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Elwood Engel eventually settled into his new position as Chrysler’s styling chief, bringing with him the clean, disciplined design philosophy that had helped produce the 1961 Lincoln Continental. Engel believed that automobiles should possess coherent proportions, restrained ornamentation, and an appearance suggesting that all their components had been designed at approximately the same time.

This represented a considerable departure from some of Chrysler’s recent products, which had occasionally looked as though the front and rear styling departments were engaged in an argument neither intended to lose.

Engel and Kip developed an easy friendship. The designer appreciated Kip’s practical understanding of manufacturing, while Kip admired Engel’s ability to create an automobile that didn’t require an explanatory brochure to make sense of its appearance.

One evening, after a particularly exhausting day, the two men stopped at a restaurant outside Detroit. Engel had brought along several preliminary drawings of the forthcoming 1964 Imperial, and after ordering bourbon, he spread them across the table.

Kip examined the sketches with interest. The automobile was handsome, dignified, and possessed of proportions that suggested considerable expense. It also bore an unmistakable resemblance to the Lincoln Continental, which wasn’t particularly surprising considering Engel’s involvement in the earlier Ford design.

After several minutes, Kip leaned back.

“Elwood, that’s a mighty fine-looking Lincoln you’ve drawn.”

Engel looked offended and reminded him that the automobile was an Imperial. Kip agreed, pointing out that the name was clearly written at the bottom of the drawing, but suggested that the resemblance might be a little too obvious for comfort.

Engel admitted that the rear styling could use something distinctive.

Kip considered the problem while studying his bourbon. He remembered the Continental Mark II, with its pronounced spare-tire-inspired trunk treatment, and suggested incorporating a similar feature into the Imperial’s deck lid. It would provide a recognizable luxury-car association while giving the rear of the automobile an identity separate from the Lincoln.

Engel considered the suggestion, then asked what else Kip might recommend.

“Something interesting with the rear bumper,” Kip replied. “Maybe a propeller arrangement. Something that’ll make people wonder whether the damned thing is supposed to drive down the highway or take off from a runway.”

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At that moment, their waitress arrived with another round. She was an attractive redhead named Dolores, whose generous figure and cheerful disposition had already made her a favorite among the restaurant’s regular customers. She noticed the drawings and remarked that the automobile was handsome but needed something more impressive on the rear.

When Kip asked what she had in mind, Dolores suggested an eagle.

“One of those big chrome eagles,” she explained. “Wings spread out. Something that looks expensive.”

Kip picked up a felt-tip pen and began sketching on a cocktail napkin. Within moments, the proposed rear bumper had acquired a propeller-like arrangement with an enormous stylized eagle at its center.

Engel studied the drawing.

Dolores nodded approvingly.

Kip raised his glass.

“Gentlemen, I believe we’ve just demonstrated that good automotive styling doesn’t necessarily require a college degree. Sometimes all you need is a waitress with a little imagination.”

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The actual 1964 Imperial would emerge with its distinctive Continental-style rear deck treatment and elaborate bumper design, although the precise origins of those features would remain a matter of considerable discussion among people who cared about such things.

Kip never claimed to have designed the Imperial.

He merely maintained that Chrysler had once again benefited from listening to someone who wasn’t attending the meeting.

Kip eventually left the automobile industry, not because he had lost his affection for automobiles, but because he had grown weary of watching intelligent people spend enormous amounts of time making relatively simple problems unnecessarily complicated.

He accepted a position with Monsanto, where researchers were developing a synthetic grass surface intended for athletic fields and recreational facilities.

The idea fascinated him.

Having grown up in Fort Stockton, Kip possessed considerable respect for grass, largely because the town had so little of it. In West Texas, maintaining a respectable lawn required water, fertilizer, patience, and a willingness to accept monthly utility bills that occasionally exceeded the mortgage payment.

The prospect of manufacturing grass from plastic seemed almost miraculous.

It required no watering, no mowing, and no fertilizer. It didn’t attract grasshoppers, harbor goatheads, or turn brown every time the temperature reached one hundred degrees.

Kip immediately recognized the commercial possibilities.

