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Mornings at the Grounds for Divorce weren’t just for coffee—they were for ritualistic verbal jousting, spiced with a side of huevos rancheros and a dash of misguided superiority. The regulars had assembled like clockwork: Lucinda behind the counter, Delgado clanging pans in the kitchen, Rusty Hammer hunched over his third refill, Pastor Peterson fresh from devotion, Chad from the Piggly Wiggly reading aloud from the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch, and the rest of Fort Stockton’s finest minds pretending to listen.

Chad cleared his throat like a man about to deliver a eulogy or a joke. Same tone, really.
“Says here the guy who invented the wind-chill factor passed away. Eighty-two years old.”

“Mighta felt like 64,” Rusty offered without looking up.
“You say that like it’s clever,” Chad said.
“You say that like you’re needed back at the Piggly Wiggly.”

Rusty’s eyes narrowed, one eyebrow raised like it had ambitions of its own.
“I wanna be there the day Karma bends you over and has its way with you… with a cactus.”

Lucinda slid a coffee pot between them. “Some people drink deeply from the well of knowledge,” she said, pouring with flair. “Others just rinse and spit.”
A hush fell. Three people looked guilty, which wasn’t bad for a table of seven.

Delgado popped through the swinging door with two plates of huevos rancheros, one steaming with extra jalapeños. He muttered, mostly to the beans, “Saying ‘Have a nice day’ sounds friendly. But saying ‘Enjoy your next 24 hours’ sounds like you’re about to disappear someone.”

Rex Hall, of Rex Hall Drug—part-time pharmacist, full-time sage—pushed his bifocals up.
“Y’all know why no one’s ever overdosed on marijuana?”
“Because they don’t sell it at your store?” Rusty guessed.

“Nope. Because if you put 100 joints in front of someone and told ‘em to light up, by joint four they’ve lost the lighter, cuddled their dog, ordered two large pizzas, and fallen asleep before the crust cools.”

Pastor Peterson coughed. Rusty smirked.
“I saw the neighbor kid yesterday lickin’ whipped cream off the cat. Pretty sure he overheard somethin’ he shouldn’t have.”

Peterson went red. Bowed his head. Whether he was praying for the kid, the cat, or Rusty was unclear.

Chad folded his paper and leaned back. “I don’t even have a sense of humor anymore. It’s just sarcasm and a general disregard for the majority of the entire human population.”

Lucinda, still pouring coffee, gave him a side glance.
“That’s why you’re in management.”

For once, New Guy had said nothing. He sat quietly in his usual spot, which was less “reserved” and more “unfortunately unoccupied.” He looked like a man about to make a mistake. Which, in fairness, described most of his waking hours.

Then his face changed. His mouth twisted, his skin took on a hue somewhere between 1970s avocado green and “uh-oh baby diaper,” and his eyes widened.

Without a word, he gripped his gut, groaned, and collapsed—face-first—into his huevos rancheros.

The sizzle of contact with hot beans was almost comical, if not for the complete unconsciousness.

Everyone froze.

Delgado stepped back. “Well, that’s one plate I ain’t boxin’ up.”

Lucinda moved fast. She was already on the wall phone before anyone else could rise.
“911? Yeah, it’s Lucinda. He’s done gone facedown in the rancheros. No, not Rusty again. New Guy. Yeah. Still has a pulse, but barely. Can you send the ambulance?”

She listened. Then her brows shot north.

“You what? The what is at where?”

Apparently the Fort Stockton ambulance was undergoing an oil change, a tune-up, and a full detail over at Frontier Ford, “Home of the Straight Shootin’ Deal.”

“They can’t spare it?” Lucinda repeated. “Well, bless their clean, shiny souls.”

The best dispatch could offer was calling Marfa and having them send their ambulance. It’d take time.

When the red-and-white beast finally rolled up, it looked like the lovechild of a fire engine and a FedEx truck. Chrome bumper flashing, diamond-plate steps gleaming, and grab handles ready for action. The exterior was a patchwork of dents, smudges, and paint baked to matte under West Texas sun. Towing mirrors and air horns completed the ensemble, while the sliding windows gave a peek into the surprisingly spacious rear.

Lucinda gave it a once-over and muttered, “Looks like a vending machine with sirens.”

The paramedics stepped out, chewing gum and taking in the town like they’d landed on Mars. They had high-back seats inside—gray, torn, and worn to the threads—and the cab smelled faintly of bleach, regret, and an expired Gatorade packet. The PA system was wheezy, the cruise control was broken, and the CD player was stuck on a George Strait track no one had the heart to eject.

New Guy, still semi-conscious, was loaded awkwardly onto the stretcher. It took four of them, and even then the air-adjustable suspension hissed like it resented the task. His years of biscuits, gravy, and sedentary speculation had come home to roost.

Lucinda made the call. “Closest facility,” she said. “He may not be everyone’s favorite, but he’s ours to deal with. Get him to the Fort Stockton Memorial Hospital and Animal Research Facility.”

The ER was surprisingly quiet, save for a Chihuahua in a cone whining in the lobby. The nurse at intake took one look and waved New Guy to the front of the line.

Exploratory scans showed a strange shadow in his lower abdomen. Concern turned to confusion, and confusion gave way to sheer medical disbelief. They opened him up.

Inside, nestled near the intestine and looking only slightly worse for wear, was a rusted Hot Wheels car—bright red, mid-1990s vintage, specifically a 1993 Toyota Celica.

The surgeon stood there, stunned. “Well I’ll be dipped in Crisco.”

When New Guy came to, groggy and full of pain meds, they showed it to him.
He blinked. “I told my mama I ate that car when I was four.”

They didn’t know whether to be horrified or impressed.

The nurse told the Telegram-Dispatch, “You stop being surprised after a while. OD’s, bar fights, falling off horse trailers, minor explosives in sensitive places… but then life hands you a guy who’s been hauling a ‘93 Celica in his gut like it was carry-on luggage.”

By mid-afternoon, New Guy was stable, but mortified. Word traveled fast, as it does in towns like Fort Stockton. By dinner, three different Facebook pages had posted blurry photos of the car in a specimen jar, and one post was captioned “Midlife Crisis: Internal Edition.”

Back at the Grounds for Divorce, the group gathered to review the day’s events. The plate of huevos rancheros sat untouched at the far end of the table like a war relic.

“Well,” Rex said, “at least now we know where he kept all his bad ideas.”

Pastor Peterson nodded solemnly. “He’s been through a trial. He’ll need our support, and possibly a metal detector before any future meals.”

Rusty wiped his mouth and leaned back. “He owes me for emotional distress. I ain’t never gonna eat refried beans again without seein’ his face in ’em.”

Chad flipped through the Telegram-Dispatch. “We takin’ up a collection for his medical bills?”

“No,” Lucinda said. “We’re takin’ up a collection to cover the huevos rancheros he never paid for.”

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