Waylon Smithers settled as comfortably as he could into the plush first-class seat of the Boeing 737. Of course Mister Burns wouldn't have sent him in the company jet. No, that would be too much of a courtesy to hope for. He should probably be glad Burns hadn't decided to mail him in a shipping crate. Smithers grabbed a SkyGalleria catalog and listlessly flipped through it.
Outside the windows, the sky was still dark as dark as it was when he'd left from the manor.
Everything had gone by so quickly this morning.
He'd originally worried about his car. Burns said he could leave it in the servants' garage at the manor. A taxi showed up at the manor, a taxi of all things. Not even one of Burns' extra chauffeurs and the Rolls Royce. A common, smelly, grubby taxi.
Smithers loaded his suitcase into the trunk, and climbed into the back seat. He'd hoped Burns would stand on the step and see him off, but when he looked back, the man had already gone. Smithers scanned the unlit windows of Burns Manor, hoping to see a face peeking out.
There was nothing.
He blinked back tears, took a deep breath, and collected his thoughts. Smithers allowed himself one last glance out the rear window at the rapidly disappearing outline of Burns Manor on the hill and forced himself to look forward.
Now he was on an east-bound plane.
Hadn't he already been thinking about moving on? Hadn't his job ceased to thrill?
Smithers had to admit yes, to both those things.
Perhaps, he mused, this was a blessing in disguise. It was true he'd never lived outside of Springfield. He'd spent his whole life, from childhood to college within the town line.
Now that he was on the plane, he finally had some time to think. It wasn't like he was being fired, per se. What had Burns said, a chance to redeem himself? Smithers gave a snort of annoyance, an unexpected sense of rebellion rising in his chest. Maybe I'll like it so well in Plateau City that I just won't come back! he thought defiantly. He crossed his ankles and cracked his knuckles. How'd Mister Burns like that, hah! Smithers found himself hoping Burns wouldn't like it at all.
He tucked the catalog back in the pouch, and glanced out the window. The plane was making a slow taxi around the field to the main runway. It pivoted, and came to a stop. The captain's voice came through the speaker, announcing take-off. Smithers felt the slight change in vibration, heard the whine of the jet engines as they cycled up.
He felt a fluttering in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long time. It was a nervous excitement. More than that. Exhilaration! As the plane gathered speed and his body pressed back into the seat from the force, he felt his spirits begin to lift with the aircraft.
It was like he was leaving a good bit of his stress behind as well.
At cruising altitude, he ordered a cocktail from the flight attendant, put his headphones in, and leaned his chair back.
Plateau City, here I come!
Smithers turned up the volume on his MyPod, and closed his eyes.
Three hours later, he stepped off the plane into the bustling airport. He'd landed in LaGuardia. According to the directory, it would be a short train ride up to Plateau City. He switched on his cell phone. As expected, there were no messages from Burns, but there was a voicemail from Thaddeus Dimas himself.
Smithers hit "listen."
"Hello, Mister Smithers," Dimas' voice began. Smithers noticed the man had a slight greek accent, rolling his r's and drawing out his vowels ever so slightly. "This is Mister Dimas. Your employer, Mister Burns, told me to expect your arrival this afternoon. I'm hoping to catch you before you leave LaGuardia. Please do not take the trains. I've sent my pilot Antoine Radson to bring you the remaining distance. He will meet you at the atrium at two-thirty. If by some chance you've already left, please contact me directly so I can arrange to have my people meet you when you arrive at the Plateau City Train Station. I appreciate the opportunity to work with you, Mister Smithers. Good day." The message ended.
Smithers thumbed his phone into sleep mode and tucked it into his carry-on bag before he could make the mistake of calling Burns. He'd see how long it would take for Burns to call him; and if that happened, he thought rebelliously, he'd be happy to hit "ignore."
Smithers paused, pulled out his phone again, and brought up a notepad application. "Don't call Monty," he wrote out. He saved the picture as his background wallpaper. There, he thought smugly. He put his phone in his pocket with his MyPod, and headed to the atrium to meet Antoine.
LaGuardia airport was busy, but it wasn't one of the most crowded airports he'd ever been in. Smithers remembered a time he and Burns had flown into O'Hare Airport in Chicago. They'd gone out for a conference, and gotten snowed in. What a nightmare that had been. Smithers had been able to get them a hotel room at the airport Hilton. Despite all the other stranded travelers, he managed to secure a suite with a king-sized bed and a separate parlor room.
Burns got the bed… all to himself. Smithers wound up sleeping on a love-seat in the living room, curled into a tight and awkward ball. He'd awoke stiff as an old dog, only to have Burns mock him for it.
