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Vice Principal Lutz had spent most of his life standing immediately to the right of somebody more important.

It had begun with his older brother, Everett, who had been born three years earlier and apparently used the extra time to claim everything worth having. Everett had been the first to ride a bicycle, the first to earn a varsity letter, the first to go away to college, and the first to produce a grandson for their parents. By 1963, he was Dean of Students at Pecos County Community College, a title that sounded important even if nobody could explain exactly what a Dean of Students did between breakfast and supper. Vice Principal Lutz, meanwhile, worked at Jim Bowie High School beneath Principal Pough, whose own chief administrative talent consisted of reminding Lutz that he worked beneath Principal Pough.

“If there are ever cutbacks,” Pough liked to tell him, “you’ll be the first one to go.”

Pough said this during faculty meetings. He said it in the teachers’ lounge. Once he said it during a tornado drill while Lutz was trying to persuade four hundred students to crouch against an interior wall with their hands over their heads.

“Good to know,” Lutz had replied.

That was about as close as he came to insubordination.

At home, Lutz lived in the shadow of a man who had been dead for eleven years. Before becoming Mrs. Lutz, his wife Dorothy had been married to Douglas Ray Tolliver, a decorated Army lieutenant who had gone to Korea and never come home. Doug had been handsome, brave, broad-shouldered, mechanically gifted, good with children, and, in Dorothy’s recollection, incapable of making an incorrect turn, overcooking an egg, selecting a poor necktie, or leaving the toilet seat in a tactically disadvantageous position.

“That’s not the way Doug would have done it,” Dorothy would say.

She said it when Lutz parked too far from the entrance of the Silver Slipper Supper Club.

She said it when he bought off-brand charcoal.

She said it when he repaired the kitchen faucet and the cold-water handle ended up pointing six degrees east of due north.

She had even said it one evening while walking toward the shower after accepting one of his rare and somewhat tentative invitations to share a Rice Krispy Treat.

That one stayed with him.

It would have been a stretch to say Vice Principal Lutz had accepted his fate. Does a man ever truly embrace being second best? Probably not. But Lutz no longer fought it, and there was a difference. A man could stop trying to climb the ladder without necessarily approving of the view from the rung he had been assigned.

He had made peace with mediocrity.

Or at least signed a cease-fire.

That was why, on a warm Saturday morning in June of 1963, Vice Principal Lutz drove his aging 1954 Ford Mainline to Frontier Ford-Lincoln-Mercury, “Home of the Straight Shootin’ Deal,” intending to trade it for the most thoroughly unremarkable new automobile on the lot.

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The Mainline had served him faithfully for nine years, which meant it started most mornings, stopped when sufficient advance notice was provided, and contained no feature that could encourage envy or conversation. It had been painted light blue once, but the Pecos County sun had reduced it to the color of an old work shirt. The driver’s door sagged, the radio received only one station clearly, and the front seat listed slightly toward the passenger side, as though even the automobile expected Lutz to defer to somebody sitting beside him.

He parked near the showroom and went inside carrying his registration papers, a sharpened pencil, and a firm idea of what a man in his position ought to buy.

The car was already waiting outside.

A beige 1963 Ford Galaxie four-door sedan.

Not a Galaxie 500. Certainly not one of the new Galaxie 500 XL fastbacks with bucket seats, polished trim, and a roofline that implied its owner occasionally exceeded both the speed limit and ordinary standards of behavior. Those cars belonged to men who wore their shirt collars open after five o’clock and had never once been told they were first in line for a future cutback.

No. This was simply a Galaxie.

Beige paint. Mileage Maker Six. Three-speed manual transmission with the lever on the steering column. Rubber floor mats. An interior upholstered in three coordinating shades of hopeless brown. It looked like the sort of automobile a municipal sanitation inspector might be issued after completing his probationary period.

Lutz admired its honesty.

He could already see the next seven years. He would drive it to Jim Bowie High School each morning, park in the space beside Principal Pough’s newer and more expensive Mercury, and watch the beige paint slowly turn into a fine West Texas powder. By 1971, the Galaxie would have extracted the final usable portion of his soul. Then he would trade it on another one.

Roger Timmons met him near the showroom doors. Roger was Frontier Ford’s senior salesman, a distinction he had achieved through twenty years of knowing when to talk, when to listen, and when to allow a customer to convince himself. He wore a narrow gray suit, a white shirt, and a tie patterned with tiny blue Ford crests. His shoes reflected the ceiling lights. His smile suggested that every automobile on the property had been waiting specifically for the person standing nearest to it.

