More Ike Aftermath

You may know that I am a property manager for a preservation company.  You may even know that I am responsible for the preservation of roughly 800 bank owned houses.  What you may not know is that every single one of them is in the Houston area, with many on the battered Galveston Island.

I’m not looking for sympathy - this is my job, after all.  And I didn’t lose anything because of the hurricane.  In fact, it has been pretty silent for me at work lately because of many factors:  cell phone outages (FEMA actually took over the cell towers last weekend, and reception is still lukewarm at best), gasoline lines/shortages/price gouging, and my hardy crew of contractors attending to their own properties (as they should) despite the widespread lack of power and water.

I have had some crews working through all of this, getting things done that I certainly did not expect to get done as quickly as they have.  And I have had others call me pleading for patience with their assigned work, which I of course assured them.  They all want to work, but in some cases it is just not possible.  And I totally understand that.

And then this afternoon, it happened.  The phone at my desk started ringing.  Over and over and over.

Normalcy is beginning to return.  Listing agents are starting to tour their properties, calling me with laundry lists of problems that need to get rectified… NOW.  Again, I understand and bravely accept that challenge.

Wanna see the challenge?  Take a look at the pictures assembled here. One word comes to mind…

Wow.

Never doubt the resiliency of people, particularly Texans.  And that is why I am going to end this entry with a quote from one resident of the island who rode out Ike in a church.  This was his reply to a question regarding divine intervention, after explaining that he had not set foot in a church for 40 years:

I drink beer and chase women, gamble, cuss.  You can’t call that religion. I’m either too good, the devil won’t have me, or I’m so bad the Good Lord won’t take me. That’s a good toss-up.

She Sells Sanctuary

Well, I could continue to regale you two (Ed and Aunt Debbie) with more vignettes from the road (how pretty Clifton is or the majestic look of the town square when driving into Meridian from the east with the courthouse spire rising like a gingerbread house in front of hills) but I think today was much more interesting than that.

I knew it wasn’t going to be my day when I spilled my Diet Coke all over my jeans when I was less than 15 miles away from my first stop. Thank goodness that stop was at an Allsup’s in Boyd, so I figured that I’d fit right in. And I was especially thankful that the spill was nowhere near my crotch, so as to eliminate any speculation that my adult diapers were malfunctioning. I got out of my seat and headed to the back of the van to gather all my materials, just continuing my normal ritual. I closed the back doors and hit the lock button on my keychain… and nothing happened. I tried several more times to no avail, so I gave up. I went back to the driver’s side door, opened it, and hit the inside lock button. All secure now.

Once inside, I started to unhook the old terminal and I guess I leaned on the counter in just the right way to hit the “panic” button on the keychain in my pocket. So my big honking van became a big HONKING van. Surprised that the remote was working, I took it out of my pocket to disarm it. Obviously, nothing happened. I pressed the button over and over with no results. I walked outside and tried but still nothing worked. I took out my key and manually unlocked the door, hoping that would stop the honking, but it didn’t.

Finally, getting desperate, I put the key in the ignition and started up the van. And that worked. I shut off the engine, closed the door, and pressed the “lock” button. No dice. So I opened the door again, hit the inside lock button, and went back inside to finish my job. All the while, I was wondering just what kind of omen this was for my day.

I would soon find out.

My next stop was at a ministry and, silly me, I thought that would be easy. No lottery machines and phone lines to contend with, probably well-maintained, etc. Plus, it was in a nearby small town. Good, friendly, helpful people was what I imagined. What I didn’t expect was a big, sprawling compound complete with freaking airplane hangars. But that is what I got.

I drove around the compound looking for the name of the “business” on my work order, but I came up with a big bag of nothing. I finally spotted two women chatting in a parking lot, so I stopped and asked them for help. They seemed bewildered. Food stamps were accepted there? They directed me to the administration building which appeared to have absolutely no convenient parking. Crud.

