In the spring of 1959, before anybody in Fort Stockton had heard of compact cars or imagined that a family might someday require more than one television set, A.J. Groves decided it was time to replace the Ford.
The Ford was a 1953 Crestline, dark green with a cream roof, bought used during the first year of his marriage to Donna and paid for during the second. It had carried them home from the hospital with each of their three children, hauled groceries from Piggly Wiggly, transported casseroles to Almost United Methodist Church, and once dragged a dead pecan limb across RoadRunner Estates because A.J. saw no reason to pay a man with a truck for something that could be accomplished with a Ford, thirty feet of rope, and an audience of doubtful neighbors.
The Crestline still started every morning and made no noise A.J. could not identify, but it was six years old, which in 1959 placed it somewhere between a dependable automobile and a family heirloom. Rust had begun to bubble beneath the driver’s-side rocker trim. The upholstery had split under Donna’s side of the front seat. The radio received only one station clearly, and the left rear door required an upward pull on the handle that no one but A.J. could manage without profanity.
The Groves family had recently moved into a new three-bedroom, two-bath brick home in RoadRunner Estates, on one of those streets where the mesquite had been cleared just enough to suggest civilization was making progress. The house had a two-car garage, though the other bay held A.J.’s mower, a workbench, two bicycles, three boxes of Christmas decorations, and lumber bought at Rusty Hammer Hardware because it had been marked down and might someday become shelving.
A.J. had done well for a man who began with little more than a high school diploma, a clean shirt, and the belief that arriving early was the same thing as being ambitious. He was in his sixth year with the city as Fort Stockton’s Vector Control Technician, a title grand enough that Donna’s mother had once asked whether he wore a tie to work. In practice, he monitored mosquitoes, inspected drainage ditches, set rat traps, counted larvae, and explained to citizens that water standing in a washtub behind their garage since Easter was not an act of God.
He was good at it. His records were neat, his truck was clean, and he knew every alley, culvert, irrigation leak, abandoned shed, and damp patch from the courthouse to the edge of town. More than one department head had told him that when something opened in city administration, A.J.’s name would receive serious consideration. He did not know which city jobs were considered sexier than mosquito control, but he was pleased to hear they existed.
Donna stayed home with the children, which meant she worked before sunrise and after A.J. went to bed while receiving neither wages nor the courtesy of an annual review. She served on the altar committee and belonged to the sewing circle at Almost United Methodist, where she was admired for her straight hems, pound cake, and ability to hear another woman complain about her husband without defending him or making matters worse. A.J. ushered twice a month and played third base on the church softball team. After evening games, he sometimes joined the men at the Lucky Lady, where they discussed automobiles, city politics, and the inability of Second Baptist to field a shortstop who could throw accurately to first.
The money for the new car arrived unexpectedly from an aunt in Oklahoma whom A.J. remembered chiefly because she smelled of talcum powder and kept every lamp in her house burning during daylight. She died of fatal familial insomnia, a cause so peculiar that nobody in the family knew whether it was proper to mention at the funeral. When the estate was settled, A.J. received enough to combine with the trade-in value of the Crestline and put about half down on a new automobile. A two-year loan would have the car paid for before the eldest child reached junior high.
Donna agreed that it was time. She had no strong preference beyond at least two dependable doors, enough room for the children, and a trunk capable of holding groceries and church supplies. She liked lighter colors because West Texas summers punished dark paint, but otherwise she trusted A.J.
This trust pleased him and burdened him in almost equal measure.
A.J. believed important decisions were best approached in groups of three. There were three television networks, NBC, CBS, and ABC, and among them a man could find all the entertainment he had time to watch. Three magazines came to the Groves home, LIFE, LOOK, and NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC, containing all the news, culture, science, geography, and photographs of unfamiliar women in distant lands a respectable household required. Fort Stockton offered three principal places to eat away from home: Dairy Twin after softball, K-Bob’s after church, and the Cattle Baron for anniversaries, birthdays, and evenings when Donna put on perfume before a Rice Krispy Treat.
Three provided variety without chaos. One choice could usually be eliminated quickly, leaving two to be weighed by a man willing to think. A.J. had even followed the method before proposing marriage, narrowing the field to Donna and Trudy Hudspeth. Donna possessed kindness, steadiness, good judgment, and parents who liked him. Trudy possessed none of those reliably, though she could suck a bowling ball through forty feet of garden hose, which had advanced her considerably in the standings.
