W: The Planner, The Chosen (9 page)

Kris was looking at her mother and talking mainly to her, but she could see her dad rolling his eyes in her peripheral vision.

“Instead, and you can hear more about the rationale for this in the speech, the government is going to stop issuing Social Security payments, Medicare payments—everything…..” She could see the alarmed look on her parents’ faces.  “Wait, let me finish….”

Jim interrupted anyway, “That is just typical. We paid all of our lives into the Social Security system, and, of course, when you’re self-employed you pay in twice—once to cover your portion and then once to cover your employer’s—and now, when we need it, they just go and cancel it on us.”

Janine chimed in, “I am just so sick of hearing about Social Security Entitlements.  This is not an entitlement; this is not a welfare check for getting old. This is our government-sponsored retirement. It was not a tax—it was supposed to be to make sure that we would have some money to live on. Every year for as long as I can remember I have been getting those stupid little letters that start with, ‘If you started collecting Social Security today, your benefit would be…’  And now they are going to just say, ‘It doesn’t matter that you worked your whole life, you don’t get anything.’”

“No, that isn’t it at all,” Kris attempted to steer the conversation back on track. “I learned in my training that the average Social Security check is about $1200.00 a month. The government is sending out tens of millions—in a few years it will be close to one hundred million—checks for $1200 a month. That’s not enough money for anybody to live on, but it represents billions and billions of dollars to the Treasury.

“And then, you start getting your ‘free’ healthcare for Medicare Part A, but Medicare Part A doesn’t actually pay much of anything, so you have to have part B, and then a supplement, and then a second supplement to cover all of the stuff the first supplement didn’t cover, and then you have to find a doctor who takes Medicare and your supplement—it’s ridiculous. Suddenly, you are spending hundreds of dollars a month for ‘free’ healthcare, and you wait how long to find a doctor who will accept Medicare and your insurance supplement?

“The Retire America Act and the Smart Seniors Act is designed to fix all of that. The government is going to provide each senior with brand-new fully furnished housing in the Smart Seniors community. The FMPD is building the communities—the one that I will be managing is not far from here.  Each unit in this community is for couples; there is a science behind this new initiative that says that people are happier and live longer when they are around other people like them, so the community is designed to put people together who are as similar culturally and economically as possible.

“Each community has a clinic on site that is open twelve hours a day, fully staffed with one primary care physician and one PA per 100 people in the community and a full nursing staff. You do not need an appointment to get medical care; you just walk over to the clinic. The community doctor becomes your primary care physician. If you need a specialist, he will recommend one to you and your bills, with very few exceptions, will be completely covered by the Smart Seniors’ program.

“Your food is provided through the dining hall. A dietician prepares all of the menus and supervises the food.  Just like with my community, there is no shopping, no cooking, no cleaning up. The dining hall has the same vibe as a trendy restaurant—modern décor, candlelight on each table.  It’s nice.

“You don’t have any more maintenance, cooking, cleaning, anything….”

“So how does this work, Krissy?  We sell our house and buy an apartment?” her mother asked.

“No, in reality you are not buying or selling anything.  You transfer ownership of your home and your assets to the FMPD in exchange for a guaranteed life-lease. You will not own the unit, but you are guaranteed possession of that unit for the rest of your life. You will receive three meals a day at the dining hall, monthly credits automatically deposited into a credit account in the community to use at any of the stores or shops inside the community, and transportation credits for the commuter train or the shuttle.”

“We wouldn’t be interested in those; we both have our cars.”

Kris shook her head, “That’s one of the requirements for going in. This is a walkable community. None of the residents has a car. But you don’t need one because a commuter train runs right past the community, and a shuttle picks you up from the train to take you anywhere you need to go.”

“I don’t understand that,” interrupted Janine, “You live in one of these places, and you still have your car.” 

“The only reason I still have my car is that it would be impossible for me to do my job without it. I spend my day going from place to place holding meetings.  But if it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have my car either. And I don’t use it on weekends—except for today, of course. I walk within the community or else I take the train.  It’s wonderful not to have to pay for gas, and the train has a very good schedule. This is a green community and the success of it really depends on everyone using public transportation.”

“You said, ‘and assets’,” her father questioned her more closely. “What does that mean?”

“It means that when you move into W, you sign over the balance of your bank accounts, your home, your car—everything—to FMPD. Those assets are what allow the government to guarantee that you will have complete medical care, lodging, and food for the rest of your life.”

“That sounds like a great deal for the government.  I don’t see how it’s so good for us.”