I made a long walk into the building and was greeted by imposing architecture and a low-talker at the desk. She, too, seemed confused about my arrival. Hushed phone calls ensued, and eventually I was asked to have a seat to wait for someone. “Would you like some cold water while you wait?” Afraid that the cold water there would burn holes in my soul, exposing me as a heathen, I declined. I sat on a comfy sofa and counted my blessings - all five of them. Then I got bored.

Finally, I was called back up to the desk and handed a phone. Evidently, the woman in charge of the food stamp program was on vacation and people were frantically trying to figure out what to do. I imagined them in seedy backrooms, stubbing out cigars (yes, the women, too) while intoning “The State is here! The State is here! Hide the child laborers and the bags of money from the elderly!” To quote the great Bono, “Well, the God I believe in isn’t short of cash, mister.”

It turned out that my imagination probably wasn’t far from the truth.

The woman on the phone gave me directions to her building which was located at a four-way stop sign. Yes - the compound had actual roads with stop signs. (”Do not veer off of the grounds,” I was warned. Seriously.) She told me to enter through the double doors, and I did, and I saw nothing but empty cubicles. I stuck my hands in my pockets and waited, all the while looking at an imposing office to my right with a big oak door that was closed and apparently soundproof. Later, I kicked myself for not scratching my nuts while waiting for someone to come out and greet me. Just for the heck of it.

When that oak door did open, people flew out of the office on a mission (no pun intended). They were going from cubicle to cubicle, opening drawers and cabinets, looking for a machine that they had no idea existed, let alone what it looked like. Then one woman took control. She invited me into a private office while she was on the phone. Then the phone went to speaker mode and I found myself talking to the woman who was directly under the food stamp woman who was on vacation.

Informed that the machine I was there to replace was actually at someone’s home, I was ready to give up. Grant Lee Buffalo’s tune “Lone Star Song” started reverberating in my head. (For those of you unfamiliar with it, the song is about the Koresh compound in Waco. Good stuff.) I was finally able to reschedule for next Tuesday. At first we agreed upon 9am, but that changed when the woman behind the desk noted that “prayer ends around 9am and we need time to get back here”. So 9:30 it is.

Man, I dread it.

Nothing against the deeply religious, but when churches get that big, I start to wonder about motivation.

When I walked back to the van, I made sure to make a path across the well-manicured grass. After all, God put it there for a reason.

I’m On A Roll

Tuesday was pretty boring. I did nothing but drive around Brownwood and two neighboring towns (Early and Bangs - sounds like a mullet starterkit… or a shit-kicker country band). The one highlight was driving back into Brownwood from Bangs, however. From what seemed to be a prarie, all of a sudden a vista opened up in front of me. I was on top of a very tall hill with a view for miles. If Brownwood were a little smaller, it would have been even better. However, the expanse of the town actually detracted from the sight, though it was still welcome.

Ouray, Colorado it was not. But I still reveled in it.

The thing that separated Tuesday from Monday is that I finally saw a person of color. I felt that it was odd, with a name of Brownwood, that every person in town would be white. I mean, I didn’t expect the town to be called Whitewood, but damn. Not even a person of Mexican heritage? Not one? Who the Hell mows lawns in this town?

I’m kidding, of course. I just never thought I’d be in a town in Texas that lacked a single Latino. I’d check into that if I were you.

—

Once back in the hotel that night, I decided that when I called my boss for the daily check-in, I’d inquire more about the McKinney job. After all, Dawn had just been laid off as the company she had worked for spiraled out of control thanks to the housing market collapse. What we thought was a guaranteed paycheck (no pun intended for those who know the company name) until January was suddenly gone. Our 2008 move had just been put on the fast track out of desperation. We were now looking at relocating in November. With fingers crossed.

However, my cell phone sucks. Blackberry? How about Yak-Wary. I kept getting error messages, including the very strange “Radio Connection Failed”. What the eff?

My mind racing (as it always will), I slept on my ideas. I knew I had a full day on Wednesday with ten stops in Brownwood before making my way toward Comanche. Sounds exciting, doesn’t it?

Gypsy

Yes, this makes three entries in less than 24 hours. I can catch up. How about you?

