---

It was 1965, and Fort Stockton was standing at the crossroads between the past and the future, though it didn’t always know which way to go. For Clifton Brewster Jr., the question was no longer about survival—it was about growth. Bluebonnet Loan & Trust had weathered the war years, and now it was time to expand.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just the bank that was expanding. The seeds of ambition that Clifton Sr. had planted were starting to sprout all over town, and some of those sprouts weren’t turning out to be flowers.

Take, for example, the investment in the Lucky Lady Lounge. What had begun as a brilliant financial move by Clifton Brewster Sr. was beginning to look more like a charitable donation to a place that really didn’t deserve it. When the old brothel-turned-bar started turning a profit, it looked like another win for Bluebonnet. But as the years went by, it became clear that the real investment wasn’t in the property—it was in all the complications that came with it.

Clifton Brewster Jr. inherited the mess when his father, who had always been the silent partner in the deal, handed over the reins of the bank. The first signs of trouble came when the female teller—young Ms. Jeanette Washington—was fired for the sin of wearing a pantsuit to work. The pantsuit was too much for the conservative board of directors, whose collective idea of fashion still involved bowler hats and suspenders.

“You can’t have a lady in the vault who doesn’t know how to wear a dress,” old Mr. Hudson had declared, his Lucky Strike cigarette dangling from his lips as he scowled at her uniform. Jeanette was a competent employee, but the town wasn’t ready for the future. The new bank policies were pushing against Fort Stockton’s conservative backbone, and Jeanette’s pantsuit was just too much for the town to handle.

The real trouble started in the employee break room behind the vault, a room that wasn’t exactly a fire hazard, but apparently had the right kindling when Mr. Hudson left his cigarette burning near the P&L statement on a Friday afternoon. The paper was as dry as the West Texas air, and with Hudson distracted by an urgent trip to the men’s room (to attend to some personal matters), the small fire quickly spread. By the time he returned, his Lucky Strike had practically burned a hole in the bank’s profits, leaving a charred mess and a serious conversation about safety protocols.

“That’ll cost you a month’s worth of dividends,” Clifton Jr. had grumbled, watching the fire department finish their work. “But it’s fine,” he said, managing a grim smile, “we’ll just write it off as an unexpected expense.”

But the real kicker came when Bluebonnet Loan & Trust introduced its automated deposit machine. The bank, in its bid to modernize, rolled out a machine that would automatically record deposits into customers’ savings passbooks.

It was meant to be a step forward—fast, efficient, and impressively “futuristic.” What Clifton Jr. hadn’t accounted for was how deeply personal banking was to the people of Fort Stockton. They didn’t want to deal with a machine; they wanted to see Charlie McCullough, the teller they had known since childhood, physically stamp their passbooks with the same rubber stamp he had used for twenty years. The fact that you could walk up to a machine and have your deposit recorded automatically felt… impersonal.

“People don’t want a machine to know how much they have in their savings,” Mrs. Hennessey had remarked after a particularly heated town meeting. “They want us to know. We’re family.”

The revolts started small—grumbles in the bank’s waiting room, complaints slipped under the door, and eventually, full-blown protests in the form of angry customers demanding to speak to someone real.

At the same time, Cactus CHEV-OLDS had started offering financing on new cars—but only through Bluebonnet. Their post-war dealership had been gaining traction, selling cars with the kind of flash that made it hard to miss. Yet, the real growth was supposed to come from highway expansion—the promise of more interstate traffic, and the accompanying business for the town. Fort Stockton, with its quintessential Texas charm, had all the right ingredients to become a stopover for tourists and truckers alike. But nothing moved as quickly as planned.

Clifton, always with one eye on future growth, had taken out a second mortgage on the Naughty Pine Motel, thinking that expanding the parking lot and adding a pool would make it the first choice for the new wave of interstate travelers. He had high hopes, based on projections from Cactus CHEV-OLDS and a slew of local contractors, who all promised that the new interstate would bring business in droves. But the interstate construction moved at the pace of a cactus blooming, and when it finally arrived, Fort Stockton’s turn was nowhere near the top of the list.

The pool at the Naughty Pine? Still there, waiting for the promised traffic.

“Turns out,” Clifton Jr. muttered to himself, eyeing the pool with distaste, “we built a bath for the dust.”

But the real symbol of Clifton Jr.’s era came in the form of a car—a car that stood in the driveway like a beacon of change. The 1964 Buick Electra 225 Convertible, finished in a bold yellow over cream, was Clifton’s new toy. A new car for a new era—though Clifton liked to think of it as more of a statement than a mere automobile.

The 425 cubic inch Nailhead V8 engine roared to life with a satisfying hum, sending a shiver of satisfaction through Clifton every time he slid into the driver’s seat. The tan convertible top was powered and could retract at the push of a button, as if to tell the world, Yes, we’re doing business, but we’re doing it with style. The power-assisted steering and dual four-barrel carburetors made the Buick a breeze to drive, while the power windows let in the breeze as the car rolled down Main Street, showing off its fender skirts and that unmistakable yellow exterior. Even the chrome air cleaner lid gleamed in the Texas sun, a symbol of everything Clifton Jr. hoped to build—and everything he was still trying to keep from falling apart.

The interior was a masterpiece, featuring front bucket seats and a rear bench upholstered in cream leather with matching door panels. The center console gleamed, and the AM/FM radio provided the soundtrack for the drive, making every trip down Main Street feel like an entrance at the Academy Awards. When Clifton drove, it was clear that he wasn’t just driving to the bank—he was driving the future of Fort Stockton, whether the town was ready or not.

And for all the talk of the future, Clifton knew one thing: what was coming in the 70s and 80s would make that automated teller machine look like a tick on a longhorn’s ass.

---

---