The night before opening had that crackling tension that usually precedes tornados, shotgun weddings, or the announcement of a new Whataburger going in on the bypass. Fort Stockton hummed with gossip. The mayor’s wife claimed she’d heard Trixie and Sugar Plum got into it over lipstick shades at the Lucky Lady bathroom. A woman at the feed store swore she saw Delgado meditating inside the cauldron for focus. And Lucinda, who was handing out lemon bars like they were communion, said only this: “They either gonna kill it or kill each other.”
The folding chairs were set. The bug zapper was charged. Sister Thelma had laminated programs stapled to popsicle sticks for impromptu fanning. Delgado wore a headset that wasn’t connected to anything, pacing like a nervous stage manager at the Globe Theatre who’d just realized someone cast a goat.
Hairless B29 stood off to the side, arms folded across his sleeveless chambray, watching his cast like a father watches a rattlesnake his kid wants to pet.
Trixie was already on edge. She’d spent the afternoon rehearsing her big scene and arguing with Sugar Plum over who got the final bow. Sugar Plum had simply smirked and said, “Age before beauty, darling,” which earned her a hard stare and a flipped finger behind a velvet cloak.
Hairless didn’t say anything. He was too busy not saying everything.
And that’s when the Dart arrived.
It didn’t screech. It didn’t roar. It glared its way into the parking lot with the silent disdain of a man who’s never once smiled in a yearbook photo. The 1973 Dodge Dart Custom Sedan, painted Light Blue Judgment with a white vinyl top and the mileage of a vengeful spirit, pulled in slowly, carefully, and rumbled to a halt.
The door opened like a church creaking on a Sunday no one showed up.
Out stepped Bishop Beaumont, the Methodist Bishop for The District of Greater Southwest Texas, Northeastern New Mexico, and Oregon.
Steel gray hair combed flat, black suit starched into submission, and a clipboard tucked under his arm like a holy weapon. He paused, took in the stock tank stage, the duct-taped banner, the two witches (both played by Trixie), and finally, Sister Thelma.
He did not smile.
“Thelma,” he said.
She stiffened like someone had goosed her with a communion fork. “Bishop.”
“You did not submit a building use form for this event.”
“I thought Hairless had.”
“I assumed Thelma had,” Hairless muttered from behind a trash can.
Beaumont’s gaze could’ve frozen tap water in a crockpot. “This production is unsanctioned. Unauthorized. And,” he added, eyeing Delgado’s fog machine with suspicion, “potentially pagan.”
Of course the whole situation would have been avoided had the production been able to be held inside the cafetorium at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, Sister Thelma’s own turf. But the roof leak was finally being fixed, the wood floors of the theater / lunchroom being replaced with special-ordered vinyl tiles depicting Texas miracles and wouldn’t be finished for weeks. Plus, the event begged for the big Texas sky as a backdrop.
She had meant to ask Pastor Peterson for his okay to use the former stock tank out back of the most United Methodist Church, but he was in Nacogdoches for a pastoral retreat. She was sure it wouldn’t be a problem, ‘honor among clergy’ and all. But here it was, turning into a re-run of the Reformation. “No good deed goes unpunished, Angus whispered,” as he sharpened his sword getting ready for his big scene.
Delgado tried to melt into the background, but tripped over a plug and hissed, “Damn it!” he said louder than he’d intended.
The cast gathered slowly, sensing the threat. Even New Guy abandoned his notes and inched closer, holding a Tupperware of sugar-free cookies he’d baked “in case anyone needed something neutral.”
Thelma stepped forward, chin high. “Bishop, this community needs this show. They’ve worked hard. They’ve memorized lines—most of them. And Lucinda already made flyers.”
“This is not about flyers,” the Bishop said, unfolding his clipboard. “This is about procedure. Accountability. Sanctity.”
It was at that exact moment that the fog machine backfired, sending a hissing cloud of theatrical doom directly at the Bishop’s polished shoes.
