There were several reasons nobody in Fort Stockton believed Earl when he announced that the Petersen Automotive Museum had entrusted him with one of its automobiles, but the most compelling was that the Petersen Automotive Museum had not entrusted Earl with one of its automobiles.
Earl had bought it.
This distinction mattered to everyone except Earl.
The automobile in question arrived on a Wednesday afternoon aboard a transport truck from California, although describing it as an automobile required the same generosity Fort Stockton generally extended to abandoned buildings and certain members of the city council. It was a Simca 8 Sport coupe, a small French sports car from the early 1950s whose body had once been sufficiently elegant to cause people to stop and admire it. Time had since corrected that behavior.
The Simca had deteriorated considerably. Its paint was tired, its interior was worse, the rear window was missing, and portions of the body carried the accumulated evidence of an existence that had not always involved climate-controlled storage and white gloves. The rear wheels were seized. The engine did not run. The hood resisted opening. Pieces were missing. Other pieces were present but appeared to be reconsidering the arrangement. Two boxes of miscellaneous parts accompanied the car, although nothing on either box suggested that the contents had reached a final decision regarding what automobile they belonged to.
The Simca had, however, spent time in the collection of the Petersen Automotive Museum in Los Angeles.
That was the part Earl remembered.
The rest he regarded as administrative detail.
By three o’clock, the transporter was parked outside Earl’s Salvage Yard & Formalwear, where Earl stood wearing a sport coat over his work shirt because he believed receiving a museum piece called for a certain dignity. The sport coat had previously been rented to a pallbearer and still had a carnation pin stuck through the lapel.
Getting the Simca off the transporter took forty-three minutes.
The rear wheels refused to turn, which caused the first fifteen minutes to consist primarily of Earl explaining to the driver that European cars had always been engineered differently. The driver explained that locked wheels were locked wheels in both hemispheres. They eventually employed the truck’s winch, several pieces of lumber, a floor jack, two wheel dollies and language that substantially reduced the cultural distance between France and West Texas.
By then Hairless B29 and Angus Hopper had arrived.
Neither had been invited. In Fort Stockton, however, the arrival of an unknown automobile on a transporter was treated roughly the way coastal communities treated a whale washing ashore. Nobody knew what to do about it, but everyone understood that attendance was expected.
Hairless walked around the Simca twice.
“What is it?”
“A Simca 8 Sport,” Earl said.
Hairless waited.
Earl waited back.
“That clear anything up for you?”
“No.”
Angus leaned forward and examined the grille.
“French?”
“French,” Earl said proudly.
“Thought so.”
“What gave it away?”
“Looks disappointed.”
Earl ignored him.
The little car finally reached the ground and sat there on its dollies, looking very much like something the transporter had delivered accidentally while attempting to haul away scrap metal. Earl signed the paperwork, accepted the two boxes and watched the truck disappear east on Interstate 10.
Only then did Angus ask what Earl had paid for it.
“That’s not important.”
“Then it was too much.”
“Money isn’t the point.”
Hairless looked toward the salvage yard.
“That’s a fairly recent philosophy for you.”
Earl put one hand on the roof of the Simca.
“The Petersen Automotive Museum had this car.”
Angus nodded.
“And now they don’t.”
That was the moment the misunderstanding began.
Not Earl’s misunderstanding. Earl understood perfectly well that he had placed a bid on an automobile offered for sale and that, after the transaction was completed, the automobile belonged to him. Earl’s misunderstanding was considerably more ambitious. He believed ownership and historical responsibility were interchangeable concepts.
“The way I see it,” he said, “they needed somebody to take care of it.”
Hairless looked at the missing rear glass.
“Looks like they needed somebody before now.”
“The Petersen has thousands of cars.”
“So?”
“So they can’t keep everything.”
Angus studied him.
“And you can?”
Earl looked across several acres containing approximately four hundred automobiles in various stages of returning their constituent minerals to Pecos County.
“I have room.”
That much was difficult to dispute.
By Thursday morning, Earl had moved the Simca away from the ordinary inventory. This required relocating a 1974 Buick LeSabre, two International pickups without engines, a fiberglass speedboat without a trailer and the rear half of something that may once have been a Studebaker. He then stretched yellow plastic chain between four metal posts and placed the Simca in the center.
Beside it he erected a hand-painted sign.