He chose Donna and remained confident he had chosen correctly.
The automobiles under consideration were the top full-sized family coupes offered by Ford, Chevrolet, and Plymouth. There were other makes, certainly, but A.J. regarded them the way he regarded radio preachers broadcasting from stations too distant to receive clearly. They might have something worthwhile to say, but there was no practical reason to strain to hear them.
He began at Frontier Ford-Lincoln-Mercury because the Crestline had served him well and familiarity deserved the first opportunity to defend itself.
The dealership sat in the morning sun with long rows of automobiles angled toward the street, their chrome bright enough to make a man squint. Walter Timmons met him in the showroom wearing a gray suit despite the heat. Walter’s wife taught the five-year-olds at Almost United Methodist, while Walter himself attended Easter, Christmas, and any Sunday immediately preceding a church business meeting involving money.
“You thinking about trading that Crestline?” Walter asked.
“I’m thinking about thinking about it.”
Walter nodded, recognizing the distinction. “Good car.”
“It has been.”
“Still is.”
They stood together looking through the showroom glass at the old Ford, two men acknowledging a machine that had done what was asked of it.
The Galaxie hardtop inside was finished in Geranium and white, a color warmer than red and brighter than rust, dignified but not timid. Chrome bumpers, rear wheel skirts, quad headlamps, corrugated side trim, Sun Ray wheel covers, and polished exhaust tips gave it presence without making it look decorated by committee.
A.J. opened the driver’s door and settled onto a broad Geranium bench seat trimmed in white and black cloth. The padded dashboard held a horizontal speedometer, fuel and temperature gauges, an analog clock, push-button radio, and controls positioned where a reasonable man expected to find them. The white steering wheel carried a horn ring broad enough to strike with either palm during moments of justified irritation.
Walter allowed A.J. to inspect the interior before leaning through the window.
“Thunderbird three-thirty-two,” he said. “Cruise-O-Matic. Plenty of motor without feeding it like a ranch hand.”
“How much difference does the Galaxie name make?”
“Depends whether you like the name.”
“I mean in the price.”
“Not as much as Lincoln.”
On the test drive, the Ford accelerated smoothly and shifted without drama. The steering felt substantial, the cabin remained quiet, and the doors closed with a sound less like a slam than a conclusion.
“It feels solid,” A.J. said.
“It is solid.”
“Every salesman says that.”
“Every salesman doesn’t sell Fords.”
Walter spoke without smiling, and A.J. respected him for it.
The Galaxie did not surprise him. That was both its strength and weakness. It felt like the Crestline after years of good meals and a promotion. He could imagine owning it for a decade without embarrassment, though he could also imagine pulling beside something more dramatic at Dairy Twin and wondering whether he had mistaken prudence for timidity.
Back at the dealership, Walter inspected the trade, listened to it idle, and pressed each corner as solemnly as a doctor examining a patient who had driven himself to the appointment.
“You kept it up.”
“I don’t believe in waiting until something breaks.”
“Neither does Ford.”
A.J. accepted a brochure and wrote on the back of an envelope: solid ride, good engine, best dash, conservative? He thanked Walter and said he intended to see Chevrolet and Plymouth before deciding.
“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t,” Walter replied. “You’ll be back when you’re finished.”
It was not a boast. It was the kind of confidence Ford was selling that year.
Cactus Chev-Olds felt entirely different. If Frontier Ford resembled a bank where automobiles happened to be displayed, the Chevrolet dealership looked as though someone had built a theater and filled it with chrome.
The Impala Sport Coupe was finished in Gothic Gold and Satin Beige, colors that sounded selected by a decorator who had never worked outdoors. Yet the combination was handsome, richer than brown and softer than yellow. Its broad hood, wraparound windshield, dual antennas, and horizontal tailfins made it appear to be moving even while parked.
A salesman named Leon Barlow approached carrying two cups of coffee and began talking before introducing himself.
“Look at that roofline. Nobody else has anything like it.”
“That can be said about quite a few parts of this car.”
Leon studied him, then laughed. “Fair enough.”
The Chevrolet’s styling was not shy. Chrome ran the length of the body. Almond-shaped air inlets sat beneath the quad headlamps. The rear spread outward into flattened wings over taillamps that seemed prepared to glow whenever the car became irritated.
