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It was April 1984, and Earl Tisdale stood in the lot at Tumbleweed Chrysler-Plymouth-Dodge, staring at what could only be described as Lee Iacocca’s latest act of desperation disguised as progress: a brand-new 1984 Chrysler E Class.

Beige Crystal Coat. Not gold, not tan—beige. The kind of color that looked like it came pre-faded to match Earl’s corduroy slacks.

“Now Earl,” said Mr. Girgsby, wiping his brow with a Finance & Insurance Department handkerchief, “this here’s the flagship of affordable luxury. You’re not just buying a car, you’re buying status.”

Earl nodded like he was considering something profound, but the truth was he just wanted air conditioning that worked and something with less rust than the Volaré wagon currently decomposing in his driveway.

The E Class sat there with its Pentastar hood ornament glinting like a dime-store paperweight, wire wheel covers catching the West Texas sun, and enough plastic woodgrain along the dash to start its own synthetic forest.

“Power mirrors,” Girgsby added, flicking the driver-side control button like a magician performing a close-up trick. The mirror jerked left, then right, then sort of drooped like it had lost interest in life.

“I see that,” Earl said.

Inside, the velour upholstery was overstuffed and underwhelming, patterned in a way that looked like someone had taken inspiration from the waiting room at Doc Snodgrass’s dental office. Earl slid behind the wheel anyway, running his hand over the dashboard like he’d seen people do in TV commercials. The fake burled walnut trim gleamed in a way only vacuum-molded plastic could.

“What’s under the hood?” he asked, trying to sound like a man who cared about horsepower.

“2.2 liters of Chrysler engineering,” Girgsby said proudly. “Electronic fuel injection. Front-wheel drive. It’s the future, Earl.”

Earl didn’t know much about the future, but he knew his present involved a monthly payment low enough that Charlene wouldn’t notice until it was too late. Girgsby sweetened the pot with a full tank of gas and a coupon book for free car washes at the ESSO station for six months.

By noon, Earl was rolling down Main Street, windows up, air conditioning blasting cold enough to hang beef. The Uniroyal Tiger Paws hummed over the pavement, and the quad headlights—two working, two ornamental—gave him just enough road presence to make the guys at the Rusty Hammer Hardware Store turn their heads.

“Well look at that,” Rusty said, stepping out onto the sidewalk, wiping his hands on his apron. “Somebody hit the lottery.”

“It’s an E Class,” Earl announced, like he’d just taken delivery of a new Mercedes Benz.

Rusty squinted. “E as in ‘Economy’ or ‘Eh’?”

Earl grinned, gave a regal little wave, and kept going, making sure to pass the Dairy Twin twice for maximum exposure. Somewhere between RoadRunner Estates and the courthouse square, he caught sight of Charlene in her Monte Carlo, and for a second, he considered telling her right then. But something about the way she was already scowling behind her sunglasses suggested it might be better to break the news after dinner. Or maybe after she’d had a second glass of iced sweet tea.

That evening, parked proudly in the driveway, the E Class caught the last rays of sunset like it was posing for a catalog that no one asked for. Earl pulled the keys from the ignition and sat for a moment, listening to the soft metallic pings of the engine cooling.

It wasn’t a Cadillac. It wasn’t even a LeBaron.

But it was new, and had air.

And in 1984 Fort Stockton, that was more than enough.

By Saturday morning, Charlene had simmered down just enough to put on real pants. Not that Earl took it as a sign of peace—he knew better. When a woman who lives in house shoes and curlers suddenly pulls out her high-waisted khakis and a pair of turquoise clip-on earrings, it means she’s preparing for battle in public.

“I’m driving,” she announced over breakfast, shoving the last bite of toast in her mouth like a challenge.

Earl didn’t argue. Mostly because arguing with Charlene was like mud wrestling a snapping turtle—you weren’t gonna win, and you were gonna come out looking like hell.

Out in the driveway, she gave the Chrysler a look like it owed her money. Earl stood by the front fender, watching her adjust the side mirrors using the little electric joystick like she was playing a video game she had no intention of losing.

“This seat feels like a couch cushion that’s been sat on since the Nixon administration,” she said, tugging at the lap belt like it was conspiring against her ribcage. “And this steering wheel? Looks like something you’d find in a Sears exercise bike.”

Earl tried to muster some pride. “It’s got variable-assist power steering. Real easy to turn.”

Charlene cranked the wheel left and right with exaggerated flourishes. “So does a riding mower.”

The engine coughed to life on the second try, which Earl mentally logged as a small victory. Charlene tapped the accelerator, and the 2.2-liter four-cylinder whined like a hair dryer on its last legs.

“I swear,” she muttered, “this thing sounds like a DustBuster full of gravel.”

Backing out, she clipped the mailbox just enough to leave a scuff. Earl winced but didn’t say a word. That mailbox had seen worse.

Down Main Street, Charlene made a point of slowing at every intersection, giving her the perfect platform for sarcastic commentary.

“Look at me,” she shouted out the open window as they passed the Dairy Twin. “I’m driving an E Class! Watch out, Fort Stockton! Lee Iacocca’s golden child is on the move!”

Rusty Hammer nearly choked on his Dr Pepper as he watched them go by. Earl sank lower in the passenger seat.

At the first red light, Charlene noticed the car idling rough.

“You feel that? Like it’s having second thoughts about being alive.”

“It just needs to warm up,” Earl offered weakly.

“Like I’m gonna stand around waiting for that,” she said, slapping the gear selector into Drive with enough force to startle a nearby cat.

By the time they got out toward the edge of RoadRunner Estates, Charlene had decided to test the acceleration. She stomped the gas, and the E Class lurched forward like an underfed greyhound chasing a pork chop on a string.

The engine whined, the front end lifted just enough to make Earl grab the door handle, and after what felt like three minutes of existential struggle, they hit forty-two miles an hour.

“That’s all she’s got?” Charlene yelled over the drone.

“It’s fuel efficient,” Earl said, bracing his knee against the dash like a man on the wrong end of a mechanical bull.

Charlene swerved into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot with a dramatic flourish, swinging wide enough to take out a shopping cart corral. She parked crooked across two spots, threw the gear into Park, and killed the engine with a twist that suggested she wished it was the neck of a chicken.

“Go get me a carton of eggs and a box of Little Debbie Swiss Rolls,” she commanded, handing him a crumpled five-dollar bill. “I need to sit here and reflect on my life choices.”

Inside the store, Earl wandered the aisles in a daze, wondering if Chrysler’s five-year/50,000-mile powertrain warranty also covered emotional damage.

When he came back out, he found Charlene sitting behind the wheel with the AM radio turned up, listening to Eddie Rabbitt’s “I Love a Rainy Night” like she was considering driving the car straight into the Pecos County drainage ditch.

“You know what this car is, Earl?” she said as he climbed in with the groceries.

“A fine example of American engineering?” he tried.

“It’s a beige middle finger,” she said, firing it back to life.

As they rattled home at a cautious 35 miles per hour, Earl glanced at the fake woodgrain dash, the Pentastar hood ornament bobbing over the cracked asphalt ahead, and thought: I should’ve bought the used Buick.

But deep down, he knew that too would’ve just been another chapter in the same book. Earl Tisdale didn’t buy cars. Earl Tisdale bought regret—four cylinders at a time.

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