The Most Beautiful Location In Dallas, Texas.
That Summer I'd seen more of the wealth in the city of Dallas, Texas-than I'd imagined was even there. The homes that my dispatchers sent me to no longer could surprise me, but people never cease to be surprising, do they? As I turned onto Turtle Creek Blvd I noticed the address right away, and started a steep climb up a hill. Driving a one ton Service van full of tools, parts and machines; I threw the thing down into second gear for the steep climb up the driveway. Trees were everywhere, and the feeling that the sheer weight of the vehicle would not be overcome started to worry me. As I reached the top, and saw the spectacle of the home, and the fifty something, gray haired man with the water hose watering one of his ubiquitous flower gardens, I felt my chest, and my work van become relieved.
Turtle Creek Manor
Turtle Creek Manor.
Now, it's true that I once had an address that contained the name "Turtle Creek," and was in Dallas, Texas-but I was living on the third floor of Turtle Creek Manor, a drug rehab. It would be very hard for me to possibly care any less about what you think or feel about me, or drug addicts. Did I not just mention it here? Listen, in my hometown of Kaufman, Texas-the "undercover" narcotics officers do more dope than the people that they arrest. Would you like their names? I can give them to you.
Miss June's Tale, from Turtle Creek Manor.
Feb 3, 2009
While trying to navigate the hallway here at Turtle Creek Manor she stumbles from side to side. She has done everything possible to make herself look as though she were, in fact, a man. She is drunk, and judging from her speach pattern-has used something else as well.
In the med line someone tells me that she had sexually assaulted him, with a quick, casual grope in the hall.
I've been called to the office for a urinalysis. They have her in there now, because she has obviously returned very fucked up, and I doubt that she even had permission to leave in the first place. She is easily the most miserable, and fragile human being that I have ever encountered.
"I'm a stud!"
She is speaking to nobody, and everybody.
"I fuck women, and I am a stud!"
She is incoherent, mostly, and sounds like she is trying to convince herself more than me.
She has what looks like a repaired cleft palate, and is missing all of her front teeth; this is causing a weird, caved in effect ever present on her mouth.
I say a quick prayer to my "higher power" for her, and make a resolve to speak to her, just to say, "hello," whenever possible
It's the next day, and they have decided to let her stay, despite the relapse. I can sense her embarassment in front of me. I've resigned myself to ask, "how are you doing?" I also stay to hear any possible answer. Though I realize that this is difficult for her, she speaks something to me that is in a surprisingly feminine voice.
Who knows what is real? I feel a small, and strange personal victory within our weird comaraderie, born of embarassment.
Frank Osborne-The KING of Turtle Creek Blvd.
The home on top of the hill belongs to a man named Frank Osborne. It's the second most beautiful home that I've ever been inside, or seen from the outside. It's perched on top of Turtle Creek, literally, and there are gates and fences in place to prevent one from making a very serious mis-step into oblivion. Frank Osborne is THE KING of Turtle Creek.
What happened to American Mechanical? I think that's who I called?
"They got bought out, Sir, as did another smaller company; and now we're Crawford Services." I'd told him.
Frank smiled, and said,
Well let me show you were everything is at. Just make yourself at home. You said your name was Todd? Just go over everything, and fix it, Todd: I don't care how much it costs, or how long it takes.
I don't know what that sounds like to you, but to me it sounded like a blank check, and an opportunity to hang out with a very wealthy, and cool, old guy. I couldn't help but notice the turbo charged Porsche Cayenne in the driveway-it's only the fastest, most powerful S.U.V. ever made, but it was nowhere near the most impressive thing to see. The man's entire house was a work of art, and indeed, each room had it's own theme, and what had to be millions of dollars of fine artwork, from all over the world, was on display everywhere.
Do you smoke Todd? I bet they don't let you smoke at. . .what was it again, oh, Crawford Services, do they? Not at a customer's house, I mean. Well, you can smoke in MY house, Todd-would you like a cigarette? Marlboro Reds cool with you?
There was no need for an ashtray, there was a pleasant, and pleased woman who followed Frank and I around with a broom and a dust pan.
Now, the reason that I called, Todd, is because we smelled some smoke yesterday during dinner in the dinning room. I think that that unit is underground. . . .
"Underground?" I asked.
Yeah, let me show you. . . . .
And this is how I found that Frank's home, sitting on top of one of the most prized pieces of real estate in the entire Dallas and Ft. Worth metroplex, was also sitting on a huge limestone slab, and had an underground quarters and mechanical room that was at least five times the size of my apartment. I'd gladly live down there, it's warm in Winter, and cool in Summer-I just need Frank to set it up with internet access, and a bathroom.
So the man has a dungeion, no big deal, right? What I found down there was a burned out fan motor and freq drive. . . .on a very expensive system. I had to drive all the way to Haltom City to get a replacement, and though the thing was a Carrier, I got the only one available in one of the largest metropolises in the United States.
That was my boss speaking. . . .
We can't mark that thing up too much, it costs a fortune already!
"I know, boss, but the guy said he didn't care what it costs. He said to just fix everything-you should see this house, boss, OH MY GOD. . . ."
I don't care about that, Todd, what I care about is what this guy is going to say when he sees the fucking bill!
AND THEN, One Summer At Band Camp. . . .
But Frank didn't give a flying sausage about the bill. The people at Crawford Services, however, got really worried when he didn't return their phone calls. They even had me go back by there, to ask Frank for the money. . . .as if, AS IF he didn't have it. I was even told to not leave his property until I collected. Do I look like Guido, who came to collect or cap some knees, I wondered?
Funk that-I'd have quit that job in an instant, if Frank had told me about anything better. You should have seen how smoothly I smoothed that whole deal over. I couldn't believe it when someone who could easily have had my whole family tree buried. . . .apologized to ME for being busy, and not having time to send them a check, or return their calls. I don't know what that aloof, good humored man does, or is-except one hell of a cool old, filthy rich man. If Frank, The KING of Turtle Creek ever wants anything from me-then I'm THE GUY who will get it done.