“Morning, Vice Principal.”

“Morning, Roger.”

“Finally ready to put the Mainline out to pasture?”

“I believe so.”

Roger looked through the glass at the faded Ford. “Still a lot of life left in her.”

The rear bumper was tied to its bracket with baling wire.

“Some,” Lutz agreed.

They walked outside to the beige Galaxie. Roger opened the driver’s door and invited Lutz to sit behind the wheel. Lutz settled onto the brown vinyl bench seat, looked across the broad brown dashboard, and rested both hands on the large steering wheel.

It fit.

Not well.

But appropriately.

Roger mentioned the dependable six-cylinder engine, the economical operation, the generous trunk, and the fact that beige concealed dust almost as effectively as it discouraged theft. Lutz nodded. He asked sensible questions about the warranty and trade-in allowance. Roger answered them while studying his customer with the practiced concern of a physician who suspected the patient’s problem was not physical.

Lutz was ready to buy.

Roger could have written the order.

Instead, he looked toward the rear of the showroom.

“Have you seen this?”

Four words.

That was all it took.

Roger led him past a pair of Galaxie 500s, a turquoise Fairlane, and a red Falcon convertible positioned beneath a cardboard cutout of a smiling cowboy firing finger pistols beneath the slogan OUR PRICES HIT THE BULL’S-EYE!

At the back of the showroom sat a black station wagon.

Lutz stopped walking.

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The Falcon Squire was small by wagon standards, but there was nothing modest about it. Raven Black paint covered the body, polished to a depth that reflected the showroom lights in long white streaks. Simulated woodgrain panels ran down both sides, framed by bright trim and little decorative fasteners that made the car appear to have been constructed by a cabinetmaker with access to a chrome-plating shop. White-stripe tires surrounded by deluxe wheel covers stood beneath fender skirts at the rear. A full chrome roof rack crowned the top.

The interior was red.

Not burgundy.

Not maroon.

Red.

Red pleated vinyl bucket seats. Red carpeting. Red door panels. A red dashboard. Between the front seats sat a polished center console that appeared suitable for holding either road maps or classified documents. An under-dash FordAire air-conditioning unit faced the occupants with four round vents. The steering wheel had three bright spokes. The rear window operated electrically. Even the tailgate had woodgrain.

The little black wagon was dressed prettier than a prostitute in church and decorated inside like she had been the night before.

Lutz stared at it.

Roger waited.

“What is it?”

“Falcon Squire. Super Deluxe.”

Lutz walked slowly around the wagon. “A Falcon?”

“Mostly.”

“What does that mean?”

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Roger opened the hood. Beneath it sat a 260-cubic-inch V8 topped by an orange air cleaner.

“That means it may be a Falcon when you’re buying insurance, but it’s something else entirely when the light turns green.”

Lutz leaned forward.

“A V8?”

“Special order. Two-barrel carburetor. Ford-O-Matic transmission. Power steering. Factory air conditioning. Bucket seats. Console. Power rear window. Fender skirts. Deluxe wheel covers. Roof rack. Whoever ordered this checked boxes until the pencil got tired.”

Lutz straightened. “Who ordered it?”

“Mary Jo Jackson.”

Lutz knew the Jacksons. Everybody did. Mr. Jackson worked at the proving grounds outside town, where engineers subjected automobile tires to desert heat, rough roads, blowing sand, and other conditions found naturally between Fort Stockton and the nearest grocery store.

“Just came in,” Roger continued. “Turns out Mr. Jackson was dipping his pen in the company ink out at the proving grounds. He and Mary Jo are splitting. No way he’s paying for a new car on top of giving her the house and the kids.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“For him.”

Roger lowered the hood carefully.

“Mary Jo says she’s moving back to Abilene with her mother and doesn’t want the car. Mr. Jackson says he wouldn’t be caught dead driving a station wagon with wood on the sides. Which tells me adultery wasn’t his only failure of judgment.”

Lutz looked again at the Falcon. The black paint seemed darker beside the bright woodgrain. The fender skirts gave the small wagon an unexpected formality, as though it had dressed for dinner. Chrome glimmered everywhere without making the car appear gaudy.

