Relocating to Texas

Jackson was legitimately excited about the prospect of leaving Minnesota. He’d lived there all his life, and despite his genuinely cosmopolitan mentality, he realized that, even with his really expensive liberal arts college degree, two adorable dogs and his fantastic wife, Chung-un, he was just a homer with too many snow shovels.

Chung-un had emigrated as a toddler with her parents from South Korea. She was extraordinarily smart, with an Ivy League diploma and a cutthroat business sense. She was also lots of fun, and Jackson considered himself quite lucky to be with her. She had left a promising career track in New York City to marry his sorry ass, and Chung-un rarely let him forget it. For his part, Jackson had once harbored plans for graduate school to teach history, but real life scattered those dreams like dust on the sidewalk.

Jackson had worked for the same small, family-run advertising company almost since graduation, and he alternately cherished and abhorred the consistency of his work life. Lately he’d felt trapped by the situation, and the normal pendulum cycle had never quite swung back towards satisfaction at his workplace. Jack was burning out.

Chung-un had changed jobs like underwear in the past two years. Jackson had begun to worry about her resume looking a little fleeting, when she landed a fantastic position with a prominent multinational retailer. The corporate culture, unbelievable benefits and opportunities for advancement were like victory flags pulled stiff by a strong wind. Jack and Chung-un immediately recognized a good thing when they saw it, and without speaking they put all their proverbial eggs in her career basket.

The gamble paid off, and within six months, a new store was being built in Texas that required Chung-un’s unique skills. This was precisely the opportunity they had hoped for to get the hell out of Dodge, as it were. The refreshing cycle of seasons in their northern clime had become an exercise in drudgery; praying for summer in the depths of winter, and vice versa. Even their dogs, two lovable African Basenjis, despised the arctic winters of Minneapolis, their ancient genetic heritage yearning for dry, open grasslands and 100-degree temperatures. Yes indeed, this seemed like destiny.

While it was Chung-un whose career would transport them from the frozen tundra of metropolitan life in the land of ten thousand lakes to the arid wilderness the Republic of Texas, it was Jackson who would have to do the legwork. The new retail location was north of Dallas-Fort Worth, not far from Plano. Jackson’s undying dedication to the small business had netted him a nearly ridiculous amount of vacation and sick days. And so it would be Jack who would venture out to the wilds of Frisco, Texas, to get the lay of the land and investigate housing and amenities for their impending move.

It was early on an ugly gray morning in March when Chung-un brought their aging SUV to a stop at the ticketing level of the Minneapolis/St. Paul International Airport. Jackson leaned over and kissed her perfunctorily on the cheek, then opened the door and hopped out. He retrieved his roller suitcase from the backseat and muttered a lackluster goodbye, before closing the door and making a beeline for the sliding doors. He checked himself in using the ubiquitous Northwest Airlines e-ticket kiosks, managing to secure an exit row seat with a certain sense of satisfaction. Jackson mindlessly navigated the security lines and x-ray machines, eventually pouring himself into a seat at his gate on the G concourse, and immersing himself in yet another Nelson DeMille crime novel.

When his plane touched down in DFW, Jackson realized he was in foreign territory. Cowboy hats dominated the local aesthetic, and the eerily self-congratulatory “Don’t Mess With Texas” paraphernalia seemed oddly like an act of conformity. Jackson perceived an air of superiority, but then considered that it might in fact be some kind of intense counteraction to a statewide inferiority complex.

The taxi ride from Dallas to Frisco was Jackson’s first serious mistake. They had apparently not considered the actual distance beyond the roughly one inch on the map, and the journey had cost him nearly $65 not including tip. It was not a good start to the trip, Jackson noted, and stared out the window across the featureless terrain. Finally they arrived in Frisco, one of those next-big-thing towns that had had enough warning to build infrastructure and unimaginative chain restaurants to match. The city seemed oddly new, considering that the surrounding natural environment smacked of cowboys and Indians, Colt pistols and hitching posts.

On one level, Jack was truly excited about the promise that this community held for Chung-un and himself. On the other hand, he felt like a stranger in a strange land, and he realized he was already counting the days until he flew home. The driver pulled up at his hotel, and Jackson peeled out enough twenty-dollar bills to make a grown man cry. Jack wheeled his diminutive suitcase into the lobby and checked in.

Jackson showered and took a nap. His least favorite aspect of travel, of which he had done quite a bit, was the near total waste a day that a typical domestic flight took these days. He consulted the clearly biased “directory” for dining options, and settled on a nearby steakhouse. He sat alone, robotically chewing what should have been a serious beef experience, unhappy at his solitude in this strange place. He already missed his sweet puppies and his wife’s cherubic smile. He ordered another Tom Collins and continued eating mindlessly.

The next morning, Jack showered early and got about the business of investigating the town. He utilized public transit and free maps he’d pocketed at the airport to orient himself in this berg, making special note of the “neighborhoods” (a.k.a. developments) and the relative housing values. He was astonished at what the American dollar could get you in this place. Their cute little Cape Cod two-bedroom in Minnesota had cost them $150 large. The same amount here would get you a damn mansion. Jackson saw one immediate upside to moving to Butt-Fuck Egypt, Texas.

He lunched at a little Mexican diner in a strip mall, and marveled at the carne asada he’d ordered. Liberally doused with hot sauce, he started to feel like he wasn’t on some backlot tour. He had a brief but amusing conversation with the cook/waiter/owner. Apparently real people actually lived here, if this guy was to be believed. Things were looking up.

Jack took a bus to an older neighborhood (he suspected the early 1990s), and saw some homes that hadn’t been built in the past six months.