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The product was initially marketed as ChemGrass, a name that sounded more appropriate for an agricultural experiment conducted behind a locked government fence than for a recreational playing surface. Early experimental installations appeared during the mid-1960s, including an application at the Moses Brown School in Providence, Rhode Island. The synthetic turf technology was patented in 1965, and the following year it received the publicity that would transform its identity.

The Houston Astrodome had been conceived as one of the great technological achievements of modern America, an enormous enclosed stadium where baseball could be played without interference from rain, heat, mosquitoes, or the occasional Texas thunderstorm.

Unfortunately, nobody had adequately considered whether ordinary grass would appreciate growing indoors.

The original translucent roof created visibility problems for baseball players attempting to follow fly balls. Attempts to correct the glare reduced the sunlight reaching the playing field, and the natural grass gradually surrendered.

Monsanto’s synthetic turf offered a solution.

When the material was installed in the Astrodome in 1966, ChemGrass acquired a new name.

AstroTurf.

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It was an inspired piece of marketing. ChemGrass sounded like something that might require protective clothing, while AstroTurf suggested modern technology, space exploration, and the exciting possibility of playing football without ever having to mow the field.

Kip loved it.

He had spent part of his career helping create automobiles from components that already existed. Now he was helping manufacture grass that didn’t grow.

To him, the two achievements seemed perfectly compatible.

Over the following decades, synthetic turf spread into stadiums and athletic facilities throughout the country. The early versions were not without problems. Athletes complained about traction, surface abrasiveness, and temperatures that occasionally approached those of a cast-iron skillet left on a Fort Stockton sidewalk in August.

Monsanto continued improving the product, developing more consistent nylon fibers and texturized surfaces intended to provide better traction and durability.

Kip remained involved with the business through its expansion and subsequent corporate reorganizations. In 1987, Monsanto consolidated its AstroTurf operations in Dalton, Georgia. The following year, the business changed ownership, and further transactions followed during the 1990s.

By then, Kip had grown increasingly philosophical about corporate management.

He had survived Chrysler’s 1962 Dodge disaster, helped commercialize artificial grass, and attended enough executive meetings to conclude that American industry would probably function more efficiently if everybody spent one afternoon each month working in an actual factory.

In 1996, he retired.

And returned to Fort Stockton.

The first indication that Kip Kempner had come home appeared one Tuesday morning when an unfamiliar automobile pulled into a parking space outside the Grounds for Divorce.

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It was a 1964 Dodge 880 convertible, painted a rich metallic green and polished to a depth that made the reflections of nearby buildings appear almost three-dimensional. The chrome was immaculate, the whitewall tires spotless, and the engine idled with the quiet confidence of a properly maintained Chrysler V8.

The front end was unmistakably Dodge.

The rear was something else entirely.

The trunk lid featured an enormous Continental-style spare-tire bulge, while the rear bumper incorporated a custom chrome propeller with a large eagle mounted at its center. The combined effect suggested that a 1964 Imperial had engaged in an inappropriate relationship with a Dodge convertible and neither family had approved of the marriage.

Angus Hopper was the first to notice it. He had been standing beside the diner window, contemplating whether to order another biscuit, when the Dodge pulled into view. Hairless B29 joined him, followed by Chad, whose position as acting manager of the Piggly Wiggly had provided him with considerable experience observing strange behavior.

For several moments, the three men studied the automobile without speaking.

Finally, Angus observed that somebody appeared to have parked a Dodge outside that was trying to become an airplane.

Hairless wanted to know what the contraption on the rear bumper was supposed to accomplish. Chad identified the automobile as a 1964 Dodge 880, although he admitted that the rear styling didn’t resemble anything he remembered seeing in the sales brochures.

Rex Hall, who had been quietly reading the newspaper, joined them at the window. He examined the automobile with the professional curiosity of a pharmacist encountering an unfamiliar chemical compound.

The front door opened, admitting a tall, silver-haired gentleman wearing neatly pressed khaki trousers, a pale blue shirt, and an expression suggesting that he had spent most of his adult life finding amusement in the mistakes of others.

Lucinda looked up from the coffee station.

“Kip Kempner? Well, I’ll be damned.”

