The wife has Spring Break this week. Spring Break is
apparently a period of time in which some people have absolutely nothing to do—for
an entire week. Not being one of those people, I have to take her word for it.
Typically, during Spring Break, the wife will suddenly develop an interest in
Making Sure No Leaves Remain Unraked in the yard, or Developing A Comprehensive
List of Furniture That Is To Be Moved Around. I have tried, to no avail, to
engage her Spring Break Motivation Engine to such worthwhile activities as
making me a pie, or perhaps making me two pies. Today, her need to Go Do Stuff was
mollified by a trip to Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas, Texas.
I should say right
off that I am not one of those Dallasites that moans and opines about what a
backwards, soulless city Dallas is, and how the poor artists and loft-dwellers
have to walk four whole blocks to get to the park where they’re going to shoot
meth or whatever. I think that’s all crock. Dallas is one of the most historic
cities in the South, and anyone who says otherwise simply hasn’t seen it—period.
My advice to the bellyachers is to move to New Orleans. They’ve got a lot of Culture
and Stuff, there, too…and a state income tax, which the Gripers always seem to
believe is a great idea. But I digress. My point is that I love Dallas. I love visiting
things in Dallas, and discovering history there.
I hate parking in Dallas, however. Seriously….parking in
Washington D.C. was easier….and those are all Yankees who hate Southerners who
insist on driving. I drove right up to the Smithsonian district in a big red
truck with Texas plates and a God Bless John Wayne bumper sticker in the backglass
and had no trouble whatsoever. But if you want to park in Dallas, make sure you’re
riding a bicycle.
Our outing was to visit Dealey Plaza. She’d never been down
there, and I had only driven through there hundreds of times on business. Our
first order of business was to park. I had carefully researched the Sixth Floor
Museum and learned that they even had their own parking lot. I found it and
proceeded into the entrance, where I was met by a helpful attendant who
helpfully told me that I would helpfully have to pay with cash to park. Now, I
haven’t carried cash since the Clinton Administration—much like the rest of
civilization except for the citizens of
Red Oak, Texas, who don’t go in for all that newfangled bank card hocus-pocus—so
this was a bit of a problem. But Helpful Attendant allowed me to pull to the
curb and walk around the museum to an ATM that he promised would be just
inside. Naturally, the ATM that was inside was out of order, so the lady in
that building directed me to another ATM in the OTHER Sixth Floor Museum,
confusingly located directly across the street from the real Sixth Floor
Museum. I crossed the street and went into this “other” museum and overheard
the lady in there explaining to another man that there was no ATM there, but we
would find one around the corner near the Subway. Mind you, I have left the
wife in my truck—now two blocks away—while I visit the ATM, and by now the Helpful
Attendant is surely starting to wonder whether or not I have just left him the
wife and truck and skedaddled to Phoenix. Fortunately for Dallas’ keen sense of
adventure, the ATM located around the corner near the Subway ALSO was out of
order. I decided to go back to Helpful Attendant and helpfully explain why I
was going to go park some place more helpful. He wasn’t there, but, strangely
enough, the wife still was. I got in the truck and explained the drama to her
while I began to maneuver the labyrinthine maze of one-way streets in downtown
Dallas, looking for a parking attendant from the 21st century.
I have never understood the rationale of the strange street
situation—I’ve always imagined a bunch of fat guys in the 30’s smoking cigars
and standing over maps in a locked room, saying, “No, Hersch, this would make
too much sense to just let them drive normally down here. Let’s make this
street one way, and this street one way—and let’s make this street come to a
complete dead-end at this park where people are shooting meth.” But of course
they didn’t have meth then, so I’m sure that conversation didn’t quite happen
that way. In any event, every other person who is driving in downtown Dallas knows
EXACTLY where the frickety-frack they’re going and how to get there, and they
don’t feel much like tolerating the guy who’s questioning the city planning
rationale.
Over the course of the afternoon, I finally found a parking garage
with the soothingly familiar “Visa” ensignia on its sign. I pulled into the
building, where I was met with a uniformed man. I’ll call him “Achmed.” Achmed
informed me, in a tongue known only to Allah, that I would drive up past the 3rd
floor to park and I would pay a machine on the first floor. Simple enough.
You know those parking garages with wide driving lanes and
helpful arrows telling you which lane to get in to go UP and which lane to get
in to go DOWN?
This wasn’t one of those parking garages.
This parking garage seemed literally held together with
bailing wire, and each turn I went around brought me perilously close to parked
cars, structural columns, and other disasters. I finally made it to the 8th
floor…the very top…and carefully backed into a spot. I say “carefully” because
there was no wall separating my truck from an 8-floor drop to the ground below.
My wife and I nervously boarded the elevator and were relieved to end up on the
ground floor. Once at the bottom, I went and asked Achmed if there was a
certain way to drive down, and he responded with “the same way you went up.” I
asked him how that would work if someone was going up at the same time. I even
used helpful hand gestures. His response: “be careful.” I shrugged; I’m in a
one-ton pickup truck. The final scoreboard will definitely be in my favor, if
it comes to a contest.
We walked to the Sixth Floor Museum, and decided that we’d
eat lunch first. The Other Sixth Floor Museum and Café looked pretty inviting,
so we went in. Unfortunately, they didn’t have anything that men would want to
eat there—just a selection of muffins and coffees. Of course, my wife thought
it was just charming…but I was actually hungry, so we left to go find real
food.
Naturally, there’s not any restaurants down near Dealey. Oh—other
than the Record Café. The Record Café was cheap but crowded, and definitely in
danger of being shut down by the Health Department sometime soon. We ate and
trekked across the street to the real Sixth Floor Museum. I looked down Elm Street
where the President had been shot, and noticed two X’s on the street. Sure enough,
a helpful conspiracy theorist happened upon us and explained that the nearest X
was where the President had been shot first, and the second X was the fatal
head shot. I looked closer and became disturbed.
I admit I’m not a conspiracy guy. My default position is
OPPOSITE of any position Oliver Stone takes, so I’m sort of down with the
Warren Commission. But I’m also the owner of a bolt-action rifle—and I know how
long it takes to throw that bolt after firing a round. Those two X’s looked
awfully close together for 2 torso shots at a moving target. The Museum itself
was worth the drama and the money ($16 apiece). It was very informative and put
together well.
Eventually, however, our outing was finished, and it was
time to go back to the Parking Garage From Hell. The wife told me that she was
going to wait on the ground floor this time, and I could just go up and get the
truck and drive it down to her, thank you very much. I went over to the
elevator and pushed the button, and when the door opened I noticed that it was
pitch-dark in there….not one light working in the elevator. I quickly decided
it was time for an 8-flight climb…and I walked all the way to the top. Driving back
down the Maze of Doom was easier—until I ran across the lady who was having her
tiny car towed from the garage. I’ll let you picture a tow truck with a car
trailing behind trying to navigate those narrow lanes and turns—with the woman
walking helpfully behind and in my turn radius. Approximately 3 weeks later, I
finally made it down to the bottom, and picked up my wife. She told me that she
tried to call me and tell me about the tow truck headed up that way, but then
realized that I had stashed my cell phone in her purse. I’m a genius that way.
It was more fun than I made it out to be…but mostly because
the wife was there, laughing at my calamity the whole time. The fact that she’s
always mildly amused at how much drama seems to gravitate my way is itself
amusing to me. All in all, a fun time—and I didn’t have to eat any muffins
whatsoever.
And don’t worry, Dr. K…..I came home and wrote on my thesis
anyhow.
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