EARL’S AUTOMOTIVE MUSEUM & FORMALWEAR
Below that:
FRENCH COLLECTION
And beneath that, in smaller letters:
FORMERLY PETERSEN AUTOMOTIVE MUSEUM
The last line survived until Lucinda saw it.
She had come with Trixie, Rex Hall and Chad after breakfast at the Grounds for Divorce, mostly because nobody believed Hairless’s description and partly because Earl had announced admission would be free through Saturday.
Lucinda stood in front of the sign.
“You can’t put that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it makes it sound like the Petersen Automotive Museum used to be here.”
“Nobody’s going to think that.”
Trixie looked around the salvage yard.
“They will for about three seconds.”
Earl crossed out the last line and replaced it with:
VEHICLE FORMERLY AT PETERSEN
That seemed legally safer and grammatically disappointing.
Rex had brought his phone. He began researching while the others examined the car.
What he found improved Earl’s posture considerably.
The Simca 8 Sport was not merely an old French car. Its ancestry led back through the Fiat 508C and the Italian coachbuilding world surrounding Stabilimenti Farina, while production involved Facel-Métallon, the French company associated with Jean Daninos and the later Facel Vega automobiles. It had been conceived in an era when European coachbuilders could take a modest mechanical foundation and wrap it in a body that looked as though someone had spent the afternoon discussing proportion instead of cupholders.
The model even had legitimate competition history.
Earl listened carefully.
“Pininfarina,” he said.
“Farina is a little more complicated than that,” Rex replied.
“Pininfarina.”
“That’s not exactly what I said.”
“But people have heard of Pininfarina.”
“Yes.”
“Put that on the sign.”
Rex lowered the phone.
“No.”
Earl was already painting.
By noon the French Collection had acquired a second sign.
EUROPEAN COACHBUILT SPORTS CAR
Then another.
FACEL-MÉTALLON BODY
Then, after Rex explained the Monte Carlo connection:
RALLY HERITAGE
Hairless read the collection of signs from left to right.
“Does it run?”
“No.”
“Then I’d put that one first.”
The following morning Earl began charging three dollars admission.
For five dollars, visitors could also tour the American Collection, which consisted of the rest of the salvage yard.
For seven dollars Earl would throw in a black clip-on tie.
Fort Stockton responded more enthusiastically than anyone expected. People stopped on their lunch breaks. Retirees came by. Two tourists from San Angelo pulled in after seeing the signs from the road. A family traveling to El Paso paid twelve dollars to look at the Simca and left with a used alternator for a 2006 Tahoe.
Earl began referring to himself as Director.
He also stopped allowing people to touch the Simca.
This was an extraordinary development for a man who routinely permitted customers to climb onto stacked cars in search of door handles.
By Saturday, he had placed a folding chair beside the exhibit and was delivering scheduled talks.
“This automobile,” Earl told a group of six people, “represents the finest traditions of European coachbuilding.”
Angus stood near the back.
“It ain’t got a back window.”
Earl continued.
“The body was created by craftsmen.”
“Rear wheels don’t turn either.”
“The Simca 8 Sport occupied a unique place in postwar European motoring.”
“Hood won’t open.”
Earl stopped.
“Are you going to do this through the whole tour?”
Angus considered it.
“Depends how long the tour is.”
The Regulars found the whole thing entertaining until Earl announced expansion plans.
He arrived at the Grounds for Divorce Monday morning carrying a yellow legal pad.
Lucinda poured his coffee.
“No.”
“I haven’t said anything.”
“You brought a legal pad.”
Earl sat down.
The Regulars were gathered around their usual table. Hairless had half a biscuit remaining. Angus was working on eggs. Rex was reading the newspaper. Trixie was studying Earl with the suspicion of a woman who had survived enough civic improvement proposals to recognize the early symptoms.
Earl placed the pad on the table.
“I’ve been thinking.”
Hairless put down the biscuit.
“There it is.”
“The museum needs departments.”
“It’s one car,” Rex said.
“For now.”
Earl had already divided the salvage yard into proposed European, American, Asian and Commercial galleries. The American gallery would occupy approximately two acres. European automobiles would receive a smaller but more prestigious area near the office. Earl had identified a 1971 Datsun 510 as the foundation of the Asian collection, although Chad pointed out that Earl had been trying to sell that particular car for eleven years.
