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No one knew his real name anymore, and those who once did had the decency to forget it. In Fort Stockton, he was just Hairless B29—a name earned, not given. The tattoo stretched across his upper back from shoulder blade to shoulder blade and lower than anyone cared to navigate: a B-29 Superfortress spiraling into flames over a cluster of palm trees, a red-lipped pin-up clinging to the fuselage, dress blown skyward. It was the kind of tattoo that sparked questions, but not answers.

“Some stories,” he’d say, sipping burnt coffee at Grounds for Divorce, “don’t make it past the redaction stage.”

At seventy-something years old, Hairless B29 looked like he could still win a bar fight if the jukebox was playing Merle Haggard and the lighting was in his favor. Tanned like a belt, bald as a cue ball, and built like a retired barbell, he wore tight chambray shirts, mostly with the sleeves ripped off, old Navy-issue jeans, and occasionally a bolo tie so audacious it could blind someone at sunrise. He was a sucker for stray cats, Kansas City strip sirloins, and anything printed in the Wall Street Journal. But his only real soft spot—aside from the recurring groin pull he refused to see a doctor about—was his car.

The 1958 Chevrolet Bel Air Impala Sport Coupe.

Ermine White with turquoise guts and steel wheels that caught the sun like a mirror on judgment day. He’d picked it up two decades back, chasing the ghost of a youth he’d never quite remembered right. Somewhere between the repaint and the reupholster, he decided to leave the Continental kit on the back end, though he griped about it every time he reversed into something.

“The damn thing’s longer than a senator’s story,” he’d mutter, eyeing the rear like it owed him money.

Lucinda, who knew a thing or two about men who talk louder than they listen, always insisted, “It gives the car character.” And that was that. He kept the skirts on the rear wheels too, most of the time, even though they made the whole thing look like it was trying out for a drag show.

Every Tuesday and Thursday morning, Hairless rolled into Grounds for Divorce like he was clocking in at a place that only paid in sarcasm and second chances. He’d slap his red pen on the counter and demand the weekly draft of the menu.

“Where’s the proof, Lucinda?” he’d bark. “And I don’t mean Delgado’s birth certificate. I mean commas. I mean clarity. I mean coleslaw spelled with a C, not a K like some damn anarchist.”

Lucinda, already two sips into her second cup, didn’t even glance up. “In the back, Hairless. Next to the pickle buckets and your inflated ego.”

Delgado would hand him the laminated draft like it might be contagious, then go busy himself restocking napkin holders just in case an explosion of misplaced apostrophes sent Hairless into another sermon about syntax.

“I got a degree in English,” Hairless would remind anyone within earshot. “University of Corpus Christi, class of ‘72. Served my country before that, but most of my service was conducted in…well, let’s call them compromised theaters of operation.”

One night, after the pie had all been sold and only the regulars remained—Buddy nursing his usual beer and existential dread, Trixie throwing darts like she was aiming at her third husband’s memory—Hairless parked himself at the counter and let out a sigh so deep it nearly fogged the jukebox.

Lucinda, wiping down the Bunn-O-Matic, shot him a look. “What now? You find a misplaced semicolon?”

“No.” He set his coffee down like it disappointed him. “Ran into Carla Jean Ashburn outside the library today.”

Lucinda raised an eyebrow. “The one who married that preacher with the Camaro?”

“No, that was Carla Lynn,” he corrected. “Carla Jean—the one who used to wear nothing but halter tops and trouble.”

“Oh,” she said, slowly. “That Carla Jean.”

“Yeah.” He looked down at his cup. “She told me I look good for my age.”

“Well, you do.”

“No, Lucinda. No. She said I look healthy. Like she was evaluating a side of beef at the 4-H auction.”

Delgado popped his head out of the kitchen. “You are kind of lean and leathery.”

“Appreciate that, son,” Hairless said without warmth. “Tell you what. Why don’t you write lean and leathery under the soup of the day and see how many bowls we sell?”

He rose with a creak and a grunt, reached for his car keys—custom keychain shaped like a bomb, naturally—and gave Lucinda a once-over. “Don’t let them change your menu too much. You start chasing Yelp reviews and next thing you know, you’re putting tofu in the chili.”

She winked. “Only if I run out of lard.”

Outside, the West Texas wind blew sand across the sidewalk like nature’s own exfoliant. The Bel Air Impala sat at the curb, dignified and low-slung, catching the streetlights like a Hollywood starlet holding in a secret.

Hairless paused before climbing in, gave the hood an affectionate thump. “Still prettier than any of my exes,” he said aloud. “And louder, too.”

He turned the key, and the 283ci V8 rumbled to life with the kind of burble that makes dogs bark and old men nod approvingly. As he eased down Main Street, the push-button radio spat out a faint rockabilly tune he didn’t recognize but respected. The heater blew warm air across his boots, and the front bench seat felt just right under him—split folding, like it knew the difference between alone and accompanied.

At the light by the courthouse, a teenager in a tricked-out Civic gave him a rev and a nod. Hairless stared back, calm as dawn.

The light turned green.

He let the Civic launch ahead with all the subtlety of a fireworks stand on fire, then cruised forward at a leisurely 25 mph. The kid’s taillights disappeared into the dark.

Hairless grinned. “That’s right, sailor. You go on and win that race.”

He turned down the road leading back to the weathered ranch-style place he called home. The driveway was narrow, and backing in took patience with that Continental kit swinging out like a third opinion. But he got it parked clean. As he stepped out, a neighbor’s porch light flipped on.

“Evenin’, Hairless,” called the voice of Miss Billie from two doors down.

“Evenin’, Miss Billie. How’s that yappy dog of yours?”

“Still yappin’. You ever gonna take me up on that peach cobbler?”

He paused, gave her a crooked smile. “One of these days. Long as there’s no tofu in it.”

Inside, he hung his keys on a nail in the wall and set the corrected menu draft on the table, ready for morning. He peeled off his shirt, stretched his arms, and stood in front of the mirror for a beat. Turning around, the tattoo of the flaming B-29 stared back, its paint still vivid, its meaning still unclear.

He whispered to it like an old friend.

“Still got it, don’t we?”

And the plane, always mid-crash, never answered—but it never disagreed, either.

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