Everyone froze.
Sugar Plum stepped in, cool as January. “Now Bishop,” she drawled, “surely there’s room for a little culture ‘round here. If Shakespeare’s good enough for Stratford-upon-Avon, he oughta be good enough for Fort Stockton.”
“I’m sure he would be,” Beaumont replied, “if this were Stratford. And if someone hadn’t struck a possum last week with the communion van.”
“That was an armadillo,” Sister Thelma said. “And it lived.”
“I was told it limped,” he replied, stone-faced.
Hairless stepped in before the conversation turned biblical. “Look,” he said. “The play’s already up. Folks are expectin’ it. If we shut it down now, they’re not gonna blame bureaucracy. They’re gonna blame the church.”
Beaumont blinked slowly. “And what do you suggest?”
Hairless looked around. “One performance. Just the one. If it goes south, you can call it off. But if it works… maybe it wasn’t such a sin after all.”
The Bishop paused.
Sighed.
“Fine. One performance.”
A cheer broke out. Even New Guy clapped, although he was already muttering, “Technically, Macduff would’ve been a Presbyterian.”
The Bishop turned to leave. But not before spotting something else that caught his eye.
Two cars. Parked side by side behind the stage.
A 1958 Chevrolet Impala, white with turquoise accents. And next to it, a 1977 Lincoln Continental Town Coupe, dark and glinting like temptation in sedan form.
He looked back at Hairless, one eyebrow cocked like a shotgun.
“Yours and hers?”
Hairless lit a cigarette without answering.
“Careful, Mr. B29,” Beaumont said. “Fire’s only romantic ‘til it burns down the church.”
Later that night, under a sky full of Texas stars and gnats the size of walnuts, Hairless sat on the church steps sipping warm RC Cola and staring at the Impala.
Sugar Plum joined him. Quiet. Casual.
“You know folks are talkin’,” she said.
“They always talk.”
“Yeah, but they’re right this time.”
He didn’t say anything.
“You alright?”
He nodded. “Just… thinkin’.”
“About me and New Guy?” she teased.
He shook his head. “About the fact that I don’t think I care anymore.”
She leaned against him.
“That’s either really good or really sad,” she said.
“I ain’t sure which yet.”
From across the lot, Trixie watched them, arms crossed, mouth tight. Delgado approached with a timid smile.
“You okay?”
“She can have him,” Trixie said. “Let her try to keep his attention longer than a Shakespeare monologue.”
Delgado nodded. “You still want the fog to roll in during your entrance?”
“Oh yeah,” she said. “But crank it. If I’m going out, I’m going out mysterious.”
They both looked up at the stage.
Tomorrow was opening night.
And God help them, it just might work.
Sugar Plum leaned her head against Hairless’s shoulder. He didn’t flinch. He also didn’t lean back.
“You think we’ll pull it off?” she asked.
“I think we’re too far in to back out.”
Before she could reply, a car came skidding into the gravel with the urgency of someone late for a sale on pork chops. A late-model Ford Focus, grocery bags visible in the back seat, screeched to a halt next to the stage.
Chad. Assistant manager of the Piggly Wiggly. Third-generation grocer, full-time know-it-all, part-time stage whisperer.
He leapt out of the car, still wearing his Piggly name tag and apron, his face flushed with civic pride or maybe just heat exhaustion.
“Hairless!” he shouted. “You seen the window poster?”
“I try not to look at any window poster with your face on it,” Hairless said.
“No, I mean the new one.”
Chad trotted up, waving a rolled-up flyer.
“Piggly Wiggly is sponsoring tomorrow’s show,” he beamed. “Lucinda talked to my uncle Dale, and now we’re the exclusive grocer of Shakespeare in the Stock Tank. We’re bringin’ snack packs and off-brand soda. And someone’s donating folding fans with pig logos on ‘em. Gonna say ‘To Swine or Not to Swine.’”
