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Nobody in Fort Stockton woke up that Tuesday expecting prophecy to arrive in the form of a 1993 Mercury Topaz GS Sedan. But prophecy rarely checks in with the Chamber of Commerce, and anyway, the Topaz glided down Dickinson Boulevard with the self-assurance of an undercover librarian.

The thing was Oxford White with a dark blue carriage top that looked like a formal hat someone ordered from the J.C. Penney catalog in 1989. A North Dakota sun probably hadn’t touched it since the Clinton administration, because the paint gleamed in the West Texas light like something from a snow globe that accidentally rumbled its way across state lines.

Behind the wheel: Earl Tidwell.

Fort Stockton didn’t know Earl yet. But the minute that Topaz rolled into the Stripes parking lot, locals took turns inventing backstories like they were running a three-for-one special.

Lucinda from Grounds for Divorce took one look and said,
“Retired Air Force or freshly divorced—possibly both.”
Rusty Hammer said any man who voluntarily drives a Topaz is either hiding from something or ought to be.
Trixie took one look at the carriage top and whispered, “Oh honey, that’s a witness-protection hairpiece if I ever saw one.”

Even the teenagers at Jim Bowie High found themselves unable to resist the gravitational pull of the beige comet. The Topaz had an 85-mph speedometer, which they felt was optimistic to the point of comedy. They took turns daring each other to stand near it when Earl turned the key, just in case it somehow entered orbit.

Earl, bless him, thought he’d arrived in style.

And to be fair, the Topaz was tidy. The Opal Gray cloth seats looked like they’d been Scotch-Guarded by angels. The tape deck worked, though it played everything in a tone reminiscent of a kazoo being played from the bottom of a well. The V6 under the hood made roughly 130 horsepower on its best day, but the way Earl sat at ten-and-two, you’d think he was piloting a Saturn V rocket.

His first stop was the Piggly Wiggly. Earl parked diagonally—diagonally—so the Topaz wouldn’t risk door dings. That was the moment Fort Stockton reached for its popcorn.

Old men circled the car slowly, hands clasped behind their backs, nodding as though inspecting a relic unearthed from a museum basement. One asked whether GS stood for “Goes Slow.” Another suggested “Gently Sedated.” A third said, “No, boys—Government Surveillance.” This idea gained traction immediately, because Hairless B29 insisted he once saw a sedan just like it outside an “educational spa” in Amarillo.

Earl’s second stop was Grounds for Divorce. He strutted in, chest puffed, like the Topaz had just won the Indy 500 and he’d personally waved the checkered flag. He ordered a coffee. Then another. By the third, he opened up.

The whole story poured out like spilled motor oil.

Turns out Earl had bought the Topaz online from a Lutheran lady in Minot, which explained the immaculate interior. But what he didn’t say upfront—what only came after Lucinda raised an eyebrow and Rusty Hammer dropped his wrench—was this:

“It reminded me of my ex-wife’s car,” Earl confessed.
Lucinda froze mid-wipe. “The good ex-wife?” she asked.
Earl sighed. “No. The other one.”

There was a long, contemplative pause.

“Earl,” Lucinda said gently, “you can’t heal by driving your mistakes.”

Earl stared out the window at the Topaz, which was sitting at an angle like it was posing for a JCPenney portrait package. Something in him shifted.

The next morning, he posted a FOR SALE OR TRADE flyer on the bulletin board at Rusty Hammer Hardware. Within two hours, five people had called—not because they wanted to buy it, but because they wanted to see who would.

And that’s when the Topaz accidentally became a minor West Texas legend.

Incident #1: The Parade Mishap

Two days later, Earl volunteered to help with the city’s pre-parade staging, which was his first mistake. His second mistake was missing a turn and inadvertently joining the line of floats.

The marching band, confused but determined, surrounded the Topaz and played through their routine around it. One majorette tossed her baton high—it bounced off the carriage top, leaving no mark whatsoever. The crowd applauded. Some asked if Mercury was making a comeback.

A rumor spread that the Topaz was the “Grand Marshal’s Car,” which upset the actual Grand Marshal, who was riding in a borrowed Pontiac Sunbird convertible decorated with bunting and regret.

Incident #2: The Cattle Guard Miracle

Fort Stockton has a long, noble history of cattle-guard mishaps. Trucks lose mufflers. Buicks lose their will to live. But the Topaz? It glided across one of the roughest guards in Pecos County like it was crossing the River Styx on first-class tickets.

Rusty Hammer witnessed the whole thing.
“That car drives like warm mashed potatoes,” he declared.
“In a good way?”

“Son,” Rusty said, “there is no bad way to drive mashed potatoes.”

Incident #3: The Shopping Cart Hero Moment

At the Piggly Wiggly, a runaway cart full of canned goods went barreling toward Mrs. Darlene Vaughn’s ankles. The Topaz intercepted it like a defensive lineman made of gently-used vinyl and North Dakota righteousness.

Not a scratch.

Mrs. Vaughn declared, “Well if that ain’t divine intervention wearing a blue vinyl toupee.”

The Resolution

By week’s end, Earl had received exactly one serious offer—from Calvin Ramirez, the janitor at Jim Bowie High School. Calvin wanted a car “nobody in their right mind would ever steal,” and this fit his requirements to biblical perfection.

He bought the Topaz for $900 and a gently used leaf blower.

On his first day driving it, the kids in after-school detention climbed into the back and immediately christened it The Blandwagon. Calvin didn’t mind. It suited the car. More importantly, it suited Calvin: simple, steady, unfazed by the chaos of teenagers and fluorescent lighting.

Earl’s Epiphany

With the money from the sale, Earl bought a used Ford Ranger. As he drove it off the lot, he looked 30 pounds lighter, like he’d finally shed the weight of his past and the carriage-top vinyl that symbolized it.

Before he left town, he stopped in at Grounds for Divorce one last time.

“You were right,” Earl told Lucinda.
“Honey,” she replied, topping off his cup, “I usually am.”

The Epilogue

The Topaz still roams Fort Stockton. You might spot it outside the high school, or idling patiently near the baseball field, or chugging down a dusty neighborhood street at a respectable 23 mph.

It’s become something of a mascot—an accidental legend, not for its speed or style, but because it endured, quietly and stubbornly, refusing to die or embarrass itself.

Which, when you think about it, is not a bad way to be remembered.

In a town full of loud trucks, tall tales, and taller egos, the Mercury Topaz is proof that sometimes the things that stand out the most…
are the ones that never meant to.

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