W: The Planner, The Chosen (5 page)

“But what about people who like to cook? My grandma’s a great cook.”

“Perhaps, but the Smart Seniors community is about creating solutions for a wide range of challenges. Grocery shopping and cooking leads to food spoilage and waste. According to the EPA, in 2010 more than thirty-four million tons of food was wasted in the U.S.—that was almost fourteen percent of total municipal solid waste.” At this she clicked a slide which showed an animated landfill with heaps of wasted produce and meat. “Less than three percent was recycled; the other thirty-three million tons was thrown away.  Today, food waste remains the single largest source of municipal solid waste going into landfills and incinerators.  It is also is a major source of methane which we now know has a massive impact on climate change.

“The Smart Seniors Communities generate virtually no food waste. Each meal is pre-portioned and nutritionally-balanced.” Some of the students frowned a little at the thought of no more home-cooked meals from elderly parents or grandparents, and Janice tried to put her comments into perspective for them. “Look, Grandma may like to make spaghetti, but if most of her spaghetti is going to end up at the landfill producing methane gas that is going to destroy the planet, should we allow her to keep making spaghetti, or should we take her to a great new environment where she can eat pre-portioned spaghetti? I think that’s pretty much a no-brainer if you ask me.”

“So she can still have spaghetti and meatballs—she just can’t cook it herself?” followed up the person with the grandma with culinary skills.

“I didn’t say anything about meatballs. The spaghetti that Grandma is going to get in the dining hall is going to be vegetarian. Most of the meals are. Vegetarian lifestyles are more healthful and much better for the environment.  Residents can expect to have lean protein about once a week, and really, that is just a concession to the fact that most of society still eats meat, and we want to pick our battles. If it were up to me, all of the FMPD communities would be vegan, but the powers that be thought that would cause too much complaining. So it is semi-vegetarian instead.”

It was now noon, and all of the talk of food reminded everyone that it was time for lunch. Janice gave them a break so that they could go get their own nutritious, pre-measured meal from the FMPD cafeteria.  As Kris walked downstairs to the cafeteria, she thought about Janice’s comments.  She had heard for years that vegetarian lifestyles were environmentally preferable, but that information had never made her want to embrace such a diet. Now she wondered whether the planet is truly so fragile that it cannot survive one old woman, or even millions of them, cooking spaghetti with meatballs.

B
y Friday night, Kris was practically dancing and not just because she was out of class for the weekend and away from Janice.  She was getting the keys to her own unit, and on Saturday she could move and set up housekeeping. The motel had been a huge improvement over Nick’s townhouse, but she was thrilled to be moving into a permanent place. Kris had not had a place of her own since losing her house, and the house had not really been hers—it had been hers with Ben. As she thought about it, this unit was going to be the first place that was completely hers since college.

When class ended at 4:30, she raced downstairs to the housing office to make sure that she got there before it closed. A weary-looking employee scanned her palm print and activated the palm scan under her unit number and name. Then the clerk handed her an envelope with the address and her unit number.

“Where’s my key?” Kris frowned as she looked through the envelope.

“Your key is your palm scan. The gate, the main door, and the door to your unit are opened by reading that scan. If for some reason it does not open, then you have to come back—sometimes we don’t get a good scan.”

“Okay, thank you,” Kris took her envelope and walked out to the car. She picked up a sandwich on the way back to the motel and rejoiced that this was her last night.

The next morning she packed her belongings back into the three boxes, loaded them into the trunk of the car, and programmed the GPS to give her directions to the federal employees’ community. No suits or heels today—instead, she was comfortably outfitted in jeans, a tank top, and sneakers. The drive proved to be about thirty miles, but at 9:00 on a Saturday morning there was little traffic, so Kris enjoyed the ride. Soon she found her Cadillac sitting in front of white iron gates with a sign that read “Housing for FMPD FE Division 4—No Trespassing or Soliciting Allowed on These Premises.” Lowering her window, she allowed the little red eye of the scanner to read her palm. Apparently, the clerk at the housing office had gotten a good scan, for the gates lurched and then very slowly rolled open. The perimeter of the community was completely fenced in the same white iron, which extended about fifteen feet high all the way around. 

