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(Part II of II)

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By the summer of 1975, the legend of The Gutter Queens had settled into Fort Stockton like dust that refused to sweep off. Their brass plaque gleamed beside the water-payment window, their Kodachrome portrait hung over the Lucky Lady jukebox, and Big Brown—the ‘69 Ford Country Squire that carried them to glory—was semi-retired, serving as the unofficial parade float for causes ranging from Little League fundraisers to “Bring Back the Dairy Twin Onion Rings” week.

But champions don’t fade easy.

When the invitation arrived for the West Texas Invitational Women’s Classic in Lubbock, Joyce “Hawkeye” Brantley spread it across the counter at Grounds for Divorce like it was a map to redemption. “Ladies,” she said, “the state may be ours, but West Texas is still up for grabs.”

Gertie Talbot frowned over her pie. “That’s a long haul in the old Squire. The transmission’s stickier than a gossip circle.”

And then, as if summoned by timing and theatrical instinct, Dixie Carmichael strutted in, sunglasses the size of ashtrays, clutching a manila envelope. “Problem solved,” she said. “Meet our new ride.”

She slid the photo out—a glossy dealership print showing a 1975 Pontiac Catalina Safari in Roman Red with sweeping faux wood panels, rally wheels, and chrome that could blind an optimist.

“Lord have mercy,” said Mary Lou Dell. “That thing’s racier than the sign at the Silver Slipper.”

“It’s called a Safari,” Dixie purred. “A wild Safari. A Big Indian, if you will. And it’s got more fake wood than the Piggly Wiggly meat counter. Courtesy of Manny’s Motor Mart, in exchange for putting his sticker on the tailgate. Advertising,” she added, “is the new church tithe.”

Velma Sue Peebles scribbled a note in her State Secrets spiral: New car. More chrome. More gossip potential.

The Big Indian

The Safari—instantly christened The Big Indian—was an eight-passenger luxury battleship powered by Pontiac’s 400-cubic-inch V8 and whatever pride remained in Detroit. Its dash gleamed with real imitation wood. The air conditioner blew cold enough to ruin friendships. And when the sun hit its flanks, the metallic red shimmered like temptation wearing Sunday lipstick.

On departure day, the Queens gathered in the parking lot of Desert Lanes, teal uniforms pressed, hair lacquered, confidence audibly humming. Joyce double-checked the oil. Dixie fine-tuned her eyeliner in the mirror. Gertie distributed snacks and scripture in equal measure.

“Remember,” Joyce said as they loaded the bags, “we’re not chasing another trophy. We’re defending an idea.”

“Then that idea better have power steering,” muttered Velma Sue.

A Wild Safari

They rolled north on Highway 385, the Big Indian gliding past mesquite and mirage. At every gas stop, men stared like they’d never seen that much shine wrapped in that much sass.

The CB radio crackled with trucker chatter. Mary Lou leaned forward. “Breaker one-nine, this here’s the Gutter Queens, rollin’ northbound and righteous.”

“Copy that,” came a voice. “Y’all sound like trouble with a trophy case.”

“Affirmative,” Dixie said, hitting the talk button. “And we’re out of Fritos.”

They laughed all the way to Lamesa.

In Lubbock, they checked into the Coronado Motor Lodge, where the pool was half-drained and the manager’s toupee wasn’t. Dixie immediately found the bar next door—The Prairie Schooner Lounge—and, within an hour, conversation found her back.

He introduced himself as Cal Strickland, traveling sporting-goods rep out of Abilene. Wore cowboy boots made for sitting and a grin with aftershave built in. Claimed he’d once bowled a perfect game in Amarillo, which everyone knew was code for I’d like to buy you a drink.

Dixie accepted, mostly for research purposes.

The Line Between

Back at the motel, the Queens practiced visualization—eyes closed, breathing steady, imagining the crash of pins like rainfall. Dixie was late returning, carrying the scent of whiskey and applause. Velma Sue raised an eyebrow so sharp it could field-dress a rabbit.

“Well?” Joyce asked.

“He’s harmless,” Dixie said. “Talks more than a preacher with fresh gossip. But he did promise to sponsor us new wrist guards if we make finals.”

Mary Lou smiled. “That’s awful generous.”