Inside, copper and brown cloth and vinyl made the cabin warm and inviting. A two-spoke steering wheel framed a 120-mile-per-hour speedometer, clock, warning lights, and gauges. The broad bench seat offered room for Donna to sit beside him with a child between them if necessary.
Leon drove first, allowing A.J. to experience the car as a passenger. The 348 V8 moved the Impala with ease, while the Powerglide delivered its power in smooth, broad surges.
“It’s got the big engine,” Leon said.
“I noticed.”
“You won’t need all of it.”
“Then why am I paying for it?”
“So you’ll know it’s there.”
A.J. thought the answer contained most of Chevrolet’s philosophy for 1959.
Behind the wheel, he found the Impala easier to manage than its appearance suggested. It rode softly, swallowed broken pavement, and filled the cabin with light through its surrounding glass. The interior was the most attractive he had seen, and he could imagine Donna liking it immediately.
Still, the Chevrolet made him suspicious of his own attraction. It was deliberately modern and eager to make last year look foolish. The neighbors would gather in the Groves driveway not because the family had bought a new car, but because the car demanded witnesses.
At Leon’s desk, they discussed price, trade, service, and financing. No manager lurked behind a wall waiting to approve a miraculous discount. A price was a price, a trade was worth what two men agreed it was worth, and the rest depended on whether A.J. returned with Donna or a check.
He wrote: best interior, strong engine, wild body.
“You’ll get used to the styling,” Leon said.
“That’s what worries me.”
“Bring your wife. Women understand this car quicker than men do.”
Donna would not have appreciated the theory, though A.J. suspected it might be true.
Tumbleweed Chrysler-Plymouth-DeSoto occupied a lower building west of town, its lot crowded with cars determined to demonstrate how many individual pieces of chrome could be attached to a single body.
The red and white Sport Fury was long, low, and crowned by tailfins that rose decisively from the rear quarters. Anodized aluminum trim ran along its sides. Twin antennas stood at the back. Dual mirrors perched on the fenders. The Sport Deck faux spare-wheel cover occupied the trunk lid like a decorative serving platter.
The salesman, Wes Pritchard, was younger than Walter or Leon and wore a narrow tie patterned with silver diamonds. He greeted A.J. by name, though A.J. could not remember meeting him.
“I saw you play third against Second Baptist,” Wes explained. “You made that stop in the sixth.”
“It went through my legs.”
“But you slowed it down.”
This was salesmanship of a high order, and A.J. liked him immediately.
Wes demonstrated the swiveling driver’s seat. A.J. rotated it outward, sat down, and turned himself back toward the steering wheel.
“Well,” he said.
“Your wife will love that.”
“My wife is thirty-one.”
“She won’t always be.”
A.J. looked at him.
“I mean the seat will remain convenient.”
The cabin was trimmed in red cloth and vinyl with textured aluminum across the dashboard. The push-button radio seemed ordinary only because it sat beside the push-button TorqueFlite controls, which looked designed to select a destination rather than a gear. Bucket seats gave the interior a sporting feel, though A.J. wondered whether Donna would miss sliding close beside him during evening drives.
The 318 V8 produced 260 horsepower. A.J. did not need that much, but he enjoyed hearing about it.
On the road, the Sport Fury surprised him. He expected something theatrical, perhaps nervous, but the car rode well. Its power steering was light, the TorqueFlite shifted smartly, and the engine moved the car with more eagerness than either the Ford or Chevrolet. The Plymouth seemed determined to convince the father of a family that he had not surrendered every youthful impulse upon signing a mortgage.
They drove west beyond town, where telephone poles marched beside the highway and the land opened into grass, rock, and distance. Wes knew enough to stop talking.
A.J. liked the ride, the transmission, the engine, and the odd sophistication of the swiveling seats. Yet each time he checked the mirror, the fins remained behind him like red exclamation points.
“They’re tall.”
“They’re supposed to be.”
“What happens next year?”
“Next year there’ll be new cars.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
Wes considered him honestly. “You’re wondering whether fins are going out.”
“I’m wondering whether I’ll spend two years paying for a car that looks five years old before the note is finished.”
“I can’t tell you what Detroit will do next year. Nobody in Fort Stockton can.”
It was the most trustworthy answer A.J. heard all day.
By late afternoon, he had three brochures and three envelopes containing figures, notes, and trade allowances. Instead of driving home, he turned toward the Lucky Lady.
The tavern was cool and dim after the glare outside. Cigarette smoke drifted beneath the ceiling fan, and framed softball photographs hung above the bar. Scooter set a cold bottle of Pearl in front of him without asking why a man had entered before supper carrying three automobile brochures.