Kip smiled, and before he could answer, Lucinda came around the counter and embraced him. She remembered him from years earlier, when he had been a young man with more mechanical ambition than money and an elderly Dodge that occasionally required assistance from Rusty Hammer.

Kip explained that he had retired and returned home, bringing with him the automobile he had spent several years restoring and modifying.

The regulars immediately began questioning him about it.

He explained the history of the 880, the corporate panic that had produced it, and his role in suggesting the emergency combination of Chrysler and Dodge components. Chad remembered the peculiar 1962 models, while Angus recalled that the 1961 Dodge had possessed styling that was difficult to admire even after several years had passed.

Kip agreed with both observations.

When Hairless asked why anyone would deliberately put a Continental-style trunk on a Dodge, Kip explained that he had always admired the treatment and had once discussed something similar with Elwood Engel.

The propeller and eagle, he added, were inspired by another conversation involving the Imperial.

Lucinda listened to the explanation while refilling coffee cups.

“So you spent your career helping automobile companies figure out what to do with things they already had, and then you went to work making grass out of plastic?”

Kip nodded.

“That’s about the size of it.”

“And now you’ve come home driving a Dodge with the back end of an Imperial?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Lucinda considered this for a moment.

“Well, at least you’ve been consistent.”

The following Saturday, Kip brought the Dodge to Folgers-N-Fenders, where it immediately became the most thoroughly examined automobile on the grounds.

The pearl white paint shimmered in the morning sunlight, the white convertible top was folded neatly behind the rear seat, and the unusual Continental-style rear deck attracted a steady procession of curious spectators. The custom bumper received particular attention, especially from those who wondered whether the propeller served some mechanical purpose or was simply intended to discourage tailgating.

But it was the interior that stopped people in their tracks.

Every upholstered surface was covered in AstroTurf.

The seats, door panels, armrests, rear cushions, and convertible top boot were upholstered in carefully fitted green synthetic grass. The workmanship was excellent, the stitching precise, and the overall effect suggested that someone had taken a perfectly respectable automobile and entrusted its interior decoration to the Fort Stockton Parks Department.

Hairless stared into the cabin with an expression of genuine disbelief. Angus reached inside and rubbed the material between his fingers. Chad examined the door panels, while Rex wondered whether the synthetic fibers might produce excessive static electricity under certain conditions.

Kip explained that the material was a tribute to his years at Monsanto and that the installation had been carefully designed to preserve the underlying upholstery structure.

Angus asked whether the seats became hot in the summer.

“Extremely,” Kip admitted.

Hairless wanted to know whether they were comfortable.

“Depends on what you’re wearing.”

Chad asked whether the interior could be cleaned with a vacuum cleaner, and Kip assured him that it could. He added that a little water wouldn’t hurt it, although he discouraged anyone from attempting to fertilize the seats.

By then, a small crowd had gathered, including Mayor Goodman, whose extraordinarily long red tie fluttered in the breeze as he examined the automobile.

The mayor appeared particularly concerned about the presence of artificial grass inside a motor vehicle. He wondered aloud whether the city possessed any ordinances governing mobile landscaping and whether the automobile might technically qualify as a recreational facility.

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Lucinda, who had arrived carrying coffee for several of the regulars, suggested that the mayor drink something before he accidentally created another municipal department.

Rusty Hammer eventually arrived with a small toolbox, having been told that Kip Kempner had returned to town with an unusual Dodge.

He walked slowly around the automobile, studying the front sheet metal, the custom trunk lid, and the elaborate rear bumper. He examined the fabrication work closely, occasionally nodding with the quiet approval of a man who understood how difficult it was to make unrelated components fit together properly.

Then he looked inside.

Rusty had spent most of his life repairing machinery, restoring automobiles, and finding practical uses for things other people had discarded. He was not easily surprised.

But the grass-covered interior gave him pause.

After running his hand across the driver’s seat, he looked at Kip and asked whether the material was durable enough to withstand regular use.

Kip assured him that it was.

Rusty considered this information for several seconds.

Then he asked how much Kip would charge for enough of it to cover the seat of his tractor.

It was the first question anyone had asked that morning that Kip considered entirely sensible.

