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There’s a certain kind of hum that settles over a Formica table when you get the right folks circled around it. Not the kind you hear so much as feel in your molars. It’s the weight of caffeine, contradiction, and the distinct possibility someone’s about to say something either wise or wildly off course.

That’s where we were—me, Rusty Hammer, New Guy, Chad from the Piggly Wiggly, Angus Hopper, Pastor Peterson, Hairless B29, and Sister Thelma—holding court at the Grounds for Divorce. Delgado was crashing pans in the kitchen. Lucinda kept the Folgers hot, strong enough to strip paint off an oil drum, and poured with the kind of precision that came from decades of quietly enduring nonsense.

Chad leaned back in his chair like a man staring down the barrel of a loaded birthday.  “Can’t believe I’m coming up on forty.”

Lucinda didn’t even blink. “Welcome to your 40s. The first song you ever made out to is now on a commercial showing how you can live an active life with Crohn’s disease.”

That landed somewhere between tragedy and a punchline, like most things in Fort Stockton.

Angus, who looked like he hadn’t slept since the Reagan administration, piped up between sips of black coffee and the slow rotation of his jaw on a piece of beef jerky.
“Just got back from Britten,” he said. “Saw the Leaning Tower of Texas. Still leanin’. Ten degrees off center. Built in ’81 for a truck stop that burnt down in ’88. Still draws folks who want to see somethin’ lean but don’t want to cross an ocean.”

Sister Thelma gave him her patented blend of kindness and condemnation:
“Well bless your heart.”

New Guy, eyes wide like he hadn’t slept or blinked in a decade, scribbled something in a notebook made of brown grocery sacks. “How do I grow a set of antlers and become a deep forest mist deity within five years?”

Lucinda didn’t hesitate. “Gods become gods through the power of belief, so first step is you gotta believe in yourself. Once you start doing that, up your calcium intake or your antlers won’t come in right.”

Hairless B29 raised his head slowly, like a turtle detecting vibrations. “Washing machines and dryers cause localized disruptions in space-time through the effects of spinning metal drums in an electromagnetic field. And heat.” He sipped like that was the only answer anyone had ever needed to every question ever asked.

Rusty nodded like a man finally understanding why his socks always went missing.

We made it a full five minutes before someone mentioned the Mud Hens.

“They’re done,” Chad said, full of confidence he hadn’t earned. “Unless they figure out how to keep from blowin’ a six-run lead.”

Rusty muttered something about bullpen velocity. Thelma offered to lay hands. Hairless said he’d been offered a pitching contract in ’73 but turned it down for Shakespeare and naval intelligence.

Pastor Peterson leaned in, soft-spoken as ever. “Wu’s been trying real hard. Language barrier’s still rough. The other day I said ‘catch’ and he came back with a shoebox full of live crickets. Then he asked if all grown men in Texas wear shorts with boots and sleeveless shirts. Had to explain that’s just New Guy.”

I told them what was in store this coming week. “Been doing some deep digging into the history of the Bluebonnet Loan & Trust. It kind or mirrors Fort Stockton over the past century or so. Got a six-part series running. Starts Monday.”

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“Sounds boring,” Hairless said. “I’ll probably go ahead and read it anyway.” He’d been twitchy since the Shakespeare in the Stock-Tank saga. Said it was embellished. Said his lines were cut. Said the lighting made his arms look small.

Lucinda, pouring another round, shook her head. “Still down thirty percent in my 401K after that damn Mayor Goodman’s tax scheme. Said we’d make it back on regional foot traffic and German tourists. I ain’t seen one German except the guy that sells used Volkswagen parts behind the Dairy Twin.”

Rusty waved her off. “It’s all part of the plan. Mayor knows exactly what he’s doing. Fort Stockton’ll be great again.”

Angus slammed his mug down hard enough to chip the glaze. “That’s bull and you know it.” He shoved back from the table, muttered something profane that could’ve been a threat or a recipe, and limped out the door to his beat-up red F100.

“You done it now,” came Delgado’s voice from the kitchen. “Won’t see him for six weeks.”

New Guy perked up again, oblivious to the emotional vacuum left in Angus’s wake. “Huichol Indian men tie ropes around their testicles while their wives are giving birth. When she has a contraction, she pulls the rope so he shares the pain.”

Lucinda and Sister Thelma nodded, slowly, thoughtfully, like two women who’d read The Secret and knew better than to argue with ritual pain sharing, though neither had ever experienced childbirth.

Rusty just grabbed his crotch and crossed his legs. “That’s messed up.”

Pastor Peterson stood. “I gotta go teach Wu how to play catch. This time I’ll hide the crickets.”

They trickled out after that, one by one. Rusty to the hardware store. Thelma to the soup kitchen. Hairless to wherever it is he goes when he says he’s going “off-grid.” Chad muttered something about inventory spreadsheets and the horror of discovering his first gray nose hair. New Guy followed behind, probably to find a squirrel to mentor him in the ways of the wild.

And then it was just Lucinda and me. The hum gone. The hum replaced by the clink of a spoon in a ceramic mug and the creak of the vinyl booth.

She looked at me like she always does when it’s just us—half smirk, half sermon.
“Do you come in here for the coffee or just the damn inspiration?”

I looked down at the swirls of steam rising from my mug. “Yep.”

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