The streets were narrow—barely wide enough to accommodate Kris’ Cadillac as she pulled onto what appeared to be the main thoroughfare. She was looking for Building C. The buildings were five stories tall and looked very much like the apartment houses she had lived in during college. They were square, stucco buildings painted one shade deeper than the sand. Each unit had its own little balcony with a sliding glass door. The buildings sat almost on the street so that they had no common green area in front—instead, there was a sparse amount of desert vegetation. And they sat very close to each other. Each one prominently displayed a set of solar panels. As Kris continued to look for her building, she could see that a large part of the community was fenced off with a small fence—one that might be used to keep out dogs or rabbits. An unusually abundant quantity of vegetation appeared to be growing in the open space protected by that fence.  Later she would take a walk to find out what that was.

Building C—she had found it. Her building was about half a mile from the main gate. There was no parking for her car, so she parked it on the street as close to the main doors as possible. Going up to the building, she again scanned her palm at the small sensor by the heavy main door with the glass inset. This door creaked as it slowly dragged itself open and Kris stepped inside.

The entry area was small; it featured terra cotta floors and salmon-colored walls. The air was hot and stuffy even though the hour was still early, and the season was spring. Kris thought that the main area must not be very well ventilated.  Directly in front of her was a commercial grade staircase.  The same tile went up the stairs; as she looked up she could see that the stairs went to each of the floors. Behind the stairs was another set of closed double doors—that must be the entrance to the ground level units. She went over to inspect—yes, these doors also had a little box to scan palm prints, so these opened only to those who lived on this floor.  On the wall to the right of the stairs hung a poster that read, “Volunteer in Your Community. We all win when everyone gives.”

“Not a chance,” thought Kris. She had spent the last nineteen years in the private sector volunteering for anything and everything. Years of being on boards and working free for every organization she could find had left her unappreciated, underemployed and flat broke. Never again.  It was somebody else’s turn to experience the joy of giving—Kris had done her part and that of several other people as well.

Other than the poster, the walls were bare, and the whole area was extremely Spartan. The lighting was recessed.  The door did contain a glass inset, and the front of the building featured long, rectangular, upper story windows which allowed light to shine down on the first floor, but for all of its light pink tones, the entry was a poorly-lit, dreary, depressing little cage. She continued to look around until, finally, on the left, almost hidden behind the stairs, she spotted what she had been searching for—an elevator! Now she could get her boxes out of the trunk and go upstairs.

In three minutes, Kris was back standing in front of the elevator holding the largest and heaviest of the three boxes. She stood expectantly after pressing the button, but nothing happened. She pressed it again and then again and again—patience had never been her strong suit—but there was no response whatsoever. No lights came on. There was no grid at the top to indicate what floor it might currently be servicing. She looked around for a phone—or at least a phone number to call maintenance. Just then, the double doors guarding the apartments on Level 1 opened, and a thin pale man hurried through.

“Excuse me,” Kris caught his attention. “Is the elevator out of order?”

“I don’t think so,” he barely glanced at her as he headed straight out through the main doors.

“Unbelievable,” she thought to herself. She did not like the idea of climbing three flights of stairs to get to her unit carrying this box, but apparently she could either do that, or she could stand there all day until the elevator  doors decided to open.  Taking her box, she started her trek up the stairs, resting on each floor until she came to her own.

“Finally,” she set the box down in front of her unit number and allowed the inquisitive little laser eye to once again read her palm. This door was much lighter weight than the others, and as it unlocked it fairly sailed backwards. Fortunately it hit a built-in door stop before hitting the wall.

Kris set her box down and looked around the unit. It was tiny—probably about two hundred square feet. This was very much like an efficiency apartment she had in college, except that it did not have a kitchen. In one corner a little bit of cabinetry was covered by a recycled glass countertop and a single stainless steel sink. Next to that was a water cooler and above the water cooler sat a tiny built-in microwave. This was all that passed for a cooking facility. 

On the other side of the room was a couch that made into a bed, flanked by two very plain chairs. A small round reclaimed wood table completed the furnishings. Some cabinetry had been built in above and below the couch/sofa. Kris could see only one door in the room; she guessed correctly that this led to the bathroom. A small round white sink was built into a narrow piece of cabinetry; next to that was a small white toilet and next to that was the smallest shower Kris had ever seen. The shower was one built-in unit of white fiberglass, with a glass door separating it from the rest of the bathroom. 

Stepping back out into the main room, Kris noticed a brochure that had been left on the table by the couch. Décor had not been at the top of anybody’s priority list. The sofa bed had a covering that was styled to resemble a Native American blanket in the shades of salmon she had seen downstairs and the same nondescript brown color as the cabinetry. Walking over to the table, Kris picked up the brochure to read about her new home:

“Welcome to FMPD’s housing for federal employees.  The housing you are in was carefully designed to meet the needs of our planet. Your unit has been constructed using bamboo flooring, recycled glass countertops, and completely recycled fabrics. You are now residing in the most environmentally-friendly housing on earth.