Hairless blinked. “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”
“I know! But they’re already printed. And Lucinda made me the official intermission announcer.”
“God help us all.”
From behind the baptismal tank, Delgado poked his head around the corner.
“We could give him a little role, Hairless. Maybe he opens Act Two with a monologue about corn dogs?”
“We’re doing Macbeth, not MacSnack.”
Still, Chad looked so damn proud standing there in his apron that Hairless sighed and nodded.
“Fine. You can hold the donation bucket.”
Chad squealed and fist-pumped. “This is the best thing since we clearanced the jalapeño Spam!”
But just as things started to feel almost manageable, disaster rolled in like spring runoff through a broken levee.
Sister Thelma came running out of the church vestibule, arms flapping like a hen late for judgment.
“Hairless!” she called. “Emergency. Legal. Maybe both.”
He stood, wiping dust from his jeans. “What now?”
She handed him a letter printed on expensive cardstock and sealed with a gold-foil sticker that looked suspiciously like it had been stolen from a bottle of bourbon.
AN INJUNCTION, it read in dramatic legal font, TO CEASE AND DESIST PUBLIC PERFORMANCE OF “SHAKESPEARE IN THE STOCK TANK.”
Below that: Filed by the Silver Slipper Supper Club of Fort Stockton, Texas.
Hairless stared at the letter like it had personally insulted his mother.
“They’re sayin’ we’re pulling business away from their grand reopening,” Thelma huffed. “Apparently they flooded last month when Lake Leon jumped its banks during that spring rain.”
“I thought the Silver Slipper had mold.”
“It did. Then it had mildew. Then it had county inspectors.”
“Now it has lawyers?”
“Apparently so.”
From across the lot, Lucinda sauntered up, wiping her hands on her apron. “What’s this I hear about a cease and desist?”
Hairless handed it to her.
Lucinda read it once. Then again, slower. She squinted at the fine print.
“They’re citing public disturbance and competition for patron attention,” she muttered. “And they have the nerve to call this a renegade theatrical experience.”
Sugar Plum tilted her sunglasses down. “Sounds sexy.”
“It ain’t,” Hairless said. “It’s petty. That place has been closed for months.”
“Well it’s open now,” Lucinda said. “And their new tagline is ‘Where the Drama Belongs on the Dance Floor.’”
“Cute,” said Sugar Plum. “I’d still rather watch Lutz misquote Shakespeare while falling off a milk crate.”
“I already called Franklin Danbury, Jr.,” Sister Thelma said. “He says the injunction won’t stick, especially since ours is donation-only. But he might have to show up and wag a legal finger.”
Hairless sighed. “Fine. Let the Silver Slipper throw a tantrum. They’ve got karaoke and rehydrated shrimp. We’ve got fog machines and emotional baggage.”
Chad raised a hand. “Do I still get to make the intermission announcement?”
“Only if you keep it under two minutes and don’t mention coupons.”
“Deal.”
Later that night, the stars came out slow, like they were unsure if it was safe.
The folding chairs stood ready. The tank was swept. The lights were strung. And behind the Cattle Baron Hotel, two cars sat side by side like punctuation on a sentence no one wanted to read aloud.
Hairless’s 1958 Impala, paint dulled but proud. And Sugar Plum’s 1977 Lincoln Continental, gleaming under a floodlight like it knew a secret and was taking its time to tell it.
Someone—maybe Lucinda, maybe Delgado—snapped a photo.
By morning, the whole town would’ve seen it.
Sugar Plum stepped up beside Hairless again.
“Want to tell me why you look like someone kicked your soul?”
He stared at the cars. “Just thinking about how much you can’t go back.”
“You can’t,” she agreed. “But you can show up.”
Hairless didn’t say anything.
She reached out, took his hand. Just for a moment.
“You ready?” she asked.
He exhaled.
“Not at all.”
