So we’ve just passed the three year anniversary of my moving to Colorado. And by co-incidence, it’s one year this week since I returned to work for the company that brought me here. I say returned because I had a nine month "grass is greener on the other side of the fence" stint with a different outfit but wasn’t really happy there and was more than pleased when the original firm made me a generous offer to return. As jobs go, mine’s pretty good. My clients are pleasant people, I like my co-workers and I get to spend my days in a funky little office in Denver’s LoDo district. The only real cloud on the horizon (other than that we’ll be relocating to a soulless office park sometime this year – different rant) is that a few months ago, we were bought out by a large conglomerate based in Dallas.
Now I’m sure there are some perfectly good people who live in Dallas, just as I’m sure there are some folks who look on the place with fondness. I’m just not one of them. It’s coming up for thirteen years since I first arrived in the U.S. and in that time, I haven’t had a single good experience with anything Dallas related.
In the interests of full disclosure, I should explain that I harbor a certain bitterness because of how the small company I worked for in Phoenix was swallowed up by a Dallas firm and the employment experience went downhill immediately afterwards. A corrupt and incompetent executive team stripped the company of everything decent and while it still survives, it’s become something of a laughing stock in the industry. And to the day I die, I’ll be angry about the fact that following 9/11 the company accepted a $1.5 million Federal Government handout then promptly laid off 2/5 of it’s workforce before paying the CEO a bonus of (drum roll) $1.5 million. And yes, I was one of the 2/5 – why do you ask?
However, my dislike of Dallas as a city goes way further back than that. The summer of ’92 to be exact when I spent a total of 10 hours there and the residents gave me the distinct impression I wasn’t welcome. Now admittedly, I’d been living out of a backpack for a year, my hair was on the longish side and my clothes were certainly in need of a wash, but even so, I was barely off the bus before it started.
I’d traveled overnight by Greyhound, an experience not to be missed by any self-respecting masochist wishing to observer the seamy underbelly of America and on disembarking, shuffled over to the adjoining diner for a coffee to get my heart started. Engrossed in my guidebook I was munching a piece of toast and barely noticed the beefy middle-aged guy who’d taken a seat at my table. He got my attention by kicking my foot.
“Patrick, I need you to come with me.”
“My name’s not Patrick” I replied. (For it isn’t.) Unfortunately, he didn’t believe me.
“I know you Patrick and if you don’t help me, I’m going to throw your ass in jail. You understand?”
“I understand, but I’m not Patrick.” It was at that point I noticed the police cruiser parked outside. “Look,” I went on “I’m a British tourist, and I just got off the bus half an hour ago. I have my passport in my pocket.” I told him, reaching for it.
“Hands on the table!” he barked causing the other patrons to turn in alarm. Many were already enjoying the show. Here was a real live police bust taking place, right in front of their eyes. The hippy was almost certainly going down. This was great.
“I know who you are Patrick” he told me, “And you’re coming downtown with me. Don’t make me put the cuffs on you.”
“Does Patrick have a British accent?” I asked him and could see from the slight widening of his eyes that this point had hit home. Sherlock Holmes he wasn’t but even with his limited detective skills, he couldn’t help but notice the bus ticket on the table, the guidebook in my hand and the backpack propped against my chair. Without so much as a “Have a nice day”, he sloped off. I’m not sure if he ever did find Patrick, or if he would have recognized him if he did.
Leaving Dallas that afternoon proved to be almost as challenging. Greyhound has a rule stating that nothing can be tied to the outside of any bag going into the hold. I’d been schlepping my way around the States for several weeks at this point and had never known anyone enforce the rule until today. My backpack had a rolled up foam rubber sleeping pad strapped to the base but it had been so long since I slept in my tent, I barely noticed it was there any more. The Greyhound clerk saw it though and refused to take my bag until I’d removed the pad and put it inside. Which meant I’d to spend four frantic minutes rearranging all my other possessions and adjusting the straps in order to make it fit. Which meant I missed the bus by one minute. Which I’m sure was what he wanted. The next direct bus was four hours later but thinking I was beating the system I hopped aboard a local bus, just as it was pulling out of the station. It was only then that I learned “local” means “we stop at every single opportunity”. I arrived at my next port-of-call two hours after the direct bus I didn’t wait for.
I’ve been back to Dallas several times on business since then and never once has the experience been pleasant. From being given the wrong check in a restaurant and having to explain to the manager that I hadn’t eaten four meals, to having coffee spilled on my only remaining clean shirt by a breakfast waitress. From spending two and a half hours in a cab, with the meter running after the driver took a short cut, to having my reservation be “lost” at a fully-booked hotel. From telling a client I’d like to take them out to dinner so could they pick a place suitable for me, a vegetarian at the time, and being taken to a barbecue joint where the only non-meat option was bread. And don’t even get me started on their obnoxious sports fans.
I liked Austin, San Antonio was fine, and I’m told there are plenty of other pleasant places in the state of Texas. But Dallas? You can keep it.
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