“That’s because it was waiting for its proper context,” Earl said.
Lucinda arrived with the coffee pot.
“How many cars in your museum actually run?”
“That’s not how museums work.”
“How many?”
Earl looked at the legal pad.
“We’re still cataloging.”
“What about the formalwear?” Trixie asked.
“Separate division.”
“Of the museum?”
“Of the institution.”
There was a brief silence.
Earl had become an institution.
This explained several things and improved none of them.
The situation escalated when Mayor Goodman learned that Fort Stockton possessed a new museum. Goodman arrived at Earl’s that afternoon wearing the red tie he reserved for economic development, ribbon cuttings and situations in which photographers might unexpectedly appear.
Earl met him at the entrance.
“Welcome to the museum.”
Goodman surveyed the salvage yard.
“I’ve been here before.”
“Not since we became cultural.”
Goodman was intrigued by the possibility of another tourist attraction, particularly one requiring no city funding. He asked about annual attendance, while casually looking for a place he could add his name to the place to cash in on culture.
“Thirty-seven.”
“Since when?”
“Thursday.”
Goodman calculated silently.
At that rate, Earl’s Automotive Museum & Formalwear was attracting approximately 3,300 visitors per year, provided every week contained a grand opening and nobody ever lost interest.
Goodman liked the number.
By Tuesday, the Stockton Telegram-Dispatch had photographed the Simca.
The resulting article described Earl as a “local collector.”
Nobody could determine whether this was inaccurate.
Earl clipped the story and framed it.
The photograph showed him standing beside the battered French coupe with his arms folded, looking not unlike a man who had just discovered civilization beneath a tarp.
The trouble began Wednesday.
Earl received an email.
He printed it.
Then he drove directly to the Grounds for Divorce.
The Regulars knew something had happened because Earl entered without speaking.
Lucinda poured coffee.
This time she did not say no.
Earl unfolded the paper.
“Who is it?” Rex asked.
Earl looked at him.
“The Petersen.”
Hairless straightened.
“The Petersen Petersen?”
“Automotive Museum.”
That brought Angus’s coffee cup down.
“What do they want?”
Earl read the email again.
The museum had learned that the Simca had been sold and had apparently discovered that some historical material associated with the car might have accompanied it during an earlier transfer. They were trying to clarify provenance and wondered whether Earl had received any old photographs, documentation or other material among the loose parts and paperwork.
Earl placed the email on the table.
Nobody spoke for several seconds.
Then Hairless did.
“They want their car back.”
“They do not.”
“Says Petersen right there.”
“They’re asking about photographs.”
“That’s how museums start.”
Rex picked up the email.
“It very clearly says they’re looking for historical material.”
“Exactly,” Earl said.
Trixie leaned toward him.
“You look disappointed.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
“You look disappointed.”
“I thought maybe they realized they’d made a mistake.”
Angus understood first.
“You thought they’d want it back.”
Earl stared into his coffee.
“No.”
Nobody said anything.
Earl stared a little longer.
“Maybe.”
There it was.
For all the jokes, the signs, the admission charges and Earl’s sudden appointment of himself as Director of an automotive museum whose entire significant collection could be rendered immobile by two seized rear wheels, some part of him had believed the arrangement was temporary.
The Petersen had owned the Simca.
The Petersen was important.
Therefore the Simca was important.
And if Earl took care of it properly, perhaps someday somebody from Los Angeles would call and say there had been an unfortunate mistake. Perhaps they would send a transporter. Perhaps Earl would stand beside the little French coupe while museum people thanked him for preserving a piece of automotive history until the professionals could resume responsibility.
He had never said any of that.
Earl generally did not say the things that mattered most.
Fort Stockton had learned to listen around him.
Lucinda topped off his coffee.
“So what are you going to do?”
“Look through the boxes.”
They all went.
Not immediately, of course. There were standards. Angus finished breakfast. Rex had to return to the drugstore for twenty minutes. Trixie had an appointment at Klip-N-Dye. Hairless had no stated obligations but nevertheless insisted everyone meet at ten-thirty because leaving immediately would have suggested enthusiasm.
At ten-thirty they assembled around the Simca.
Earl brought out the two boxes.
They contained brackets, hardware, deteriorated rubber pieces, miscellaneous fasteners, old electrical components and several items whose purposes generated arguments lasting longer than the items deserved.