When I left off, I was sitting in my hotel in Brownwood, Texas with drink coupons burning holes in my pocket. Monday Night Football was failing to hold my attention, even though it was the Saints vs. the Titans (a rematch of sorts… Vince Young and Reggie Bush). So I made the short walk to the “lounge”.

As I walked in, the other seven people there barely noticed - just like I wanted. One of the bartenders (by the way, how is that for a ratio? Two bartenders for eight patrons?) was putting a CD in the player. It appeared to be a disc of Fleetwood Mac’s greatest hits. Heads slowly bobbed to lines like “Thunder only happens when it’s raining” and a few of the extroverts even quietly mouthed lyrics as songs played.

Talk about a time warp…

I do, however, enjoy some Fleetwood Mac. Unfortunately, I never heard ‘Landslide’ while redeeming my coupons. Also, the greatness of ‘Bleed To Love Her’ is evidently not on either of their greatest hits collections. Shame.

When I was nearing my escape, thinking about how lucky I was to have entered for two free beers without having to be social, Charlie introduced himself. And, alas, Charlie had had a bit too much.

He was the typical redneck construction guy except - get this - he specializes in seating. Whether it be bleachers or auditoriums, chances are Charlie’s stinky paws have been all over them. He proceeded to regale me with stories about how he took on 15 guys (in a fight, not the other way) just two nights before to protect his uncle with whom he works with.

The uncle, by the way, looked exactly like Jerry Jones, only a foot shorter and minus a few ear-lifts. And Charlie? Five foot six at the most. But, rather than call bullshit on his story, I listened and faked awe. Amusement has no bounds at times.

Not long after Charlie came over to hand me his windbag of manure, a woman discreetly approached him and said that one of the bartenders wanted to talk to him by the restroom. The 32 year old man-child, thinking this was his lucky night, quickly headed that way. Once he was gone, the woman gave me a knowing nod and I knew what was up… He was being asked to leave. But not because of his actions. Evidently, his Uncle Jerry was far more gone than remote viewing let on.

I guess players only love you when they’re playing.

I left a generous tip and slipped quietly into that good night… thankful for the opportunity to do so.

My gypsy week would go on.

Just Another Roadside Attraction

This entry won’t be as witty or entertaining as the book used for the title, nor will it be as insightful as Tales From Lake Woebegone, but this is the best I’ve got. So strap in for a summation of the week that was…

Monday was my craziest day. I had already made hotel reservations in Brownwood (which is about 2 1/2 hours away from home to the southwest) for Monday and Tuesday night, but I had to begin my day in Eastland, about two hours west of here. My goal was to do 15 terminal installations that day, even though only 10 are required, but there was also a lot of driving in between stops. Places like Rising Star, Gorman, DeLeon, and May.

Ah, May. What an odd town that was. The woman in Rising Star told me that the stop in May was on the lake, but I never saw any water. Only signs purporting that the little town I was in “claimed” to be at the lake. And it did, indeed, look like a private trailer community or an RV park. I don’t think that I was ever in the town proper, however, because every road I took to that store was unpaved. And little pebbles shooting up from a dirt road echo like impish sons-of-bitches in a big metal cargo van.

I made it to Brownwood around 3:45 with 12 installs done. After performing one more, I headed north of town to find Park Road 15. My GPS unit (Maggie) didn’t know where it was, nor did Google maps. The woman at the convenience store, however, gave me passable directions. Alas, I had forgotten to get gas while in town all in an effort to make George Costanza-like “good time”. With the gauge needle getting precariously closer to ‘E’, and no stops in sight, I eventually turned around to be safe. I got the tank mostly full (apparently, many gas pumps have a $75 limit) and made one more stop. The man there was about to leave, and I offered to come back in the morning. He gratefully accepted, so it was off to the Days Inn. Time to call it a day.

The man at the check-in counter looked a little familiar, but I didn’t think anything of it. He just had “that face” - the type that looks like just about anyone else. The weird thing, though, is that he acted like he knew me. When I walked in, I was greeted with “Hey! What’s going on?” in a real familiar-like tone. Dismissing it as smalltown cheer, I finished the check-in process and he started to tell me of the aminities the hotel had to offer. Then he stopped himself and asked, “But you’ve stayed here before, right?”

