We came to Dallas in waves, from the East Coast, from the Midwest, like the forty-niners in the gold rush, eager to stake our claims, pan the clear and plentiful streams of commerce, and make our fortunes. Dallas was like the Wild West in the late ’70s and early ’80s, a land of simple truths and extravagant contradictions. Straight-laced and lawless in equal measure. You couldn’t buy beer on Sundays, but you could drink it while you drove home from the bars.
I remember one of my first trips downtown. I saw a man toting a rifle down the sidewalk of Pacific Avenue. And yet, when I walked across the street in the middle of the block, a police officer whistled me over. “Lemme see your driver’s license,†he said. It was such an unlikely statement that I laughed and looked around to see if my friends had set me up. “Do you know why I pulled you over, son?†he barked, not the least bit amused by me or my Yankee accent. I started to riff about the incongruity of needing a driver’s license to walk (regrettably, I actually used the word “incongruityâ€) and even threw in a comment about seeing the man with the rifle. My stand-up routine was met with a grim stare, and I saw my smart-alecky self in the reflection of his mirrored aviators. I shut my mouth, accepted my jaywalking ticket, and sprinted up to the brand-spanking-new building where I would begin my professional career.
Dallas then was wide open and built for speed. Any 22-year-old with an ounce of initiative was driving a BMW and ordering bottles of Cristal at Confetti’s to celebrate his six-figure commission check. Everything was brand-new. The city was being built before our eyes. The construction cranes sweeping the skyline appeared to be saluting us.
Class wasn’t an issue, at least to those of us without it. The trust-fund layabouts looked down on us, but my money bought the same well-done steak at the Mansion as theirs. And the girls didn’t seem to mind. We worked hard, lifted weights to erase any hint of our effete East Coast origins, and then drank and smoked late into the night, always nosing the next deal.
Dallas was the city of Ross Perot, entrepreneurial in a way that couldn’t be imagined in the Old World cities like Philadelphia and Boston. Those of us who tilted the balance more to hard work than hard drink made our way. And then some.
And then much, much more. We snapped up houses on Beverly and Armstrong. We got married, settled down, and consolidated our fortunes—the Dallas equivalent of putting down roots.
Things began to change, though. The Blue Laws were repealed, but so was the right to drive with a roadie. On balance, I saw it as a win. It had become more important to me to be able to buy wine on Sunday. I was glad that the chances some dumb, drunk kid would plow into my car had been reduced.
Whereas I used to be consumed with making a fortune, I’m now consumed with keeping it. I’m acutely aware of interest rates and the price of oil—and not because it has anything to do with the cost of a gallon of gas at the pump. I’m glad that people can’t smoke in restaurants anymore, and I don’t give a whit about bars and nightclubs. Smoking on someone’s terrace with a brandy at the conclusion of a nice dinner party is all one needs anyway.
Young entrepreneurs exasperate me nowadays, with their “Web 2.0†talk and “land grab†nonsense. These kids just need to get jobs. Last I read, jobs were still plentiful in Dallas. And our home prices haven’t lost a cent.
Things are good. Dallas has settled down, become more sophisticated and cosmopolitan. Deep Ellum is dead, but good riddance. The Center for the Performing Arts has raised more than $300 million, and I get two e-mails a week reporting another gift of $1 million from a wealthy family. We’ve got a successful businessman running City Hall again, and it shows. Farmers Branch has a Mexican problem, but here we tip our staff well at Christmas, and everyone gets along fine.
I don’t want to live in interesting times. The anarchy in my life is limited to the chaos our kids cause at Mi Cocina—and the waiters are happy to put up with the mess for a 30 percent tip. I can survey all I need to see from my table at Cafe Pacific.
I say this without qualification: I love our town.
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