The bell above the door of Grounds for Divorce gave a half-hearted jingle, as if even it was feeling lazy this morning. The regulars—Rusty Hammer, Rex Hall, Pastor Peterson, Sister Thelma, and New Guy—were huddled around the big round table near the window. Mugs half-empty, conversation half-baked.
Rusty tapped his spoon against his cup like he was trying to summon something.
“Well, hell, y’all are quieter than a Baptist fish fry after the deacon’s arrest.”
No one laughed.
Lucinda glanced over from behind the counter, hands on hips, the red piping on her white uniform catching the light.
“Y’all notice anything missin’ this morning?”
They looked around the table. Rusty shrugged.
“Delgado restocked the ketchup, so that’s not it.”
Lucinda’s eyes narrowed.
“No, genius. The Captain’s not here.”
That got their attention.
Rex leaned back, eyebrows raised. “You mean the Captain-Captain? The blog fella?”
Lucinda stared like she’d just caught him trying to butter his toast with a wrench.
“You got another Captain sittin’ around here somewhere? Yes, that Captain.”
Sister Thelma smiled knowingly, folding her hands like a poker player who already had four aces.
“Come to think of it,” Pastor Peterson said, “he hasn’t missed a morning since he retired in September. Fella’s usually in here by seven, pokin’ at his laptop like it owes him money.”
Lucinda leaned over the table, lowering her voice just enough to make everyone lean in.
“Do any of you knuckleheads even realize what tomorrow is?”
Five blank faces stared back.
“It’s story number nine hundred on the blog!” she announced, hands raised like she was calling down the spirit of Ernest Hemingway. “He’s probably home fine-tunin’ it right now.”
The group blinked in collective shame.
“You’re tellin’ me,” she continued, “that not one of you boneheads knew that?”
Rusty scratched his beard. “Didn’t figure we were supposed to keep count. I thought it was like the Book of Psalms—just goes on forever.”
“Two and a half years of daily stories!” Lucinda said. “And not one of you can even remember what day it is?”
There was a long silence, broken only by the low gurgle of the Bunn-O-Matic.
“Well,” Rex said carefully, “I guess that’s somethin’. Nine hundred’s a lotta stories.”
“Sure is,” Thelma said sweetly. “That’s nine hundred mornings that started with a little West Texas magic and ended with him wonderin’ if y’all would ever say thank you.”
Rusty shifted in his chair. “He knows we appreciate it.”
Lucinda snapped her towel like a pistol shot. “Appreciate it? Appreciate it?” She pointed toward the tip jar by the register. “When’s the last time any of you threw somethin’ in there for the ol’ Captain?”
Nobody said a word.
“How ‘bout you, New Guy?”
New Guy blinked behind his smudged glasses. “Actually, I don’t believe in tipping.”
Lucinda raised an eyebrow so high it could’ve scraped the ceiling fan. “You didn’t have to explain that to me,” she said. “But at least you pay for your Folgers in here.”
She crossed her arms, her patience thinning faster than the diner’s ketchup.
“You mean to tell me you’ve been drinkin’ coffee, eatin’ cinnamon rolls, readin’ nine hundred stories—and haven’t offered up a dime?”
New Guy stared down into his cinnamon roll like he hoped it might open up and swallow him.
The rest of the table looked everywhere but at Lucinda—except Sister Thelma, who was smiling like a cat that already had the cream.
Rusty finally broke the silence. “Well, I did offer him that fertilizer discount last spring.”
Lucinda blinked slowly. “Fertilizer.”
“Yeah,” Rusty said, missing the sarcasm entirely. “Good for his yard.”
“Good for nothin’,” she muttered, spinning toward the counter. “Y’all act like stories grow outta thin air. Takes time, coffee, and at least one good pen that still writes uphill.”
Rex cleared his throat. “I guess I never really thought about it. He said when Sludgo or Bosshoss mentions the blog on Bring a Trailer, he gets a ton of new subscribers. Figured he was rollin’ in it by now.”
Lucinda froze mid-step. “Rollin’ in it? You think a few new subscribers are payin’ his blog expenses? Y’all think stories come with health insurance?”
She looked back at the group, fire in her eyes. “You’re tighter than a duck’s ass, just like him apparently.”
Rusty leaned toward Rex. “She’s talkin’ about you now.”
They’d never seen Lucinda get so worked up—at least not since Trixie slept with her fiancé two weeks before the wedding.
“The man’s puttin’ out a story every single day,” she went on. “And each of you’s consumin’ it like it’s free coffee at a church social. If you did that here, you’d be havin’ your Folgers over at the Dairy Twin with the cranky crowd that thinks Mayor Goodman’s the second comin’.”