“It depends on your assets. Let’s say you have $10,000 in the bank. Realistically you can’t live on $10,000 for the rest of your life. By signing that over to FMPD along with the house and the cars, you are converting that $10,000 into an investment that is guaranteed to take care of you for as long as you live.”

She could see the looks of skepticism on both of their faces. “Look, I didn’t come here to talk you into this.  I want it to be your decision, if you decide to do it at all. And there will be some adjustment—you are going from a big house and a couple of big cars to a small apartment. But I can tell you this: once you experience the convenience of having somebody else take care of everything for you, you just never want to go back. You would have so much more time on your hands for things you want to do. The community features a huge pool and a great weight facility. Every unit is fully equipped with internet access—you don’t pay anything extra for it. It is a special ISP contracted specifically for the community. As part of the move-in package you even get two individual tablets so that you can download books, magazines—whatever you want—from an enormous virtual on-line library. You will have time on your hands to do what you really want to do, and you won’t have the responsibility of working all of the time.”

Jim had listened pretty quietly up to this point. He now dropped his voice down low as he often did when he wanted to appear thoughtful. “We’ve listened to everything you have said.  Now what are our options?”

Kris looked at him as blankly as if he had spoken to her in Chinese. “Options?” she repeated. “Well, you can say, ‘Yes, I want to live there’ or ‘No, I don’t.’ Those are pretty much your options.”

“But if I say that this is not for us, can we go on as we are now with our Social Security and Medicare?  Can we just say that we want to continue on as we are?”

“No, you can’t,” Kris answered honestly. “You and Mom are on my initial list. The Smart Seniors’ program is being phased in, but when you get your letter that means that you are part of the first phase. Your Social Security and Medicare will be completely terminated in the next ninety days, whether or not you choose to move into the community.  If you don’t want to do it, you probably need to look at selling the house and downsizing into something smaller that is going to have lower taxes so that you can get some money out to live on. Obviously, I am not an agent anymore, but if you want me to refer you to somebody who can help you with that, let me know. This is the last thing I will say on this—residence in the Smart Seniors community is by invitation only.” She chuckled a little, “I hate to sound like a car salesman, but this is a great opportunity and I would like to see you get in on the ground floor—literally since I know with Dad’s knee problems you really need a ground floor apartment, and there are only a limited number of those to go around. So…if you decide that you do want to come into the community, call me as soon as you know, and I will get your unit reserved and bring you the paperwork you need to sign.  But if it’s not right for you, then I will help you however I can.”

That ended their conversation about the Seniors Community, and for the next hour they ate their steaks and made small talk. Her parents were quiet, and when she got into her car to drive away she did so thinking that no matter what happened, they would never move to W. But what mattered was that she had gone to their home and given them the best information she had to make the best decision they could. What they did with that information was up to them.

Three days passed; Kris made her first town hall presentation to fifty inquiring seniors. She was really glad that she had taken the opportunity to do a one-on-one with her parents because it made this presentation much easier.   There were so many questions that the meeting ran over two hours. 

“Can a diabetic get a special menu?”

“Yes, of course, the dining hall offers diabetic menus.” 

“My eight year old grandchild lives with me; can I bring him to W?”

“No, unfortunately, no children are allowed to spend the night at W because it is disruptive to other members of the community. You will have to make other arrangements for your grandchild.”

“I have four championship English Sheep Dogs. They are just like my babies.  Can I bring them with me?”

“Residents of W are allowed only one pet per couple. You will have to make other arrangements for the other animals.”

It went on and on this way until Kris was ready to yell, “Do you want this or not?” but she stayed calm, and eventually everyone seemed satisfied. The assistant she had brought with her had a preliminary application for people who wanted to reserve a unit before leaving the town hall. After the complaining tone of most of the questions, Kris was a little surprised to see that most did—the idea of a stress-free life with no worries overcame most of the other objections.

As she got back into her car to head back to her office, her mobile rang. The car answered the call for her using the standard hands-free device.

“Krissy,” said a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Mom.  What are you doing today?”

“Not a lot.  Your dad and I have been talking, and we want you to get us in on the ground floor.”

“Wow! I’m surprised!” Kris answered, “But I’m glad.  I am headed back to my office now, and I will reserve a unit for you today. You’re going to be so glad you did this, Mom.”

O
n Saturday afternoon, Kris’ phone rang.

“Hello,” she answered.

“Hey, I heard that you turned Commie and packed Mom and Dad off to the gulag,” began the voice on the other end of the line.

“Hi, Keith. How are you?”

“I’m rosy.  Is it true?”