A.J. spread them across the bar. Ford on the left, Chevrolet in the middle, Plymouth on the right.
“Looks serious,” Scooter said.
“New car.”
“I gathered you weren’t planning a vacation.”
A.J. lit a Marlboro and described the Ford’s solidity, the Chevrolet’s interior, and the Plymouth’s gadgets. Scooter listened while polishing a glass that appeared older than several customers.
The second Pearl arrived.
“What do you think?” A.J. asked.
“I think all three will get you home.”
“I know that.”
“All three will carry your wife and kids.”
“I know that too.”
“All three cost more than the one you own.”
“That isn’t helpful.”
Scooter set the glass down. “You asking which car I’d buy or which car you should buy?”
A.J. had not considered the difference. “Which I should buy.”
“Then why are you telling me what I like?”
“I’m not.”
“You spent ten minutes saying what Ford does right, ten telling me what Chevrolet does different, and fifteen explaining what worries you about Plymouth. Sounds like you already have an opinion.”
The Lucky Lady gradually filled around them. Highway men took stools at the far end. Someone fed the jukebox. A softball teammate offered advice based on a brother-in-law’s Chevrolet overheating near Balmorhea. A.J. thanked him and returned to his notes.
By the third Pearl, half the Marlboros were gone. A.J. had compared prices, trade allowances, engines, transmissions, upholstery, visibility, steering, brakes, resale value, and whether a fake spare tire cover represented sophistication or evidence of declining standards.
Scooter finally leaned both hands on the bar.
“You’re trying to buy a car nobody can criticize.”
A.J. looked up.
“There isn’t one. Buy the Ford and somebody says you’re scared of style. Buy the Chevrolet and somebody says you got carried away. Buy the Plymouth and somebody asks whether the fins need aviation lights. They’ll talk about it for two weeks, then go back to talking about themselves.”
A.J. smiled.
Scooter nodded toward the brochures. “Which one did you look back at when you walked away?”
That was all.
No philosophy followed. Scooter collected the empty bottles and moved down the bar. Yet once the question had been asked, the answer came so easily that A.J. wondered how he had hidden it from himself all afternoon.
He stacked the brochures, placed the notes inside, and tucked them beneath his arm. Which brochure rested on top went unnoticed by everyone, including Scooter, who would later claim he had known but forgotten.
The Crestline started on the first turn.
A.J. drove through streets that still belonged more to people than traffic. Sprinklers clicked over narrow lawns in RoadRunner Estates. Children chased bicycles between driveways. Porch lights came on one by one, and somewhere behind an open window a television audience applauded.
At the Groves house, the garage door stood raised and Donna had left the light on for him. Through the front window, he could see the children sitting on the floor before the Zenith while Donna carried plates toward the table. Saturday morning they would watch cartoons while he returned to one of the three dealerships, shook a salesman’s hand, signed the papers, and drove home in a new automobile.
He remained behind the wheel for a moment, looking at the house they had built from work, patience, church suppers, careful payments, and the quiet assumption that tomorrow would resemble today closely enough to be managed.
Detroit was already preparing to prove otherwise.
Within a few years there would be compacts, intermediates, economy cars, performance packages, luxury versions of inexpensive models, and inexpensive versions of luxury ones. Choices would multiply until a man could study every possibility and still suspect that somewhere, on another lot, sat the car he should have bought.
But none of that had reached RoadRunner Estates.
Donna opened the front door and leaned against the frame, drying her hands on a dish towel.
“Well?” she called.
A.J. stepped from the Crestline holding the brochures against his chest, smiling with the confidence of a man who had solved the problem set before him.
“I know which one.”
Donna smiled back. “I knew you would.”
She went inside, trusting him to follow.
It was 1959.
There were three good choices.
And three was enough.
2 responses to “THE LAST YEAR THINGS WERE SIMPLE”
Mmmmm, Cappy.
You have reminded us of a time when NBC, CBS and ABC was enough. And when a Pearl was satisfying if not really good. Too bad you can never go home.
Much ado about nothing – hey Cap, it really worked. I’m wired with anxiousness!
I’ve never liked Plymouths. The Ford looks like 2 years ago. Chevrolet had horrible colors – like what’s on the highways today (white, black, silver, or a mixture)! Buy a station wagon and keep the Cresline and mod it up!