Smithers clenched his fist as he remembered. Even if nothing ever would've happened, the bed still would've been big enough for both of them. Or Burns could've paid for a separate room for him. But no, that cost too much money. Why did Burns always got the lion's share of everything. Why did he, Waylon Smithers, always have to settle for scraps?
Smithers relaxed his fingers and tried to shake the tension out. It would do no good to make himself angry now. Better to focus on the future.
Perhaps it was the distance, perhaps simply a change of scenery; but for the first time in the nearly two decades that he'd worked for Monty Burns Smithers felt like he was finally thinking clear: he was seeing Burns' unpleasant behavior for what it was! The revelation was invigorating.
Smithers checked his watch. His plane had gotten in a bit ahead of schedule. There was a barbershop ahead. He ran a hand through his spikey hair. He'd worn the same hairstyle for far too long, and with a good half-hour before he had to meet Antoine he had time for a quick trim. He'd have the sides shaved down, and leave the top long. Perhaps, he'd let the top grow longer. So many men these days were doing that. It looked good. His current style felt rather dated.
A fresh haircut always made him feel upbeat and confident.
Less than half an hour later, he strolled out, feeling sharp. He paused to check out his reflection in a shop window as he made his way to baggage claim. He ran a hand over his new undercut style. Once the top grew out, it would really start to take shape. New city, new hair, Smithers thought with a smile. He put in his earbuds and beamed at his reflection. Looking good, Waylon, he thought smugly. Looking good.
Antoine was easy to pick out at the baggage claim. He was holding a sign that read "W. Smithers." He was also sporting blue hair and a matching blue beard. Even his eyebrows were blue.
Really, Smithers thought in amazement. Dimas lets him get away with that? Smithers tried not to look too surprised as he introduced himself. Antoine held out a hand and Smithers shook it.
Smithers made his way over to the baggage carrousel, but Antoine stopped him.
"I hope you don't mind," Antoine said. "I took the liberty of having your bags directly transferred to the chopper.
"That's fine. Thank you, Mister Radson."
Antoine held up a hand. "Antoine." He tucked the sign under his arm. "Do you prefer…"
Smithers shrugged. "Waylon, though honestly I'm quite used to being called by my last name."
"You prefer 'Waylon?'"
Smithers nodded.
"'Waylon' it is then," replied Antoine. He lead Smithers back up to the main level, and deftly negotiated a maze of terminals and shuttles to the private airfield.
Finally, Smithers and Antoine emerged at the executive strip. Antoine gestured to a chopper sitting ready on a helipad. "There she is, our Little Diva, Lima Delta." Antoine gave the helicopter an adoring pat as he climbed in. "She's an AW119 Koala," he said as he slipped a headset on and handed one to Smithers. "Not the most luxurious gal out there, but she's fast and she's got a six-hundred mile range, so… yeah." His voice trailed off as he started the pre-flight checks.
Antoine pulled out a flight log and jotted down a few figured. "You can sit up here, or in the cabin. Wherever you're most comfortable. But you should decide quick because I'll be done with these in a minute."
Smithers raised an eyebrow. "I don't mind the cockpit."
Antoine nodded, absentmindedly. He leaned over and opened the other side door so Smithers could climb in.
Smithers tried not to stare at Antoine's aqua hair. If someone tried that at Mister Burns' plant, they'd be sent home on the spot, Smithers mused. He found himself wondering what sort of person Thaddeus Dimas was. Deep down, Smithers liked the blue hair. It wasn't something he'd ever consider for himself, but it seemed to suit Antoine.
Smithers sat back as Antoine finished the last pre-flight checks, and started the engine. He barked a few strings of letters and numbers back and forth with the flight deck, then deftly lifted off. He angled the chopped north-west, and headed out over the Hudson River.
Smithers watched the city and water scroll below through the plexi-bubble under his feet. Almost immediately they were on the other side of the river, rising in altitude and flying over the several-hundred foot high cliffs towards Plateau City.
Plateau City was aptly named. Built atop the cliffs, it served as a commerce hub between New York City, Albany, and New Jersey. It was a densely packed metropolitan area. The preserves and state parks along the palisades limited the lateral development. Instead of growing out, like Springfield, Plateau City had built up.
Smithers could make out the iconic shape of the cooling towers near the north-western edge of the city. "Cooling towers," Smithers remarked into the mouthpiece.
"Yepper," replied Antoine. "We drew from the rivers until 1972. Then legislation changed. People didn't like 'em, but oh well."
"You were working here back then?"