“
The FE Smart Community is the most comfortable, functional community in the world today. We have provided you with some tips to make your stay more comfortable:

Residents do not do laundry. Any items needing to be laundered should be left in the bag located in the cabinet.  Leave the bag on your sofa with the ‘Please Pick Up’ tag prominently displayed on top. Remember that laundry service is available only once a week—no exceptions.  Plan appropriately.

Water conservation is everyone’s business. Make sure to report any drips or leaks to maintenance immediately. Encourage respect for our water-saving measures.

Be sure to volunteer to make your community a better place. We all win when everyone gives
.”

“Wonderful. Who do I report the broken elevator to?”  Kris looked at the brochure and found a number for maintenance. She dialed the number, but no one answered.  Probably it was still too early on a Saturday morning to find a maintenance person.

Two trips later she had moved all her boxes upstairs. She had so little room, much less than she had envisioned. Unfortunately, she would not have room to put all of her belongings away. She could hang her suits on the metal coat rack, but the rest of her items would have to remain in their boxes, which she stacked between the sofa bed and the wall.  “This looks terrible,” she thought, but, then again, she was not planning to have any visitors.

The unit was clean and new; Kris decided to open the window to the left of the bed to clear the apartment of the fresh paint smell that still lingered.  She did have a nice view of the desert and potentially of beautiful deep rose and red southwestern sunsets. As she looked around she reminded herself of the good things about her new unit—first, she did not have to pay a mortgage; second, she did not have to put up with Nick.  After the year she had just been through, those were reasons enough to be happy and content.

She glanced at her watch; it was now 10:00 A.M. She had not eaten breakfast, and she was feeling very hungry.  Maybe the dining hall was still open. The day was nice; she could walk over and get something to eat and then explore her new haunts.

As she exited onto the street, she noticed that the residents of FE were rising, and they had spotted her car.  Middle-aged people were gawking at her Cadillac as if it were a space ship that had landed in the middle of a Kansas farming community. They did not look happy—too bad for them. Kris needed her car to work. It was not her fault that she was forced to live in a community with no parking and no garages.

Ignoring them, she walked briskly to the community dining hall. As she entered, she saw Pat Kilmer sitting at a table sipping a cup of coffee. Pat waved her over. Kris did not like Pat, and she knew that the feeling was mutual, but, even so, it was nice to see a familiar face, and so she smiled and accepted the invitation.

“Morning, sunshine,” quipped Pat in her usual sardonic tone, “Did you get all moved in?”

“I did. I came over here to get some breakfast.”

Pat motioned toward the line. “Go get it, and come back.”

Kris got up and stood in line. Breakfast was a bowl of cold oatmeal with syrup and a plate with oranges. For a moment she was surprised to see that she was served with restaurant quality plates and bowls and metal cutlery.  But after a moment it made sense—plastic plates and disposable utensils are bad for the environment.

Taking her food she walked back to the table. The dining hall attendant brought her a cup of coffee.

“So, did you have any problems finding the place?”

“No, everything was really easy. Everything was great—other than the elevator being out of order. I had to take my boxes up three flights of stairs.”

Pat stared at her, “Why do you think the elevator was broken?”

“Because, I pushed the button and nothing happened.  I couldn’t even tell what floor it was on.  I was going to call maintenance about it, but they weren’t answering the phone that early.”

“I’m sure the elevator is fine. It doesn’t open unless you have a keycard for it.”

“A what?” Kris put her spoon full of oatmeal back into the bowl. Now it was her to turn to stare.

“A keycard. What are the two biggest problems we are facing in America today, Kris?”

Kris continued to stare as she silently retorted, “You want me to narrow all of our problems down to just two?” and wondered what this could possibly have to do with a non-functional elevator.

Pat answered her own question, “Number 1, Energy Consumption and Number 2, Obesity….We use up all of the fossil fuels running elevators, and then we have health problems because we are obese. This is a ‘take the stairs’ kind of place. To operate the elevator, you have to have a keycard.”

“Then why bother to install one at all?”

“Because there are times when there are legitimate uses for the elevators. When FMPD officials come down from regional—or when Director Scott visits. I mean, obviously, he is not going to want to go up and down five flights of stairs inspecting a community, so he has a keycard.”

“Obviously,” echoed Kris, although she was actually thinking that if any one person could benefit from a regular jog up and down several flights of stairs, that person would be Leonard Scott.