It was confident.

Lutz had seen confidence before.

Usually from behind.

“It’ll be the nicest Falcon in Pecos County,” Roger said. “That’s for sure.”

Lutz ran one finger along the top of the driver’s door.

“Maybe all of Texas.”

Roger was casting now. He let the bait drift.

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Lutz opened the door and eased himself behind the wheel. The bucket seat held him upright. Not squeezed. Not crowded. Held. He placed one hand on the steering wheel and looked across the red dashboard. The cabin seemed less like the interior of an economy car than the cockpit of something headed somewhere important.

He opened the console.

Inside was a shallow compartment trimmed in polished metal. At the rear was an ashtray for passengers in the back seat, because this was 1963 and manufacturers understood that children should not be forced to hold an adult’s cigarette during long trips.

Roger leaned through the open door.

“Yep. That’s ice-cold air conditioning. Your days of having your pocket protector stick to you are over in this little unit.”

Lutz touched one of the round vents.

The compressor engaged when Roger started the engine. Cold air blew across Lutz’s shirt. The 260 settled into a smooth V8 idle that seemed entirely too substantial for a Falcon.

Lutz had bitten.

Roger set the hook.

“It’s even got the fender skirts,” he said. “When you’re dressed up in woodgrain and chrome, fender skirts just finish the outfit.”

Lutz glanced toward the rearview mirror.

“And that chrome roof rack sets the whole thing off like a crown on a king.”

Roger paused.

“Or should I say, the Falcon Squire?”

Nobody had ever considered Lutz a king. Nobody had considered him any kind of squire, either. Yet there he sat upon a red vinyl bucket throne, one hand on a bright steering wheel, with chilled air blowing across his forearms and a V8 murmuring beneath the hood.

Through the showroom windows he could see the beige Galaxie.

It looked dreadful now.

Not objectively dreadful. It remained a perfectly sound, reasonably priced automobile capable of delivering a family across Texas in acceptable comfort. But beside the Falcon Squire, it looked like something purchased in quantity by the Pecos County Department of Weights and Measures.

“What’s the difference in price?” Lutz asked.

Roger looked pained, which was how automobile salesmen of the period indicated they were about to perform arithmetic.

After allowing for the Mainline, adjusting the term, moving two numbers that had no business moving, and consulting the sales manager behind a glass partition, Roger returned with the answer.

“Seven dollars a month.”

Lutz looked at the Falcon.

Seven dollars.

That was two lunches at K-Bob’s, three evenings at the Dairy Twin, or nearly one respectable bottle of whiskey. It was also less than Dorothy spent each month mailing packages to Doug’s mother in Lubbock.

“Write it up.”

Roger did not grin. A professional never celebrated until the signature was dry.

“Yes, sir.”

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Lutz drove the Falcon home by the longest available route to RoadRunner Estates. He went east first, then south, then passed the courthouse twice before turning toward home. The Ford-O-Matic shifted smoothly. The power steering allowed him to guide the car with one hand. The 260 V8 made the little wagon feel eager, as though it had somewhere to go even when Lutz did not.

People waved.

Some pointed.

At a stoplight, Sheriff Ray Vickers pulled alongside in his patrol car, rolled down the window, and said, “Lutz, when did you become interesting?”

“This morning.”

The light changed.

Lutz left first.

The full wheel covers, roof rack, and chrome bumpers shone like a new dime in a goat’s butt. The comparison was not elegant, but neither was Fort Stockton, and both were difficult to ignore in bright sunlight.

Dorothy came outside when he pulled into the driveway. The children followed, yelling before they understood why. Lutz switched off the engine and waited.

Dorothy walked around the wagon once.

Then again.

“It’s black.”

“Yes.”

“With wood on it.”

“Yes.”

“And red inside.”

“Yes.”

She opened the passenger door. Cold air drifted out.

“Air conditioning?”

“Factory.”

She slid into the bucket seat and placed both hands on the console. For several seconds, she said nothing.

Lutz braced himself.

Doug would not have bought a wagon.

Doug would have selected a different color.

Doug would have negotiated a better price.

Dorothy looked at him through the windshield.

“Take us for ice cream.”

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They went to the Dairy Twin that evening. The children sat in the back with soft-serve cones, and Dorothy rode beside Lutz with one arm resting on the center console. Families in the parking lot looked at the wagon. Two men came over to inspect the V8. One asked about the woodgrain. Another admired the fender skirts. Lutz explained the power rear window to an audience of five.