“No. I didn’t ‘turn’ anything. I got a really good job with a new federal agency—after almost two years of looking. I’m a Level I Planner for the new Smart Seniors Division, and I’m helping implement the changes that the government is making to retirement. I went to see Mom and Dad because their names were on the list. I showed them how the program works, and they decided to enroll.”

“Basically, you ‘made them an offer they couldn’t refuse,’” Keith was using his best Marlon Brando imitation.

“Actually, I was very careful not to pressure them, even though I do think this is a really good program. Participation is completely voluntary. After considering their options, they thought so too.”

“What options? ‘You can stay where you are and starve to death or else die from exposure, if that’s what you really want to do. Or you can come with us.  But it’s entirely up to you.’” Keith could be such a smart mouth.

“Very funny. This is a really nice facility; everything is new, and it’s fully furnished. Dad won’t have to do any yard work, and Mom won’t have to do any housekeeping. They just get to enjoy the rest of their lives. It’s the ideal way to retire. Anyway, I live in one of these communities myself. It’s a good place to live.”

“Keep telling yourself that. You’re in a fishbowl where the Feds can monitor every conversation, every relationship you have, every aspect of your life. Doesn’t that bother you at all?”

“Not really, Keith. I am not doing anything that the government couldn’t put on television if they wanted to. It would be really boring television—but still. Did you see the President’s speech on Tuesday? He announced the program and explained all of the highlights….”

“Yeah, I watched that joke of a speech. He was like, ‘Follow me my Blue-Haired Ones,’” Keith mocked in his best high-pitched, sing-song impersonation of a villain in a children’s cartoon, “‘And I will lead you to a marvelous land of FUN where work, worry, and stress have all been banished, and every day is filled with lollipops and lemonade.’ For a minute there I thought the Pied Piper had come through a time warp and was now rounding up old people instead of little kids.”

Kris was laughing so hard on the other end of the phone that she could hardly respond. Keith could be such a pain, but he was almost always funny. “Okay, there was a little element of that in there. Maybe he oversold it just a tad,” she admitted. “But it’s still a good idea.”

“It’s not. I’m sorry; I know you work there. Congratulations, by the way, on getting your job. I’m happy for you. But it’s not a good idea. You’ve got the group who can’t even get the Post Office straightened out managing the retirements of tens of millions of people. This is the same circus act that brought us models of integrity and efficiency like the ‘Party like a Rock Star’ GSA, and the Secret ‘we hire underage hookers; we just don’t pay them’ Service. This bunch of clowns can’t manage their own people on the payroll of their own little agencies, but they want us to believe that they’re better qualified to manage our entire lives than we are. I’m just glad I cashed out all of my retirement accounts years ago. I could see this coming, and now here it is. Just remember, the scariest words ever spoken are, ‘I’m from the government, and I’m here to help.’”

“Thank you, President Reagan. Before you pass judgment, why don’t you come down and see for yourself. Mom and Dad are moving into W in a couple of days.  You could go see the place and spend some time with them. I know they would enjoy that.”

“Maybe,” he muttered. “How is Mom taking all of this?  Is she okay?”

“Yeah, I mean it’s hard to move out of the house; they’ve been there so many years, and she is really sentimental about it. But I think she’s very happy knowing that she’s not going to be working so hard. Her life is going to get so much easier.”

“And the old man?”

“Well, you know Dad; he’s complaining about everything, but if he didn’t want to do it, he wouldn’t be going. The community has a big pool and a fully equipped exercise room—I think he’s happy about that. And he doesn’t have to do anything—I think he’s happy about that too. I predict that they will both be just fine.  The next time you see them they will look like a couple of cats who just swallowed canaries.”

“How about you?  Is everything else good?”

“Oh, it’s fine. Other than the whole becoming a Communist thing, nothing big has happened. And you?”

“Same. Well, I’ll let you go. Call me if you guys need anything.” Keith hung up his end of the phone.

It had been months since Kris had spoken to Keith. She wondered whom he had heard the news from—maybe either Jim or Janine had sent him an email. He did not keep in touch with most of the family. Keith was 37 years old—four years younger than Kris and two years older than Karyn.  He had been such an adorable little boy, with huge eyes the color of dark chocolate and wavy chocolate brown hair naturally streaked with golden highlights which always gave him the appearance of having just finished a session with a stylist to the kiddy stars. His skin was a little swarthy—someone meeting him for the first time might have guessed that he was Mediterranean or Italian rather than a German-Irish mix. Even as a small child he had a sharp mind which grasped concepts easily, a sarcastic sense of humor, and a violent temper.