She swept up the menus, muttering something about ungrateful freeloaders, and disappeared into the kitchen. Delgado, leaning by the pie case, just shook his head.
“Well, guess that bee found its bonnet.”
Thelma folded her hands. “She’s right, y’know.”
Rusty sighed. “Yeah, but guilt’s a poor sweetener. Doesn’t stir in well.”
“Still,” said Peterson, “she’s got a point. I gave the Captain a ten-dollar check a couple years ago, but he put it in the offering plate the following Sunday.”
Rex frowned. “Wait, so he gave it back?”
“That’s the kind of man he is,” Peterson said. “Can’t out-give him. He’s one of those folks who gets joy just seein’ others enjoy what he does.”
Rusty nodded slowly. “That might explain why he looks so tired all the time.”
The door jingled again, and in came Angus Hopper—cowboy hat tilted, gray beard catching crumbs from breakfast long past. His faded red Ford was visible through the window, parked like a loyal hound.
He took one look at the group. “Well, if it ain’t the Fort Stockton Fraternal Order of Freeloaders.”
“Morning, Angus,” Rusty said. “We’re just discussin’ the Captain.”
“Discussin’ or avoidin’ the topic?” Angus asked, sliding into a chair. “Lucinda looked ready to hang y’all up like laundry.”
“She’s exaggeratin’,” Rex said weakly.
“Exaggeratin’? Boy, I’ve seen you argue over whose turn it was to buy napkins for the Fourth of July parade. I can’t imagine generosity’s your strong suit.”
Rusty chuckled nervously. “We just didn’t realize the Captain’s hittin’ nine hundred stories tomorrow.”
Angus whistled low. “Nine hundred? Lord above. I remember when he was celebratin’ number fifty like he’d reached the mountaintop. Now he’s built the whole range.”
“Lucinda said we should’ve been tossin’ in for him,” Rex said. “Guess we fell short.”
Angus shook his head. “You think storytellers eat metaphors for breakfast? You think the man can pay his electric bill with adjectives?”
“Hey,” said Rusty, “I offered fertilizer!”
“That’s the most Rusty Hammer thing I’ve ever heard,” Angus muttered. “Next you’ll be givin’ a poet spark plugs.”
The group fell silent again.
Finally, Sister Thelma leaned forward, chin resting on her knuckles. “Maybe guilt’s a poor sweetener, but it sure gets folks bakin’ again.”
Peterson nodded. “We could pass the plate.”
Rusty frowned. “You mean like church?”
Thelma smiled. “Same principle, fewer hymns.”
Angus slapped the table. “Hell yes. Let’s pass a plate. We’ll call it the Captain’s Coffee Fund. The man’s fueled half this town’s imagination; least we can do is fuel his caffeine addiction.”
Rex hesitated. “What’s fair? Ten bucks each?”
Angus snorted. “If you only value nine hundred stories at ten bucks, you’ve been buyin’ your soul at a discount. Make it fifty.”
Rusty groaned. “Fifty? That’s a tank of gas.”
“Then walk here for a week,” Angus said. “Maybe you’ll see the town the way he writes it.”
Lucinda reemerged with a fresh pot of Folgers and just in time to catch the motion of bills being fished from wallets. She stopped mid-stride.
“Well I’ll be. Thought y’all were fixin’ to start a support group for Freeloaders Anonymous.”
Angus grinned. “We’re takin’ up a collection for the Captain’s Coffee Fund.”
Her face softened. “Now that’s somethin’ worth pourin’ for.”
She filled the cups and set down a slice of pecan pie in front of Angus. “On the house—for leadin’ the charge.”
The group talked quietly as the plate made its way around. Even New Guy, after a long sigh and visible soul struggle, dropped in a crumpled twenty.
Lucinda caught it mid-fall. “Well, bless my stars. Redemption’s possible after all.”
New Guy looked up. “Think he’ll notice?”
“Oh, he’ll notice,” she said. “But he’ll never say it.”
Rex nodded. “He’ll probably just post tomorrow like usual, won’t mention a word about any of this.”
Peterson smiled. “That’s how the good ones are. They don’t write for applause—they write ‘cause the world’s quieter when they do.”
Angus leaned back, mug in hand. “Ain’t that the truth. The man’s like a jukebox that plays humanity instead of songs.”
Nobody had any idea what he’d kicked in over the years.
Lucinda crossed her arms, satisfied. “Well, maybe this’ll keep his lights on and his fingers typin’. Nine hundred stories, and not a bad one in the bunch.”
Rusty grinned. “Oh, there were a couple bad ones.”
“Name one,” she challenged.
Rusty thought. “That story where they stole a plane and flew it all the way to Fort Stockton. Ain’t no way that was real.”