Gertie muttered, “Generosity’s just temptation with better manners.”

Velma Sue took out her notebook and wrote: Potential sponsor. Possible scandal.

The Tournament

The Big Indian pulled up to Lubbock Lanes West like Cleopatra’s barge. The local paper snapped photos, the caption reading “Last Year’s Queens Roll In Style.”

They bowled like women possessed: confident, smooth, unshaken by heat or hecklers. Their teal shirts gleamed under fluorescent light. Joyce’s focus never wavered. Gertie’s straight ball still traveled like the word of God—direct, undeniable.

But the chemistry had shifted, the air thick with curiosity and perfume. Cal was in the stands, clapping too long at Dixie’s strikes, too loud when she smiled.

By the end of the second day, the Queens sat third overall. On the night before finals, they celebrated at The Prairie Schooner. Cal brought a bottle. He told stories about road miles and motel breakfasts, about wanting “to settle down with somebody who knows how to laugh.” Dixie listened, half-flattered, half-aware that listening was its own kind of risk.

When she got back to the motel, she sat in the parked Safari for a long minute, staring at her reflection in the rearview mirror. The red paint outside caught the neon glow from the lounge sign—LIVE TONIGHT—and turned the car interior the color of guilt trying to look glamorous.

The Clean Frame

They didn’t win the Invitational. The Queens placed second—respectable, even noble—but the sparkle was different this time.

Joyce said little on the drive home. Mary Lou hummed hymns just loud enough to fill silences. Gertie recited gas-mileage math to stay busy. Velma Sue scribbled quietly, pages rustling like distant thunder.

Halfway back to Fort Stockton, Dixie pulled off at a roadside car wash in Big Spring. The sign read BLAST-O-MATIC—WASH IT CLEAN, SISTER! She fed quarters into the machine and aimed the wand at the Big Indian’s flanks, rinsing off the travel dust, the spilled soda, the invisible residue of maybe-too-kind eyes and one weak moment with someone new.  Without kids screaming in the background.  Someone who put her first.  Someone sporting more wood than a Pontiac Safari.

The red paint glowed brighter than it should have under the harsh lights. Water beaded on the woodgrain trim—unexpectedly extensive wood, the kind of thing a person either admired or learned to forgive.

Joyce stepped beside her, arms folded. “That man didn’t mean anything, did he?”

Dixie stared at the spray nozzle, pretending to read its instructions. “Not really. Just… reminded me I’m still visible.”

Joyce nodded. “We all need reminders. Just don’t mistake headlights for daylight.”

They stood there as the rinse cycle ended, the water steaming off in the warm night air.

The Return of the Queens

When the Big Indian rolled back into Fort Stockton, nobody asked questions. The town cheered anyway—because that’s what you do when your heroes come home.

The Kodachrome photo over the jukebox gained a new companion: a framed clipping from the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal, headlined “QUEENS STILL REIGN.” In the picture, Dixie was mid-laugh, sunlight on her hair, the Pontiac glimmering behind her. You could almost mistake it for innocence, if you didn’t know how fragile the line can be between pride and ache.

Velma Sue updated her ledger: Total trophies: 2. Total lessons: pending.

The Big Indian stayed in service for years—homecoming parades, pep rallies, Lucinda’s Christmas deliveries to the homebound. Once, it even towed a float made entirely of papier-mâché bowling pins and heartbreak.

Sometimes, late at night, Dixie would drive it down Main Street alone, radio low, the dashboard lights painting her hands red. She’d run her fingers over the steering wheel’s imitation wood and whisper, “We’re still queens, baby. Just a little more complicated.”  Quietly she wondered what she’d do if a certain sporting goods salesman ever happened to show up at the Naughty Pine Motel.

The town never knew the details. Fort Stockton prefers its legends shiny, not sanded.

But if you ever find yourself in front of the Lucky Lady Lounge when the sun hits the glass just right, you’ll see the reflection of two wagons side by side: Big Brown and the Big Indian. One honest as dust, the other sly as lipstick. Together, they tell the whole story—the triumph, the temptation, and the long, proud road between them.

Because sometimes victory isn’t about how many pins you drop.
It’s about how much of yourself you manage to keep standing.

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