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The Pontiac wagon had served the family well. Never shirked its duty despite Dorothy Hardin’s tendency to kiss curbs like they were distant cousins at a family reunion, despite little Julie throwing up in the third-row seat every time the family crossed county lines, and despite Hank Hardin’s stubborn refusal to stop and ask directions unless somebody was actively bleeding.

The Beast carried on regardless.

The 1973 Pontiac Grand Safari sat in the driveway of the Hardin house on Valencia Street like a loyal old Labrador with arthritis. The clamshell tailgate had long since lost its novelty, but never its willingness to slide down and swallow groceries, football pads, suitcases, lawn chairs, or half the inventory from the Piggly Wiggly whenever Dorothy got nervous before a holiday weekend.

But by 1979 the world had changed.

The General Motors boys in Detroit had downsized everything in 1977, and suddenly the Grand Safari looked less like modern transportation and more like something Red Skelton ought to be driving while smoking a cigar the size of a bratwurst.

The Pontiac had become a punchline.

Teenagers laughed at it in parking lots. Men at the office made “land yacht” comments. One of the deacons at Almost United Methodist asked Hank if he needed a tugboat license to operate it.

Worst of all, his son Henry had started asking to be dropped off a block away from school.

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“Dad,” the boy had said one morning while adjusting the collar on his football jacket, “people can hear the thing turning into the parking lot before they even see it.”

“That’s called displacement,” Hank answered. “America won World War II with displacement.”

“That thing looks like Nixon should still be president.”

Hank didn’t even respond. He simply stared straight ahead while the Pontiac floated down Dickinson Boulevard like the USS Midway.

Truth was, Hank knew the boy was right.

The family was different now. Julie was off at Texas Tech studying something Dorothy described as “communications” but Hank privately suspected involved protesting and incense. Henry was more interested in girls, football, and feathered hair than family road trips to Carlsbad Caverns.

The wagon’s era had passed.

And Hank Hardin was finally ready to admit something else to himself.

He was tired of sacrificing.

Not tired enough to buy a Cadillac, mind you. Hank wasn’t some oilman from Midland with alligator shoes and a mistress in Odessa. A Cadillac parked outside Almost United Methodist might as well have had a neon sign bolted to the roof reading WE THINK WE’RE BETTER THAN Y’ALL.

No sir.

But a Buick?

A Buick was respectable aspiration.

A Buick said success without vulgarity. Achievement without arrogance. Methodist manners with Park Avenue ambitions.

That was the sweet spot.

So on a warm Thursday morning, after dropping Henry off at Jim Bowie High School a respectable distance from the front entrance, Hank steered the Grand Safari toward Buckboard Buick.

The Pontiac groaned into the dealership lot like an aging prizefighter climbing through the ropes one final time.

Buddy Burnet met him before he even got the engine shut off.

Buddy was one of those car salesmen who always looked like he’d just finished laughing at a joke nobody else got to hear. Perfect white shirt. Thin tie. Hair feathered back with enough Aqua Net to survive hurricane conditions.

“Hank Hardin,” Buddy grinned. “I had a feeling today might be the day.”

“There’s never a bad day to spend money, apparently.”

Buddy laughed. “Depends whose money.”

Hank stepped out and shut the wagon door with a metallic WHUMP that rattled half the lot.

Buddy stared at the Pontiac respectfully. “That’s still a hell of a wagon.”

“Yeah,” Hank sighed. “Like keeping a Brahma bull in the backyard.”

Buddy nodded solemnly. “Fuel economy’ll do that.”

The showroom windows reflected rows of Buicks baking under the West Texas sun. Electras. LeSabres. Rivieras with opera windows and enough chrome to blind passing aircraft.

Then Hank saw it.

Medium Green Metallic.

White padded vinyl top.

Wire wheel covers sparkling like casino jewelry.

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The Electra Park Avenue sat near the front of the showroom with the confidence of a woman who knew every man in the room had already noticed her.

Hank stopped walking.

Buddy noticed immediately.

“That one just came off the truck two days ago.”

Hank stared another moment.

“Matches Dorothy’s eyes,” he muttered before realizing he’d accidentally said it out loud.

He winced immediately.

In Fort Stockton, admitting emotional attachment during negotiations was like showing your cards during poker night at the Lucky Lady Lounge.

Buddy, to his credit, pretended not to notice.

“Well,” he smiled softly, “sounds like Buick did something right.”

The closer Hank got to the Electra, the more the Pontiac wagon behind him began to resemble farm equipment.

The Buick’s exterior was finished in Medium Green Metallic with a white padded elk-grain vinyl top that gave the car the sort of dignity usually associated with wealthy dentists. Faux VentiPorts decorated the front fenders. Thin chrome moldings ran along the sides with the precision of cufflinks on a banker’s shirt.

Steel 15-inch wheels wore Buick wire covers that transformed plain practicality into rolling country club membership.

Buddy opened the driver’s door.

The smell hit Hank first.

Not just new car smell.

Promise.

Green Velvet Knit cloth covered the seats so richly that Hank instinctively rubbed his fingertips across the cushion.

“Good Lord,” he whispered.

“Feels like your living room ought to apologize to it,” Buddy said.

Woodgrain trim stretched across the dash and doors. The steering wheel looked expensive enough to wear cufflinks itself. Power windows. Power locks. Cruise control. Factory air conditioning strong enough to refrigerate beef.

The AM/FM 8-track stereo gleamed beneath the dash-mounted quartz clock like something from NASA.

Buddy leaned casually against the roof.