Angus laughed. “You ever notice he makes all the stories have at least bits and pieces of truth? Just some more than others. That’s talent.”
Rex nodded. “Remember that one about the old Lincoln someone made into a planter? Or the time Hairless B29 tried to stage Macbeth in a stock tank? I laughed so hard I nearly dropped my phone in the toilet.”
Peterson chuckled. “My favorite was the one with the Brewster family. Reminded me that every bank’s built on borrowed time and borrowed faith.”
Sister Thelma smiled. “I liked the one about Pearl Pharr and her Mercury. Sweetest thing I ever read. Made me miss my own mama.”
Even New Guy ventured a contribution. “The one with the Greyhound Scenicruiser bus. I learned something about redemption there. And catalytic converters.”
Lucinda laughed so hard she had to set down her coffee pot. “Well, praise be, he reached even you.”
Outside, the sun caught the courthouse dome just right—bright enough to make the café windows glow.
Rusty raised his cup. “To the Captain—wherever he is.”
“To the Captain,” they echoed.
Angus added, “And to story number nine hundred. May it hit us between the eyes like a hubcap on Highway 285.”
Lucinda smiled. “Y’all better show up early tomorrow. Delgado’s makin’ cinnamon rolls big enough to make the angels weep.”
As the laughter rolled around the table, a breeze slipped through the open door, rustling the napkins, flipping the corner of the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch on the counter. On the front page was a small notice about local events—beneath it, a headline:
“Fort Stockton Writer Nears 900th Tale.”
Lucinda caught it, smiled quietly, and pinned it to the corkboard behind the register.
By the time the coffee cooled, the guilt had turned into pride, and pride into gratitude.
Outside, the red F-100 rumbled to life. Angus was headed out, but not before tipping his hat.
“See y’all tomorrow. Don’t forget your wallets—and your hearts.”
Lucinda watched him go, then looked back at the table.
“Reckon he’ll be in tomorrow morning?”
Rusty nodded. “He’s the Captain. He always shows up when the story’s about to start.”
$10 gets him a coffee.
$25 adds a wedge of Lucinda’s homemade pie.
$50 and he stays at the GFD for lunch.
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15 responses to “A GROUNDSWELL AT THE GFD”
Thanks, Randy Jackson, for reminding me about HADACOL …
Hadacol?
Hadacol?
Hadacol was a popular, but short-lived, American patent medicine marketed as a vitamin and mineral supplement in the 1950s, which contained 12% alcohol. Its popularity was driven by aggressive marketing by its creator, Louisiana politician Dudley LeBlanc, through radio, television, and celebrity-filled “Hadacol Caravans”. The company eventually collapsed due to tax issues and accusations of false advertising.
It wasn’t unusual for early patent medicines to include more than a touch of alcohol.
My late father-in-law was the New Orleans pharmacist who originally helped develop the formula for Dudley LeBlanc’s HADACOL concoction, along with LeBlanc’s son who wanted to modify the taste against his father’s wishes.
One of the early TV commercials a pair of little girls dancing – the younger of the two sisters, the one without the long curls, is my “Bayou Lady” and bride of 56 years.
https://www.fox8live.com/2020/07/07/heart-louisiana-hadacol/
Hadacol Corner was the earlier name of the small burg of Midkiff. North of Rankin, SE of Midland. Draw was smack dab in the middle of Tahoka to the NW, Post to the NE,
O’Donnell to the SW, Gail to the SE. No idea how or why Hadacol fit in there, but I hauled enough cotton bales, cottonseed from the Farmer’s COOP Gin in Midkiff to make a memory. Now Draw is just a ghost town. It was a Cotton Gin, General Store with 2 gas pumps, a blacksmith shop, 2 Churches, a cafe & about 8 or 10 houses.
Here’s a true anecdote out of my life, over 70 years ago:
I was a student at Burbank Jr. Hi. in Houston, and one day one of my classmates, whom I barely knew, came up to me and said, ” Hadacol spelled backwards is ‘Locadah’”
Of course I was a young teen and my brain didn’t work really great, so I had no reply to make, just a stare and a walkaway! But, I think of that at least once a week, and then spend a few minutes trying to figure out, What The Heck!
Who was he! What did he say! What does it mean! Did I meet an alien! Am I a member of a secret-handshake mystery! Am I supposed to robotically mend my way to Ft. Stockton and be beamed!
Well, I do show up every day to check out what the Cap’n has thought up to entertain us with.
