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The 1963 Chevrolet Bel Air had been the pride of Pecos County for three straight years—not because it was the fastest, prettiest, or best-handling car around, but because it was the only vehicle to ever win both the Ground for Divorce Christmas Invitational Folgers & Fenders and place third in the Boys’ Choir Christmas Parade the same year. That kind of versatility said something about its owner. Unfortunately, what it said was, “Delbert Frawley’s got too much time and not enough sense.”

Delbert had bought the car from a widowed veterinary dentist in Sanderson for $1,300 and half a bottle of Smirnoff Lime. The dentist didn’t want the car to begin with—it had belonged to his deceased wife, who’d driven it exactly twice a month: once to the Piggly Wiggly and once to Bingo. The seats still smelled faintly of Juicy Fruit and Velamints, which Delbert claimed was proof of “lady ownership,” like that made it collectible or something.

Painted Silver Blue with a white roof that matched his ego, Delbert’s Bel Air looked like something Buddy Holly would’ve driven if he’d survived the plane crash and gone into HVAC repair. It had dual side mirrors for symmetry and rear side exit exhausts that spat out a blue puff every time Delbert got excited—usually after burritos or a surprise cash win from a scratch-off.

That fall, Delbert entered the car in the Pecos County Civic Rally, which was not a real rally, per se, but more of an excuse for locals to drink beer and one-up each other’s vehicles in categories like “Shiniest Lug Nuts” and “Most Original Ignition Key.” Delbert believed this was his year, on account of him replacing the missing glovebox with a working one with a lock, and also installing blue rubber floor mats he stole from his cousin’s truck.

The event was held in the parking lot of the Bridges  Funeral Home, which doubled as the town’s only venue with both shade and a soda machine. The parking lot had a slight slope, which caused several cars to slowly roll into one another over the course of the afternoon. No one really minded, since most attendees couldn’t be legally classified as sober.

Delbert’s competition included:

• Ricky Don Phelps, who brought his 1985 IROC-Z Camaro with T-tops, one of which had been patched with a Pizza Hut box and painter’s tape.
• Tina LaRue, who showed up in a pink Suzuki Sidekick and a tube top that did more heavy lifting than her transmission.
• And Pastor Wayne Fromme, the Lutheran minister from Marfa, who entered his wife’s Subaru Outback under the category “Most Likely to Outlive All of Us.”

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Delbert parked the Bel Air at an angle that suggested it had just swooped in from a moonshine run, though the closest he’d come to bootlegging was helping his uncle Carl refill shampoo bottles with tequila to sell at the flea market.

He wiped the hood down with a sock and spit-polished the chrome bumpers using an old toothbrush dipped in Dr Pepper. The kind made in Dublin, Texas with real Imperial pure cane sugar.  “Gotta shine her up like a new penny in a preacher’s pocket,” he muttered, puffing his chest out like he’d just discovered metallurgy.

That’s when Scoop Schulenburg of the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch showed up, trailing cigarette smoke and half a notebook. “Heard you entered that glorified refrigerator,” Scoop said, pen dangling from his ear like a lazy earring. “Got any words for the press?”

Delbert adjusted his belt and grinned like a possum with a bank loan. “Tell the people I don’t come to win—I come to shock and awe.”

“Like the Iraq War?”

“Exactly. Nobody understood that either.”

As the judging began, a wave of low expectations rolled through the crowd. The announcer, old Clayton Spinks, had been drinking since breakfast and mistakenly called the event the “Clivic Rally,” which sounded fancier but confused the entire Subaru crowd.

By the time they reached the Best in Period-Correct Styling category, Delbert was ready. He popped the hood with a flourish and stood proudly beside his 283ci V8 like he’d hand-forged it from melted-down trophy wives. He even pointed out the four-speed floor shifter, which had a knob shaped like a billiard ball for reasons no one fully understood.

“It’s like sittin’ on a blue cloud of legal sin,” Delbert told a nearby tourist from Odessa. “My car’s got the kind of soul your pastor warns you about but your grandma still rides to Bingo in.”

When the judges approached, Delbert offered them lemonade from a cooler in the back seat, but it tasted suspiciously like malt liquor and hand soap. They nodded politely and moved on, one of them scribbling “might be drunk” next to his name on the judging sheet.

Then came the moment that would go down in Pecos County legend.

Right as Delbert revved the engine to show off the exhaust, a squirrel—possibly high on Funyuns—launched itself from the oak tree above and dove straight into the passenger window, landing on the dash like a fuzzy grenade.

Delbert screamed. The Bel Air backfired. The squirrel panicked and latched onto Delbert’s neck, prompting him to flail wildly and knock the gearshift into first. The car lurched forward and clipped the corner of Pastor Wayne’s Subaru, which rolled gently into Tina LaRue’s Sidekick, which then struck the snack table, sending a tray of deviled eggs into the air like sulfurous cannonballs.

Someone yelled, “GET THE SHERIFF!” but Chief Martin was already there, laughing so hard he dropped his chili dog.

Eventually the squirrel was dislodged and seen scampering toward the woods, dragging half a floor mat with it. Delbert’s neck had three fresh holes and a bite mark that would later get infected and briefly qualify him for rabies quarantine.  Not his first quarantine experience, the previous one involving Trixie from the Klip-N-Dye, some rusty clipping shears, and a promise to never discuss the details.

But as the sun dipped behind the limestone ridge and the event wound down, the crowd buzzed with admiration. Not for the damage. Not even for the squirrel. But for Delbert’s style. He hadn’t won a trophy, but he had been given a laminated Certificate of Considerable Drama and a twenty-dollar gift card to the Grounds for Divorce Café, where he could get a free side of biscuits from Lucinda if he promised not to talk about the squirrel.

Later that night, sitting in his now-dented Bel Air with a packet of ointment and a warm beer, Delbert smiled and said to himself, “Well, hell. I told ‘em I’d shock and awe.”

And sure enough, in Pecos County folklore, he did.

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