“403 cubic inch V8,” he said proudly. “Oldsmobile-built.”

Hank narrowed his eyes.

“Thought Buick made Buicks.”

Buddy smiled carefully. “Power is sent to the rear wheels through a three-speed automatic transmission.”

That was salesman language for Please Stop Asking Questions.

Hank sat behind the wheel.

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The door shut with a deep, expensive THUNK.

Not a clang.

Not a rattle.

A declaration.

The Grand Safari doors sounded like empty Folgers cans by comparison.

Buddy let silence do the work awhile.

Outside, traffic hummed faintly down Dickinson Boulevard. Somewhere nearby an air wrench barked inside the service department.

Finally Buddy spoke quietly.

“Notice the brushed stainless instrument panel against the woodgrain.”

Hank nodded slowly.

The Pontiac’s dashboard looked like cafeteria equipment compared to this.

He remembered the Yellowstone trip three summers earlier when the vinyl seats in the wagon had chafed the dog so badly they’d stopped at a Walgreens in Bozeman to buy ointment for the poor animal’s inflamed backside.

This seat?

This seat felt like it ought to have a butler assigned to it.

Hank looked down and finally noticed the window sticker.

The number at the bottom punched him right in the chest.

Ten thousand dollars.

About what he and Dorothy had paid for their first house.

Buddy saw the expression immediately.

Salesmen knew that look better than preachers recognized guilt.

“It’s a lot,” Buddy admitted gently.

Hank nodded.

“Feels irresponsible.”

Buddy leaned down slightly.

“You know the difference between irresponsible and earned?”

“What?”

“Monthly payments.”

That cracked Hank up harder than it should have.

Buddy opened the door again.

“Take your time. Imagine yourself in it.”

Hank did.

He imagined pulling up to Dairy Twin in the Buick while Wynona carried out a sack of cheeseburgers.

He imagined Dorothy sliding across that green velour in her church dress.

He imagined driving to Midland without the sensation of piloting a municipal airport.

Most of all, he imagined not apologizing for his car anymore.

The deal was done by two-thirty that afternoon.

Buddy managed to get the Grand Safari appraised without openly insulting it, though Hank noticed the used car manager writing notes with the same expression veterinarians wore around aging horses.

By five o’clock the Electra Park Avenue sat proudly in the Hardin driveway.

Hank was transferring emergency supplies he’d removed from the Pontiac into the Buick trunk when Henry arrived home after football practice.

The boy stopped dead in the driveway.

“Well,” he said finally, “it’s no dinosaur.”

Hank tried not to smile too much.

“Your mother and I have worked hard.”

Henry walked slowly around the Buick.

The metallic green glowed warmly beneath the lowering West Texas sun.

Then the boy spotted the window sticker still attached to the rear side glass.

His eyes widened.

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Hank moved instinctively, trying to block it, but too late.

Henry looked from the sticker to his father.

“Son,” Hank said carefully, “there are some things you don’t discuss publicly.”

“How much stuff costs?”

“Exactly.”

Henry nodded slowly.

“It’s tacky. Especially at church.”

“Okay.”

Henry looked back at the sticker again.

“Did you finance it?”

Hank stiffened.

“That,” he said solemnly, “is also nobody’s business.”

Dorothy came outside carrying iced tea and stopped cold when she saw the Buick.

“Well,” she breathed.

Hank suddenly felt sixteen years old again.

“Matches your eyes.”

Dorothy laughed despite herself.

“It absolutely does not.”

“Close enough.”

She slid into the passenger seat and ran her hand across the velour.

“My Lord,” she whispered. “This feels sinful.”

“Methodists don’t believe in luxury,” Hank said. “We believe in being quietly better than our fellow man.”

That got a genuine laugh out of her.

A few days later Dorothy confessed to Trixie at the Klip-N-Dye that she actually preferred the old tan Pontiac.

“At least I didn’t worry about scratching it,” she admitted while sitting beneath a hair dryer. “Now Hank parks six miles from every store entrance.”

Trixie lit a Virginia Slim and grinned.

“That’s because Buicks ain’t transportation. They’re emotional support systems for middle-aged men.”

Meanwhile Henry learned several important lessons.

He learned that hard work sometimes paid off in chrome and velour.

He learned that delayed gratification carried more authority than bragging.

And he learned folks who loudly announced what they paid for things usually still owed the bank most of it.

Most surprisingly of all, he let Hank drop him off directly in front of Jim Bowie High School for the next few weeks.

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The Buick rolled up every morning like Fort Knox with a vinyl roof.

Football players noticed.

Teachers noticed.

Girls definitely noticed.

One afternoon Henry lingered before getting out.

“You know,” he admitted carefully, “this thing’s kinda nice.”

Hank kept both hands on the wheel.

“Damn right it is.”

Henry nodded toward the dashboard.

“Can I borrow it sometime?”

Hank looked at him like he’d requested the launch codes for America’s nuclear arsenal.

“No.”

The boy laughed and climbed out.

As Henry walked toward the school entrance, Hank caught sight of the reflection in the Electra’s hood.

For just a second he saw the old Pontiac wagon parked behind him in memory.

Yellowstone.

Little League games.

Road trips.

Vomit in the third-row seat.

Arguments over maps.

The dog.

All of it.

Then the light changed.

The Buick idled smoothly beneath him, cold air blowing softly through the vents while Kenny Rogers played on the 8-track.

Hank eased onto Dickinson Boulevard in near silence.

And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel old driving through Fort Stockton.

He felt like he’d finally arrived. 

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