"Me? Nah. I didn't start till the 90s. Shoot, Waylon, how old do you think I am?" He laughed, the sound crackling with static though Smithers' headset.
Smithers eyed Antoine carefully. It was hard to tell. The man's face was both lined and youthful at the same time. He was either close to Smithers' age, or he spent a lot of time in the sun. "I guess the blue hair threw me," Smithers after a moment.
Antoine gave a flippant sort of shrug, and didn't reply.
Smithers wasn't sure if he'd hit upon a nerve. He folded his hands around the edge of the seat and watched out the window as Antoine made the final approach to the Platea City Nuclear Generating Station. He gently settled the helicopter down in the center of the "H", and started powering down the engines. "Give it a minute before you get out," he said over the sound of the machine. "Those blades will drop as they slow. Don't need you getting a very short haircut, if you know what I mean." He gave a smile that was somewhere between playful, and deadly serious.
Smithers nodded.
The rotors cycled down, and the cabin grew quiet. Antoine slipped his headgear off. Smithers did likewise. There was an awkward moment of silence. "Antoine," Smithers began cautiously.
"Yes?" Antoine replied, a tone equally cautious.
"I wasn't trying to offend you about your hair."
Antoine looked relieved. "Oh that, no. Don't worry about it. I get that sometimes." He opened the hatch to on his side. "Oh, look. Here come's Dimas' loyal lapdog now." He rolled his eyes. "That guys a total lackey. I mean, he's got his lips so far up Dimas' ass…" Antoine paused and looked embarrassed. "But hey, don't let me start gossip, okay? That young Ivy Grad kissbutt is Preston Tucci. He's probably here to meet you."
Antoine opened the hatch and stepped out. "Hey, preppy!" he said amicably.
The 'preppy' he was speaking to, Preston Tucci, was a young man in his mid-twenties. Not long out of business school by the look of his attire. He wore immaculately pressed khakis, a white button-up shirt, a patterned tie Smithers could only describe as 'hideous,' and a grey blazer. His brown hair was gelled into a messy-chic style, and he wore a pair of round-rimmed glasses.
He glared down his nose at Antoine. "Mister Radson," he said snootily. "I see you managed to make yet another successful landing."
"Wouldn't want to disappoint you, Preppy."
"It's 'Preston,' and if you crashed I would not be disappointed. It's Mister Smithers I'm glad to see here."
"Yeah, whatever," Antoine said with a grin. He hopped out of the chopped and started securing the rotors. "You'd miss me if I were gone."
Preston pushed his glasses up on his nose. "I most certainly would not."
"Whatever…" Antoine called over his shoulder in a sing-song voice.
Preston ignored him. "Uncouth deck-ape," he muttered under his breath, but loud enough that Smithers could hear. "I fully apologize for him. He seems to think that somehow, being a pilot makes him beyond reproach. Please allow me to introduce myself. I am Preston Tucci, Mister Dimas' Executive Assistant."
("Lapdog," crowed Antoine from the background.)
("Shut up, Antoine," hissed Preston.)
Smithers watched the interchange with amusement. It's like watching Lenny and Carl, he thought, chuckling to himself. Unbidden, Smithers was hit with a wave of nostalgia. He sighed inwardly. He'd almost miss those two. Almost, but probably not quite.
Preston was handing him a tablet and stylus. "Here's a copy of your temporary employment contract, Mister Smithers. I've taken to ensuring everything's in order. Please sign here with this pen, and we can get you settled into your office. Antoine will handle your luggage, and we'll get it delivered to your place."
"So, what do you think of your office?" Thaddeus Dimas asked proudly.
Smithers gave a gracious bow. "It's very nice, sir."
In truth, the office was much the same as the one he'd had at the Springfield Nuclear Power Plant, maybe a bit smaller. It was simple, but served its purpose. The office had the standard desk, computer, cabinets and shelves, as well as two guest chairs.
Dimas himself was an outgoing and rotund man, with small dark eyes, and Grecian features. He was evidently eager to see Smithers get settled in. He welcomed Smithers warmly, grasping Smithers' hand in his massive, and surprisingly calloused paws. Smithers couldn't help but think of the man from the Monopoly game when he looked at Dimas' round figure in a suit. A slightly more burly "Uncle Pennybags."
After Smithers had stowed his laptop and day bag in his office, Dimas proceeded with a tour of the plant.
In terms of function, it was very similar, but the layout was different. Smithers also noted that the plant looked to be in tip-top condition. Smithers hadn't realized how dilapidated the Springfield plant had become until seeing Dimas' state-of-the-art technology.
