Fort Stockton, Texas. Population: Not ready.
It was just past nine when the stranger walked into the Grounds for Divorce. Not strutted, not shuffled—walked, like he had no need to prove a damn thing to anyone, and if you didn’t like that, you could go find a quieter part of Texas to misunderstand him in.
Lucinda clocked him first. Mostly because you couldn’t not clock a man like that. Hair slicked like a Vegas lounge singer with a payday advance, wraparound mirrored sunglasses indoors, and a pressed shirt that somehow managed to be equal parts Elvis Presley and sheriff’s department evidence bag. She whispered to Delgado, who was elbow-deep in a fresh pot of chili, “Either we’re about to be robbed, propositioned, or saved.”
Delgado muttered, “Might be all three.”
He slid into the corner booth like he’d already paid the property taxes on it. Mayor Goodman was waiting for him, decked out in his usual cowboy-meets-real-estate-flipper ensemble, and Brother Bob from the Second Baptist Church of Fort Stockton had brought his Bible, his sermon notes, and the thinnest veil of morality he could manage on a Tuesday.
They didn’t shake hands. They nodded. That’s the kind of meeting it was.
Lucinda approached, pad in hand, coffee already poured. “You fellas look like trouble,” she said, setting three mugs down with that sharp clink only a seasoned server can deliver.
Brother Bob smiled too wide. “Just community business, Lucinda. This gentleman is… exploring opportunities.”
“Exploring, huh.” She glanced at the stranger. “Hope you brought a compass and a lawyer.”
He didn’t answer. Just took a sip of the coffee, nodded once like it met expectations, then returned to listening as Goodman leaned in close, whispering in a tone reserved for both confessions and cash deals.
Lucinda retreated, but not before catching the distinct scent of diesel, leather, and cologne that cost more than Delgado’s monthly meat order.
Out the window, it sat.
A truck. Nay, a truck in all-caps. Yellow as a warning sign and twice as unsubtle, with green and blue graphics splashed across it like it lost a bet with a paintball team. The beast sat high on tires thick enough to crush hope and curbs alike. Chrome glinted off it like stage lights off a rhinestone suit.
Lucinda stood there for a second, drying her hands on her apron, staring through the glass like it might blink. “That thing’s got more steps than the Texas state capitol,” she muttered, “and almost as many as Brother Bob’s program for forgiveness.”
Folks in Fort Stockton had seen a lot—snake handlers, oil fires, even a man who claimed to have dated three O’Dell sisters at once—but this? This was new.
“That thing got its own zip code?” Rusty Hammer asked from across the café, squinting through the window.
“Looks like it drinks diesel and souls,” mumbled Barnaby at the barber shop at about the same time.
“Manning Equipment tags,” Delgado added. “Louisville and San Antonio. That thing was built somewhere bad decisions are sold wholesale.”
Lucinda took another lap past the corner booth. “Y’all comfortable back here?” she asked with a smile just sharp enough to cut brisket.
Brother Bob cleared his throat. “Very.”
Mayor Goodman turned, eyes sparkling with plans and promises. “Lucinda, this here’s Mr. Mendez.”
The stranger finally looked up, removing his sunglasses to reveal eyes that had seen a little too much of everything. He smiled. “Call me Santo.”
Lucinda blinked. “That short for something?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Sanctimonious.”
Lucinda didn’t flinch. “We got a kid named Dirt in town. You’re gonna fit right in.”
Word spread fast. By the time the afternoon lull set in, half of Fort Stockton had done a drive-by just to gawk at the yellow behemoth parked out front. Trixie came by on her lunch break and leaned so far out her Buick’s window she nearly fell out.
“I don’t know whether to jump in or run away,” she said, fanning herself.
Hairless B29 showed up just to stare. “I ain’t felt this kind of threat since they replaced the Folgers at the Piggly Wiggly with that Keurig nonsense.”
The truck, of course, was more than just a truck. It had steps like a stairway to heaven, or at least a strip club with delusions of grandeur. Grab handles, rear-seat entertainment, air horns, and a bumper that looked like it had punched a semi once and won. Inside, it was all gray cloth upholstery and cruise-control irony. A Garmin navigation unit blinked patiently on the dash like it was trying to figure out what it had done in a past life to end up here.
And the man who drove it? Nobody quite knew what to make of Santo Mendez. He wasn’t rude, but he wasn’t friendly. Didn’t ask questions, but somehow seemed to already know the answers. When he did talk, it was like molasses over gravel. Sticky. Unexpected. Possibly dangerous.
Lucinda brought him a second helping of meatloaf, “on the house,” just to pry a little.
“You from Vegas, huh?” she asked, casual.
He nodded. “Vegas, then Laughlin, then Laughlin again under a different name. Then I spent some time in Odessa learning what not to do with dynamite.”
“You married?”
“I’ve been accused.”
“And what brings you to Fort Stockton, Santo?”
He smiled. “A job opportunity. Something… managerial.”
That evening, Brother Bob gave a half-hearted sermon about temptation, which Lucinda found ironic since he’d been seen sliding a twenty across the table to Santo earlier. Mayor Goodman took a “private tour” of the Scuttlebutt, and by morning, the town’s new hire was official.
A laminated sign taped to the glass door of the Grounds for Divorce the next morning read:
CONGRATULATIONS SANTO MENDEZ — NEW GENERAL MANAGER OF THE SCUTTLEBUTT GENTLEMAN’S CLUB.
Underneath it, someone (Delgado, probably) had scribbled in Sharpie:
Now Accepting Applications for Part-Time Angels. Experience Not Required. Morals Optional.
The truck stayed parked in front of the café all week, basking in its own ridiculousness like a sunburned peacock. Kids posed with it. One man tried to propose to his girlfriend in front of it (she said yes, but mostly because she thought it was a publicity stunt).
Lucinda, arms crossed, coffee mug in hand, just shook her head.
“Welcome to Fort Stockton,” she muttered. “Where the sins arrive on four wheels, chrome-plated, and airbrushed like a meth-fueled fever dream.”
Santo Mendez didn’t mind. He waved to the town from behind mirrored shades, leaned on the chrome bumper, and watched the parade of curiosity roll by.
He was right where he belonged.
And Fort Stockton? Well, it was about to get a whole lot weirder.
2 responses to “A STRANGER THIS WAY COMES, Part I”
Hopefully Lucinda has at least a 55 gallon drum of high powered disinfectant on hand to treat that corner table after Santo and the Mayor sat there.
Better yet, perhaps Delgado should see if there’s any DDT remaining in some old barn outside of town.
The only question is which one of the M’s, Mendez or the Mayor, is sleazier, something that even our dear narrator may have a difficult time answering.
I can see where a few stories might emanate from this gentleman.