Um, no. And weird.

So he gave me my ticket for a free cook-to-order breakfast in the morning (”Used to be a danish and coffee, but competition is steep now”) as well as a coupon for a free drink in the hotel bar (”If they find out you’ve checked in and I didn’t give you this, I’d be in trouble”). Thinking that I may have stumbled into some sort of cult compound, I graciously took the card with no intentions of using it. But then he told me to come back later and he’d give me another. Well, two free beers are better than one.

The room was typical, with a microwave and mini-fridge (which seem to be the norm rather than the exception these days), but the best thing about it was the wireless internet. Ususally, wireless in hotels is pretty slow, but the signal I was getting there was as fast - if not faster - than my home connection. I called Dawn to give her updates, then I wandered out to eat. Chili’s was my destination.

After a week of getting lucky at no-name places in Wichitard Falls, I was not about to press said luck. And, being the symmetrical guy that I am, I ordered fried cheese and cheese fries. A full belly and two beers later, I was back in my room to look for Law and Order runs on the telly.

I also had to call the Operations Manager of the company I am working for for my daily check-in. He surprised me with a question.

“Hey, how far away from McKinney do you live?” Thinking that he wanted me to pick up some stores that way, and since my schedule with them only lasts until mid-October, I told him I was about two hours from there. “Oh, well”, he said. “We have a full-time opening up there and you were the first person to cross my mind.”

Sensing my “in”, I then told him about the move to Austin that Dawn and I have planned that I have yet to divulge on this site to you, my two readers (Ed and Aunt Debbie). I told him that it would be perfect if they still have the contract job available for Lockheed Martin that begins in November down that way. We chatted a little more after that, promising to keep the lines open, and ended the conversation.

Time to think this over. Where to do that?

Well, two coupons were burning a hole in my pocket…

Observations About The Road From My Garage

I finally pulled into the driveway last night right around 7pm, very thankful to be home again. Five nights in a hotel room in Wichitard Falls (spelling intentional) proved to be a very long time. The trip was not without highlights, however, and this is where they shall be listed.

• The GPS unit (”Maggie”, as I call her) in the van was completely lost many times in Wichitard. Construction was rampant throughout town, and this led to some scary trips through residential neighborhoods along Martin Luther King Blvd. My badge was also my saving grace: “You want your food stamp machine to work? Better let me through.”
• Maggie also took some time to get going in the morning. As I became fond of saying, “In the morning, she is a finicky bitch.”
• Despite looking like the Bagdhad of Texas, the Falls proved to be replete with good eating. There was a Chinese buffet place that Dawn and I had dinner at no less than five times over the last week and a half. New York Pizza Company, at a new location near the Air Force base, was excellent. Even the Carl’s Jr. across the street from the hotel was great. Not only did they have good burgers, but also Hardee’s breakfast menu and a Mexican food menu from the Green Burrito. But the best burger we had was at Gene’s Tasty Burger. Hidden near an industrial part of town, it was clear the locals went out of their way to eat there. Open for over forty years, with our waitress working there for 22 of those, it also offered the best homemade onion rings.
• Everyone smokes in Vernon. And they also leave their cars running unattended when going into a convenience store.
• Asians are by far the most considerate of all the ethnicities I have encountered while installing the new terminals. A very pleasant woman at the giggle-inducing “Hung Thinh” insisted I take a drink for free. This is not a rare occurrance at such establishments.
• We saw the great Larry McMurtry’s bookstores - all four of them - slowly taking over the town square in Archer City. Made me miss Gus and Call. We didn’t smell his son, however.
• Best banner I saw was in Olney. Stretched across Main Street, it read “Welcome One Armed Dove Hunters”.
• Newcastle has one gas station. And it does not take American Express, which is the company card I have. Running on fumes, I handed over a twenty and was told that I need to stop the pump at that amount myself. It had been forever since I used a side-loaded gas pump with rotary dollar amount wheels. The shop owner was real nice, though, and I found out that he graduated high school (22 others in his class) in the town that Dawn’s dad lives in. Small effin’ world, indeed.
• That reminds me… Last week in Throckmorton, I ran into a woman at a store whose daughter teaches at the elementary school I went to for four years. Bobby Hicks was onto something with that “small effin’ world” remark.
• I will always contend that Graham is the best-kept secret in Texas. I love that town.
• Iowa Park has changed a lot since I used to go there every summer with my elementary school best friend. It still has that small town “feel”, however. And the people there are very, dare I say?, normal.
• Confusion abounded one morning in Petrolia and Byers. With an assist from the State, and my problem solving abilities, everything got settled. Kind of.
• I cannot comprehend that the first Hilton Hotel was in Cisco.
• I’m tired of Allsup’s. The people are always very friendly, but under their counters contains a maze of chords and wires that would make Escher go crazy. And, as much as I love their fried burritos, I think I have had enough this year.And finally…
• The best thing about having Maggie as my navigator comes when I pull into the driveway when finally home. That is when, in her soft-spoken way, she unceremoniously announces, “You have arrived.”