Keith often clashed with his father—Jim did not find Keith’s humor at all funny nor did he appreciate his son’s ability to mimic nearly perfectly almost anyone. For his part, Keith feared his father’s frequent angry outbursts, so the two never really became close. Jim was hard on Keith in an effort to “make a man of him,” and Keith responded by pulling further and further away.

As a teenager, his one real interest was church. He wanted to become a pastor, and he spent hours reading his Bible. Sometimes Janine would find him, after school was completed and homework was finished, lying on his bed asleep with his open Bible on his chest. He memorized large portions of scripture and talked a lot about seminary. Jim wanted his son to have a more profitable future, and he insisted that he get a degree from the state university first.

Keith worked his way through school by taking the master control night shift at the local TV station. After a few months, several photographers walked in and quit as part of a power play against the general manager. The GM responded by handing one of the cameras to Keith. “You think you can operate this thing? A tractor-trailer full of cows just turned over on the Interstate. Take this camera and bring me back footage of cows running up and down I-10.”  Keith took the camera and the cables and the keys to one of the station’s old trucks and went to the scene of the accident where he was able to successfully photograph terrified bovines dodging both Animal Control agents and the sheriff’s deputies who had been sent to retrieve them while equally terrified drivers did their best to avoid hitting the animals. When he returned to the station, the GM reviewed his tape and then announced, “Congratulations, Kid. You’re now a photographer. Of course, you’ll still have to do master control too until I can get somebody else hired.”

So began Keith’s career. He was an amazing photographer because he was able to capture not just the images, but also the emotions and the personalities of his subjects, and he soon proved to be talented in all areas of news.  By the time he was twenty-two—two weeks before his college graduation, he was promoted to night-time news director.

A month after graduation he met a pretty young intern named Cassie. Cassie was one of many girls who interned at the station hoping that they would land a permanent spot on the news desk and ultimately become the next Diane Sawyer. But she was different from the others he had met—she was intelligent but not overbearing and sweet without being weak. Like Keith, she had grown up in a Christian home, and when she was a teenager she had thought it might be fun to be a pastor’s wife.

Keith was instantly smitten. Two months after meeting Cassie he asked her to marry him; three months later they did marry in a small but sweet ceremony in church with all their family members and a few close friends present. Two months after that, Cassie found out that she was pregnant, and Keith was elated. He started looking for a small house with a yard that he could buy cheaply and fix up.  Two more months passed and Cassie was diagnosed with leukemia; one month later she and the baby were dead.

Kris remembered standing at the cemetery with her brother on the day of the funeral. She had been so heartbroken for him that day. He did not speak during the service, but he kept wiping the tears away from his eyes with his left hand. Under his right arm he held his Bible—the one with his name on it that his parents had given him for his sixteenth birthday. Just before the casket was lowered into the grave, Keith gently laid his Bible on top of its lid and buried his faith with his wife and his child. From that day forward, he never spoke of God again unless he was using profanity.

Everything about Keith changed after that. Saying that he could not stand to stay in Phoenix, he applied as a photo journalist with a cable news network and was hired. His conservative hair cut gave way to shoulder-length locks. His conservative clothing morphed into jeans and T-shirts with odd conspiracy theory slogans.  Each time Kris saw him, which was more and more infrequently, he appeared to be sporting yet another huge tattoo on his hairy, tanned arms.  Even so, in spite of all his body art and general messiness, he was still one of the most handsome men she had ever seen.

He had an interesting career. Keith had covered almost every war and rumor of war which had occurred in the last decade and most of the natural disasters. His work had taken him across the nation and across the globe. He  had met presidential candidates and Midwestern tornado survivors—hurricane victims in Haiti and soldiers in Iraq and Afghanistan. He won numerous awards.

But over the last few years Keith had become increasingly paranoid. He was consumed with the notion that the federal government was declaring war on the American people and was involved in a nefarious scheme to purposely bankrupt the country and enslave the citizenry. After eleven years, he suddenly left his job, cashed out his pension plan and his bank accounts, and purchased a small cabin “somewhere near the Lincoln National Forest.” There he waited for “the end”—whatever that might be. Keith apparently believed that one day, for reasons known only to him, federal agents would storm his small property, and he would die in a glorious firefight defending his final home.  But Kris was pretty certain that when “the end” finally did come for Keith, it would happen in the early morning hours when he was alone after consuming a lethal quantity of alcohol.

Kris had been so overwhelmed by her own problems for the last few years that she had not had a whole lot of time to think about her brother. Still, sometimes in church she would see his face, and she would ask God to help him. But she held out little hope that there was anything that even God could do for Keith—after all, Keith really did not want His help.