Project One

Stanley worked for Elson Power for twenty-nine years. The money he put in his retirement fund ensured the prosperity of his future. The time served wasn’t a sentence, but a rental. Pulling cable, laying cable, or setting grounds, it didn’t matter to Stanley. He saw work as something that happened between bullshitting with the guys and lunch. Even during bad weather, Stanley never thought, “Why do I still work here?” He knew why. He had it all planned out. His father followed the same path, just like his father before him. Like most of Elson’s employees, Stanley was not a college graduate. People didn’t look down on non-college graduates in this part of the country. Wait. Make that Stanley’s part of the country. How Stanley wished he could go back to Idaho. Before Los Angeles, Stanley ne4ver considered moving to the city. Or did the city move to him? Elson Power took its first big hit on the day of Stanley’s 20th year. The boss told everyone about the shutdown of another plant that morning. A party had been planned in the lounge for the afternoon, but no one wanted to test the boss.

Just a few months later, Crimson Power has shut down every Elson plant except the one Stanley worked at. Stanley always boasted that Crimson would never get their filthy paws into his plant. He was almost right. The remaining Elson plant held out on its own for nine years. This plant serviced rural areas so it wasn’t even a huge slice of the pie. Crimson was merciless when they finally did take over.

Marc Chandler, C.E.O. of Elson Power, fancied himself a traveler. Australia, New Zealand, and the Caribbean often accommodated this powerful man. Unfortunately, Elson Power footed the bill for these global jaunts. More specifically, from the Elson Power Employee Benefits Division. Even more specifically from the Retirement Division. Only 6% of employees actually lost their retirement benefits. This miniscule percentage wasn’t even enough to warrant a lawsuit. Marc Chandler had not been a horrible C.E.O. Aside from embezzling travel money on fourteen separate occasions over an eleven-year period, his record glimmered. He never meant for anyone to actually suffer from his actions. Elson Power at nine plants strong would have easily absorbed such a small loss in the grand scheme. Maybe some accountants would have lost their jobs, but most of them were contracted anyway. Marc considered himself guilt free because no people were ever shafted in real life, just on paper. This plan would have worked except for the loss of the other plants to Crimson. Stanley’s plant found itself on a financial island. In a strictly punitive measure. Crimson made every dollar accountable in their take over due to their intimate knowledge of Marc Chandler. Embezzlement is a federal offense. A settlement was reached between People vs. Chandler because he agreed to sell to Crimson. Politricks in action. Once again the system victimizes the common man who works and pays taxes. Legally, the 6% of retirees due to take over received monetary compensation. This buy out gave former Elson employees 25% of their retirement. So instead of $1200 hundred dollars per month, the new amount of Stanley’s retirement became $300. “Dad’s plan has gone to shit” Stanley thought to himself. What kind of plan did Marc Chandler’s father make for him?

At an age where most people are playing golf or bingo, Stanley needed a job. After a couple of weeks of interviews, Stanley grew restless. Unmarried and unemployed with nothing but a retirement fund that no longer exists, Stanley needed a fresh start. With what money he collected from the settlement and from selling his home, he packed up his belongings and moved to a small apartment in Los Angeles. When most people think of Los Angeles, they think of glamorous movie stars, beaches, and Beverly Hills. Stanley’s neighborhood did not resemble any of those things. His neighborhood would definitely not make any tourist brochures. Stanley didn’t realize it, but he lived in a generic slum. No where in Idaho looked like this filthy place.

Stanley awoke to pounding techno music vibrating hie wall, his bed, his teeth, and his very soul. Every weekend the upstairs occupant got a little wild. In his six months of residence at Villa Olympia, he had learned every habit of nearly every neighbor. He kept to himself most of the time, but the people made themselves known. The guy next door ran through the halls screaming during a bad trip last week. He could hear the woman downstairs screaming at her crying baby. The wall thumped whenever the wannabe actress/slut invited some photographer over for a “shoot”. Stanley passed his time watching TV and drinking cheap beer. Tension over the future makes him sweat constantly. It could be the stale air from the ancient window unit, but Stanley knew he was fucked. He really tried to get a job when he first got here. The money from the settlement provided six months retirement. But now he knew he was fucked.

He had been lying in bed for six hours straight. Not sleeping, but not really awake. He figured out if he didn’t move it helped the air feel cooler. He sweated anyway. Something had to give. He swung his legs over so his feet touched the floor. Then he used his elbows to push himself halfway vertical. A pop in his lower back reminded him of a green branch breaking in two. The tingling sensation was the most stimulation he had felt in days. His last few days involved the same thought circles. “Why me?” “I should have had children.” “Why didn’t I marry Leslie?” “Am I really unemployable?” How could he help questioning his value system after his trials? He could see his tombstone now: Here lies Stanley Jacob Holmann, victim of circumstance. The grungy tile on the floor set him over the edge. He just couldn’t stand to stare at it anymore. He walked over to the closet. He brushed off his jacket and pulled out his brown shoes. He didn’t know where he was going, but he knew he wasn’t coming back. Getting dressed for the last time didn’t feel any different than any other time Stanley dressed himself. He ran his fingers through his greasy hair and took a deep breath. The bottoms of his feet felt good in the nicest shoes he now owned. He looked over the apartment one last time. Not much to show for an entire life. Whirling toward the door, he rested his arm against the peephole. Is this really what he wanted? After all, how was his life his fault? His parents were divorced when he was young so the experts claim he had no basis for a romantic relationship. He thought he had the job and money section covered. “Damn, just went through another thought circle.” Then it hit him. It was his fault. Stanley knew he coasted through life. It was so clear to him now. He opened the door for the first time in two weeks and locked it behind him. The druggie neighbor was passed out in front of his door. At lest Stanley never got so out of mind he couldn’t operate a door lock. Before he opened the door to the building he thought he would walk to the beach, lay down, and not get up.