Nobody asked about Doug.

That night, after the children were asleep, Dorothy stood in the kitchen wearing her robe and asked whether Lutz wanted a Rice Krispy Treat.

He nearly checked the weather.

They shared one.

Afterward, Dorothy rested her head against his shoulder and said, with unmistakable satisfaction, “Well, Doug certainly never did that.”

It was the nicest thing she had ever said about her first husband.

Something changed in Vice Principal Lutz that summer. At first it was difficult to identify. He did not become taller, younger, or more handsome. His hair remained thin. His shoulders still sloped. His pocket protector remained fully stocked.

But he stopped entering rooms apologetically.

When classes resumed that fall, he began parking the Falcon beside Principal Pough’s Mercury rather than one space beyond it. Pough noticed the wagon immediately and spent several days pretending not to.

Finally, he called Lutz into his office.

“I suppose that’s your new Ford.”

“It is.”

“Falcon?”

“Super Deluxe Squire. Two-sixty V8.”

Pough studied him.

Lutz did not fill the silence.

That was new.

“The school board feels you’re ready for more responsibility,” Pough said. “I want you handling the budget for the 1964–65 school year. You’ll also supervise construction of the new press box overlooking the football field and take charge of hiring and firing all cafeteria personnel.”

Lutz nodded slowly.

“Will there be an adjustment in salary?”

Pough blinked.

There it was.

Swagger.

Not much. But enough.

“We’ll discuss it with the board.”

“Good. Put it on the agenda.”

By October, the press box project was ahead of schedule, the cafeteria had stopped ordering canned beets in institutional quantities, and the school budget contained fewer unexplained expenses than at any time in Principal Pough’s administration. Teachers began going to Lutz for decisions because Lutz made them. Students stopped thinking of him as the man sent by Pough and began regarding him as the man who might send for Pough.

At Thanksgiving, the Lutz family drove the Falcon to Odessa for dinner with his parents. Everett arrived twenty minutes later in a new Chevrolet Biscayne sedan. It had four taillights rather than the six found on an Impala, minimal chrome, blackwall tires, and an interior that looked as if it could be wiped clean between taxi fares.

The family gathered outside to see both cars.

Everett pointed toward the Falcon.

“That seems a little flashy for a vice principal.”

“Super Deluxe Squire,” Lutz said. “Two-sixty V8. Factory air. Power steering. Ford-O-Matic. Power rear window.”

Everett looked toward his Biscayne.

Nobody followed.

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During dinner, their father stood at the head of the table holding the carving knife. For as long as Lutz could remember, Everett had carved the Thanksgiving turkey. Everett carved it after college. He carved it after his wedding. He carved it the year he became Dean of Students, cutting each slice with the solemn importance of a surgeon separating conjoined twins.

Their father looked from Everett to Lutz.

“Why don’t you carve this year?”

The room went quiet.

Lutz rose.

He took the knife.

Everett passed him the fork.

Nobody mentioned the Falcon, but it sat directly outside the dining-room window, its roof rack visible above the hedge like a chrome crown.

Back in Fort Stockton, Roger Timmons received a one-hundred-dollar spiff from Frontier Ford for moving a special-order unit everyone at the dealership had believed would remain on the showroom floor until the woodgrain peeled off. He accepted the money without explaining that he had not really sold the Falcon.

He had merely introduced it to the correct man.

For years afterward, whenever Vice Principal Lutz encountered Roger at the Lucky Lady Lounge, he bought him a beer. He would pat Roger on the back, glance around to make certain nobody was listening too closely, and say the same thing.

“Woodgrain does something to a man.”

And it had.

The Falcon did not make Lutz principal. It did not remove Everett’s college degree, erase Doug’s war record, or prevent Principal Pough from occasionally reminding everyone whose name appeared first on the letterhead. It did not transform Lutz into a hero, a king, or even a genuine country squire.

It did something better.

It made him quit behaving like he needed permission.

Sometimes that is all a man requires. Not a new life. Not a grand triumph. Just a black station wagon with a red interior, a small V8, cold air conditioning, fender skirts, and enough imitation lumber along the sides to remind him that the world might have underestimated his carrying capacity.

Vice Principal Lutz remained second banana.

But for seven dollars more a month, he became appealing.

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