testified at Misti’s trial that Travis was probably already dead at that point.  “But when the defendant put the faux-Firebird into reverse, backed up about 20 yards, and then put it in drive again, the 21” alloy wheels mounted with Pirelli P-Zero tires did things to the deceased that cannot be described in court.  There were parts of Mr. Bodine that we were not able to remove from the car.  Thus the salvage title.”  He also noted some discoloration on the interior of the car around the radio bezel, but could not say for sure if that had anything to do with the homicide, or just normal General Motors build quality.

The jury of 12 Fort Stocktonites was appalled at both the severity of the crime and the attempt to turn a Camaro into a Trans Am.  While Misti LuAnn Duvall had no prior record, she was given the maximum sentence of life in prison with no chance of parole, meaning she should be on the streets again in about a dozen years.

In the meantime, she is incarcerated at the Governor William P. Clements Correctional Facility just outside Fort Stockton.  Not too far from Joaquin Despeada.

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