"We use the same sort of reactors as you do in Springfield, boiling water reactors. A lot of this will be old hat to you, I'm sure" he explained as he led Smithers to the central control room. "Naturally, the cooling rods are controlled by an electromagnet. As long as the circuit is powered, they remain up. In an emergency, the power is cut, the magnets turn off, and the reactor goes into shutdown. No risk of anything jamming here!" he beamed.
Dimas continued to show Smithers the plant, and introduced him to several of the lead employees he'd be shadowing. "Consider your position as Chief something of an externship, except with positional authority," Dimas said, with a snorting chuckle. "But," he added, waggling a thick finger, "don't get too bossy. Preston doesn't like competition."
"No, sir," agreed Smithers.
That night, Smithers unpacked his suitcases and folded his clothes into the dresser in his bedroom. The apartment he'd been set up in was nothing fancy, a single bedroom affair, but it was furnished. It was located in an extended-stay hotel within walking distance of Plateau City's downtown district. The commute to the plant wasn't too bad either. He could take public transportation all the way over.
He'd met several people from the plant today. The attitude seemed to be an easy-going, but professional atmosphere. No threat of hounds or trapdoors anywhere. It was such a change from the way the Springfield plant was run under Burns' iron fist.
There you go, he scolded himself, thinking of Mister Burns again.
He pulled his MyPod out of his backpack and plugged it into its charger.
Several of the plant employees were meeting up for dinner and drinks after work. Smithers being the new guy, they'd invited him to come along. There was Ruby from accounting, Preston, a few other people whose names escaped him, and somehow Antoine had managed to invite himself into the mix.
Smithers noted that Antoine was the only one with blue hair. He'd asked Preston about it.
It's because he's a pilot, Preston scoffed. He thinks he doesn't need to be seen in the public eye, and Mister Dimas agrees, though I have no idea why he tolerates the man. Antoine is completely irreverent when it comes to presentation. Preston made a face. If I had my way, he would've been fired long ago.
Perhaps they're not like Lenny and Carl after all, Smithers thought, reconsidering his initial impression.
Regardless, Smithers couldn't help but think a night out might be just the thing to keep his mind occupied. It would also be a good chance for him to get to know his coworkers better. He slipped on a pair of jeans and a vest over his button-up shirt. He paused, and checked his reflection in the mirror. The outfit worked for a casual dinner.
Preston had given Smithers directions to The Lucky Lady. It was a bar downtown with a western theme. It would be a bit of a walk from Smithers' apartment, but nothing too outrageous. Smithers put on a pair of cowboy boots he'd brought from Springfield. They were well-broken in, but still stylish. He grabbed his wallet and keys off the table, left his cellphone deliberately on the dresser, and headed out.
It wasn't as bad a walk as he had thought it might be.
He arrived after a few blocks.
Just like the gang had said, it was easy to identify by the cowgirl silhouette on the marquee. He went in, and easily recognized the crew from the nuclear plant. Antoine stood out like a sore thumb. Smithers made his way over to the table and sat down between Ruby (from accounting), and another man he didn't know yet. Introductions were made, pleasantries exchanged, and drinks ordered.
Smithers noticed Antoine's eyes kept getting drawn to a tall blond woman at the bar.
Ruby snapped her fingers. "Hey, don't forget to blink, Antoine."
He blushed, looked away, and took a sip of water. "I wasn't staring," he muttered into his glass.
"'Caesar Flickerman' over here thinks he's quite the lady's man!" one of the other people, a middle-aged man with a friendly face explained.
Antoine made a rude, but playful gesture.
Everyone laughed.
"He strikes out more often than not," added Preston. "I, however, have a wonderful woman in my life."
("Yeah," Antoine said in fake whisper, "too bad it's your mother!")
Preston sputtered indignantly.
The group laughed again, and drinks arrived. Several rounds later, they were still all friends, except maybe for Preston and Antoine. Fortunately, they'd simply stopped talking to each other for the most part.
Smithers tossed back another shot of whiskey, and followed it a beer chaser. He found himself grinning like a cheshire cat. The lights seemed brighter, and slightly blurry. He took a sip of water, and munched on some of the tortilla chips the server brought out. The small gathering continued long into the night.
Smithers barely remembered the walk back to his apartment, but he was sure of one thing: he liked those people. He didn't miss Springfield, and if he decided to stay in Plateau City, it might not be so bad.
So thinking, he kicked off his boots, stripped down to his trunks, and slid into bed. Morning would come soon enough, but maybe… just maybe, he thought was looking forward to a new beginning without Burns.
He never glanced at his phone before he went to bed. If he had, he might've seen a missed call, (alas, no voicemail) from a certain isolated and lonely old man left back in Springfield.