I’m a long way from Hadacol Corner or Draw anymore, been a long time since I laid face down in a bar ditch beside a cotton field, fervently hoping that twister would rise back up, we could get back to hoeing weeds. I let the Captain’s stories take me back to a reasonable facsimile of that place & time. I’d best drop a few $$ in the jar..
btw, I’ve been exposed, somehow. DB is actually Bosshoss3406pack
And don’t You “Forget It”
Cap’n, Thank You. You are a Shiny Spot under a Dusty Hood. Just like Points and the Appreciation for a New Condenser (ask me how I know)
Sometimes, when you can’t find your fone and it’s probably facedown under the car seat, you’re praying that the battery is still alive and the ringer isn’t off as you walk around the shop calling yourself…
Eureka!! That’s How We Feel About You, Sir!
I’m in for a piece of pecan pie.
Thanx DB
I don’t remember which story gave me the idea that you should write a book based on the blog. I think the name I suggested was, “Short Stories by the Cabin boy”. But then there was another story where I changed the title to, “Fear and Loathing in Fort Stockton”.
Congrats on number 900. I’m still holding out Hearst Publication is getting ready to sign you up.
“You got a letter here – looks like a bill.”
Who’s it from?
“I dunno, it’s from Fort Stockton, Texas.”
Fort Stockton? Isn’t that that little town we wound up in when we brought the ’73 Imperial coupe we bought in New York back home to San Diego?
“We wound up there because you made a wrong turn at Las Cruces and drove us 300 miles in the wrong direction.”
Well, in my defense it WAS during a blizzard.
“It was flurries, and they weren’t even sticking. We might’ve ended up in Houston if it hadn’t been for that strange crew at that coffee shop in Fort Stockton when we finally stopped to ask directions”
They were a little odd, but the waitress was a sweetheart, and the pie was really good. The rest of them seemed more interested in the car than us, although that big black coupe did looks like the bad-guy car from a movie. It might have been what the baddies in Bullitt would have driven if they’d decided on a little less horsepower and a little more luxury. Anyway, the guy at the coffee shop (Randy? Rusty?) was nice enough direct us to that sketchy motel – the Pine Tree, or something like that – for the night.
“It wasn’t that sketchy. They were very nice there, and the place was clean. There did seem to be quite a few bumps in the night, though. But they never questioned two guys from out of town in a big black car and sharing a room.”
Yeah, and I’d forgotten about the strange guy back at the coffee shop who was selling some kind of subscriptions. Captain something or other. Apparently we signed up, and we’re overdue for a payment.
“Well, I think we should send it in. That was a wild experience and besides, I’m sure the money will eventually get distributed among the cast of characters at the diner.”
I agree, Done.
– cyclemikey
Congratulations, Captain, not only per the quantity, but more on the quality. Coordinating our appreciation of motorized Americana with the surprises of everyday life, and the not totally unexpected results over a second cup of Folgers (brewed right here in New Orleans) does help start the day. I especially appreciate that you interweave ongoing characters, and some from stories nearly forgotten. I do look forward to days when I have the time to just sit and enjoy a well-spun tale.
Thank you
Marty…Although your offer of a cup of Folgers seems tempting, I am starting to wonder where you grew up. Most N’Awlins folks I know would have prepared a pot of CDM and if you’re blessed a plate of hot Beignets to go with it.
Hi Frank,
No question where I’m from (and while I surely do age, some question that I’ll ever grow up).
My formative years were based in Central New Jersey with a fair share of enjoying New York City and summers in the Catskills, flavored at a young age as a working musician, sports car enthusiast, and computer specialist. Back then, our coffee of choice was Maxwell House at home, and Chock Full O’ Nuts when in “The City”. Having met my bride here back in 1968, I’ve been based in New Orleans since 1969 with significant intermittent job-related travel, always choosing to return for the food, the music, the food, the people, the food, the weather, and of course the food. CDM is OK, as is Morning Call and a few other blends (my great grandmother in Brooklyn actually blended coffee and chickory (Maxwell House) back in the 1940s and ’50s – just like folks here did – to stretch the expensive coffee – like later generations did with Hamburger Helper!
It worked! I’ve moved from “every once in a while” to monthly
Captain:
Many congratulations today for tomorrow’s (premature exultation?) 900th installment.
And folks, make those donations stat before Mayor Goodman slaps a municipal tax on creative writers.
‘bout as subtle as a sledgehammer. I get your point. Congratulations on number 900. Thank you
Wow that was subtle….
Maybe Substack is worth looking into?
Lotta writers there, offer a few teasers
And then spring for subscription?
I’ll tithe today…
Congrats on the accomplishment
Ya spin a good yarn Cap, world gets busy and I miss some, enjoy most….
Maybe the 1000th you can publish a coffee table book of collected works 😉
Keep up the good work it’ll keep ya from forgettn’ where your keys are!
Iffin ya know what I mean
Now off to mass