By late afternoon, most of the automobiles had departed, leaving behind a few folding chairs, several discarded coffee cups, and the lingering smell of gasoline and hot engines.

Kip remained beside his Dodge, talking quietly with the Captain.

The big convertible sat in the lengthening shadows, its unusual rear deck and chrome eagle catching the last of the sunlight. From a distance, the automobile looked almost conventional. Only when someone approached closely did its peculiar combination of Chrysler engineering, Dodge styling, Imperial ornamentation, and synthetic lawn become apparent.

I had been considering the automobile for some time.

There was something wonderfully appropriate about it.

Here was a machine descended from one of Detroit’s most embarrassing corporate miscalculations, owned by the man who had helped transform that mistake into a respectable product. The same man had subsequently helped commercialize artificial grass, proving that Americans could be persuaded to purchase a lawn that required neither sunshine nor water.

And now he had combined both achievements into a single automobile.

Kip leaned against the front fender, looking toward the emptying parking area. He observed that most of his professional life had been spent watching people complicate problems that could have been solved with considerably less effort.

He remembered the conference room in Highland Park, the frightened executives, and the extraordinary amount of time spent discussing why Chrysler couldn’t possibly build a full-sized Dodge without developing an entirely new automobile.

He also remembered the first completed Custom 880 coming off the production line.

It had not been beautiful.

But it had been exactly what was needed.

“Five dollars and twenty cents per car,” he said quietly. “That’s what the original tooling investment worked out to, spread across the production run.”

I looked at the Dodge.

“And now you’ve got one with a Continental trunk, an Imperial-inspired bumper, and enough artificial grass inside to cover the putting green at the country club.”

Kip smiled.

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever considered that you might be part of the problem?”

He laughed, then explained that there was a considerable difference between making something complicated because a committee insisted upon it and making something complicated because it amused you.

He had spent decades building things other people wanted, or trying to repair things other people had ruined. In retirement, he figured he had earned the right to build something that didn’t have to make sense to anybody else.

I couldn’t argue with that.

Kip opened the driver’s door and settled onto the green AstroTurf seat. The Dodge’s 361 V8 started immediately, settling into a deep, even idle that sounded considerably more conventional than anything else about the automobile.

As he prepared to leave, I asked whether the synthetic upholstery ever wore out.

“Eventually,” he replied.

“And what happens then?”

Kip grinned.

“Replace the sod.”

He pulled away, the chrome eagle flashing in the afternoon sunlight as the big Dodge rolled toward the highway.

I watched him disappear around the corner, thinking about the peculiar genius of American industry.

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In 1961, a group of highly paid executives had misunderstood a rumor so thoroughly that they nearly destroyed an entire automobile division. A young man from Fort Stockton had helped save it by suggesting that they assemble a car from parts they already owned.

Then he’d gone to work for a chemical company and helped manufacture grass that didn’t grow.

Thirty-five years later, he had returned to West Texas driving an automobile that combined both achievements.

It was a remarkable career.

And a remarkable automobile.

I headed back toward the Grounds for Divorce, where Lucinda was standing in the doorway watching the last of the traffic.

She asked what I thought of Kip’s Dodge.

I told her it looked like a Chrysler that had backed into an Imperial while somebody was laying sod.

She laughed, then asked whether the grass-covered seats would be damaged if someone spilled coffee on them.

I considered the question.

“Probably just waters the lawn.”

Lucinda nodded approvingly and went back inside.

I followed, thinking that somewhere in Detroit, twelve executives were probably still sitting around a conference table trying to determine whether something like that would be covered under warranty.

And if Kip Kempner had been there, he would undoubtedly have suggested that they simply let it dry.

EPILOGE

Historical note: The disastrous downsizing of the 1962 Dodge and Plymouth lines, the emergency development of the Chrysler Newport-based Dodge Custom 880, its January 22, 1962 production start, the approximately $400,000 tooling expense, and the production of more than 77,000 examples through 1964 are grounded in actual automotive history.

As for the automobile itself, there is no evidence that Chrysler ever contemplated offering AstroTurf upholstery.

Which may have been the last sensible decision the corporation made in 1962.

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