Coming up in the next few days: Updates from Brownwood.

Van Down By The River

The van is all loaded:

• Verifones? Check.
• Pinpads? check.
• Magellan GPS navigation unit? Check.
• Laptop cigarette lighter adapter? Check.
• Literature from the State of Texas for convenience and grocery store managers? Check.
• Ashtray? You betcha.

For the follow up to my Great Post Office Tour of 2007, tomorrow I embark on the Food Stamp (Lone Star Card) Tour of 2007. It actually started last Friday when I (along with 23 others) made runs on our own in Houston installing four terminals. A large flat-screen TV on the top floor of an office building in Houston tracked, and will continue to do so, our progress. When a terminal was installed, some cheesy porno-type music would play from the speakers connected to the TV while an information box popped up on the screen notating who completed the install. And, since I was not only the first one to install a terminal, but the first to complete all four, I got to the office early enough to see the magic in action.

I (half) jokingly told the operations manager of the company that every time they hear that music, thus confirming an install, they should say that “someone just got laid”. I doubt it will stick, though, because the music got so annoying to the guys in the office that they ended up disconnecting the speakers.

My “route” starts out pretty routinely. My first few days will be spent in the Dallas suburbs of Carrollton, Plano, Frisco, and Lewisville. By the end of this week, or perhaps the beginning of the next, things get a little more interesting. I’ll be all over the area west of Fort Worth, hitting towns like Clifton, Vernon, Rising Star, Henrietta, Cisco, Muenster, and many others. Also, I’ll be spending a lot of time in Wichita Falls, including the Air Force Base there which, funny enough, is where my wife was born.

I talked to Dawn’s dad today on the phone and he even gave me the exact address of where they lived on that base at the time. Hopefully, I will get to drive by it. At first I thought I might even be able to get a pic of the place, but I’m not sure what to expect as far as security is concerned. Hopefully Ray can give me some insight into that.

Incidentally, I took this contract job (a two month gig) in order to help pay for tools and insurance associated with the company that Dawn and I are starting, as well as a safety blanket should the company she is currently working for pack up their toys and go home. Then, an email barrage started, initiated by a guy from my inspection class…

Apparently, among the 600+ new laws that went into effect on September 1 in Texas, was one concerning our endeavor. No longer can someone just take the classes - all 448 hours of them, as I did - to become a home inspector. In addition to the classes, one must also show proof of seven years experience in related fields (i.e. construction, structural engineer, electrician, plumbing, HVAC, etc.) or have a “sponsor” for seven years. An informal poll conducted by the head of my school estimated that only ten percent of inspectors would be willing to take on the roll of said sponsor.

Yeah. Fuck.

But we are determined to beat this system, and we have several ideas as to how to do so.

However, if all that fails and we have done nothing but waste $3500 because of petty politics, a back-up plan has already arisen. Thank God for nice vice presidents of multi-million dollar companies. Please stand by.