At the bottom of the second box they found an envelope.
Inside were photographs.
Old ones.
The Simca when it was younger.
The little coupe appeared clean and complete, its lines intact, its glass present, its wheels capable of rotation. One photograph showed it parked beside a house. Another showed it on a road. In one, a man stood beside it with his hand resting on the roof.
Nobody recognized him.
That didn’t matter.
The photographs changed the car.
Not physically. The Simca remained exactly what it had been ten minutes earlier: battered, incomplete and immobile.
But now they could see the distance it had traveled.
Not geographically.
Temporally.
Somebody had once washed this car on Saturday mornings. Somebody had looked back at it after parking. Somebody had known which noises were normal and which required attention. Somebody had kept it when it became old, then kept it when it became obsolete, then kept it long enough for obsolescence to turn into rarity.
Eventually it had entered a museum collection.
Eventually the museum had let it go.
Now it was in Earl’s salvage yard in Fort Stockton, Texas, behind yellow plastic chain beside a sign that charged three dollars admission.
Hairless held one photograph.
“That’s the same car?”
Earl nodded.
Hairless looked at the Simca.
“Huh.”
That was as close as Hairless generally came to discussing mortality before lunch.
Earl sent copies of the photographs and whatever documentation seemed relevant back to the Petersen.
The museum thanked him.
They did not request return of the automobile.
The next morning the admission sign was gone.
The yellow chain remained.
So did the Simca.
A week later Angus noticed that Earl had built a temporary cover over the missing rear window. It wasn’t pretty, but it kept rain out. A few days after that, Rex saw Earl carefully cleaning the interior. Rusty Hammer stopped by and helped free one of the rear wheels. Earl refused to discuss the other.
The French Collection remained one car.
The American Collection quietly reverted to being a salvage yard.
The Datsun 510 went back on sale.
Mayor Goodman stopped including the museum in projected tourism numbers after Lucinda asked him whether Earl’s thirty-seven visitors included the six Regulars, Goodman himself, the newspaper photographer and three people who had actually come looking for a transmission.
They did.
Earl never restored the Simca.
Not completely.
He talked about it, of course. There were estimates. Parts searches. Phone calls. Arguments over originality. One month he wanted a full concours restoration. The next he wanted to preserve everything possible. By Christmas he had concluded that preservation was “more historically responsible,” which Angus suspected meant Earl had received the first restoration estimate.
But the car stopped deteriorating.
That was something.
Months later, on a warm afternoon when the wind was moving dust along Dickinson Boulevard and nothing important appeared to be happening anywhere in Pecos County, Hairless and Angus stopped at Earl’s looking for a starter.
They found Earl sitting in a folding chair beside the Simca.
The little French coupe looked better.
Not restored.
Better.
It had been cleaned. The tires held air. Both rear wheels turned now. The interior had been gently cleared of debris. The body still wore every scar it had arrived with, and the missing pieces were still missing, but the car no longer looked abandoned.
It looked kept.
Angus walked around it.
“You ever hear from California again?”
“No.”
“They want it back?”
“No.”
Hairless looked through the opening where the rear glass ought to have been.
“So what are you going to do with it?”
Earl leaned back in the chair.
“Keep it.”
Angus nodded.
Earl looked at the Simca.
It had begun life in Europe when postwar optimism was still being hammered into aluminum by men with wooden forms and good eyes. It had crossed an ocean. It had belonged to people whose names Fort Stockton would never know. It had survived long enough to become collectible, then important, then neglected, then somebody else’s problem. It had spent time in one of America’s great automotive museums before somehow descending through the machinery of commerce until it reached a man who rented tuxedos beside a salvage yard.
There were more dignified endings available.
But dignity had never been the only measure of a good home.
Earl reached over and wiped a little dust from the roof.
“Everybody’s got to wind up somewhere.”
Hairless looked around at several hundred cars, two wrecked pickups, the speedboat, a stack of doors, three mannequins wearing dinner jackets and a hand-painted sign identifying one battered French coupe as the entirety of the European Collection.
Then he looked back at the Simca.
“Could’ve done worse.”
Angus nodded.
So did Earl.
And that was how one of the most improbable little automobiles ever to arrive in Fort Stockton ceased being a former museum car.
It became Earl’s.
