Tag Archives: retirement

VANISH

The latest weekly prompt from my writers’ group was to write a story based on a picture from the Florida Weekly Writing Contest. This is my entry—

To call it an insignificant garret would be to flatter it, tucked high on the south side of the federal building.  From my desk, I can touch three walls if I stretch my arms, but I love my office.  And I love the building! 

Still visible on the frosted-glass door of my office are the words first inscribed fifty years ago: VULNERABILITY ASSESSMENT NATIONAL/INTERNATIONAL SECURITY HAZARDS.  Since the opening of the office, I’ve been its sole occupant, first appointed in my mid-twenties by a Senator who owed my father a favor.  Although our involvement in Vietnam had recently been suspended, the fear of security breaches in Congress was ever-present, so VANISH was established to monitor potential threats—a noble undertaking, though it never accomplished anything.

A longtime crony of the Senator was appointed as senior administrator, and I as his chief aide…his only aide, in fact.  I never did meet the man, although I frequently saw pictures of him in the press with important-looking people.  A portly, balding, bespectacled fellow, he occupied a prized, brightly-lit corner-office on the southwest corner of the third floor, two floors directly below my dormer-lit attic—a location whose door he never once darkened.  For no other reason than that, I deemed him a wonderful boss. 

In fairness, I never ventured into his office, either, our sole interface being the internal mail-delivery persons who moved around the building’s cavernous spaces like gray-clad ghosts.  One of them told me there were only a few people who even knew my office existed up under the rafters.

Packets of classified files arrived each day to my in-tray, sat there untouched for a week before I slapped a RETURN sticker on them and transferred them to my out-tray, whence they were returned to the boss’s office.  What happened next, or where they went from there, I had no clue; neither did I have any idea as to what I was expected to do with them whilst in my possession.  Like so many crises du jour, they came, lingered awhile, then quickly vanished.

At the time of our appointments, the property-management folks planted a small tree beside the sidewalk directly below our windows—a sapling, really.  Over the years, I’ve watched it burgeon to its current height of forty feet or more, where it now completely blocks the once-scenic view from the small balcony off the boss’s office.  Given the utter lack of work-product or vision emanating from VANISH, I’ve often chuckled wryly about the irony of that.

Of course, the original boss is long-gone…or so I’ve been told.  According to the security guard in the building’s lobby, a notice was distributed at the time of his leaving, but because I never opened files, I failed to see it.  Apparently, his office was subdivided and is now occupied by three senior analysts.  I don’t believe they know about me, though, as the files stopped coming to my garret some time ago.  It’s almost as if I’ve vanished, too. 

A decade back, I thought I might be required to surrender my sinecure, but the government changed the requirements for mandatory retirement, allowing me to linger on indefinitely.  My paychecks—which used to be hand-delivered by the mail-persons before the introduction of online banking—have continued to appear in my bank account, and in amounts much greater than fifty years ago.  I’m told I belong to a union, which perhaps explains that happy circumstance.

Happily also, I recently began to receive a generous pension check, along with a social security payment, deposited online each month.  Due perhaps to a bookkeeping error somewhere in the vast bowels of the building, I reckon I am listed in personnel records as both active and retired.  That, too, is ironic because, while never active in this job I love, I have never retired from it, either.

For years, I whiled away my working-hours playing chess-by-mail with other federal employees, or reading books borrowed from the large library in the basement, or chatting with window-washers and custodial staff who occasionally popped by.  Now, of course, I play chess and read online right from my desktop computer. 

Civil service work is so fulfilling!  I’ve served under nine administrations, beginning with Ford, and I’m still younger than the incumbent!  There’s something in the air, I think, that makes me eager to show up for work each day.

I love this old building!

And I love VANISH!

Showing Up

Spring training is underway, the start of another magical baseball season.  The boys of summer are assembling once again to ply their athletic gifts, and to amaze us with their exploits on the diamond.

And every spring, their gathering reminds me of those happy days—more than just a couple of years ago—when the annual softball season opened in our Florida retirement community.  A mob of aging, erstwhile ballplayers would converge on the local park for the opening games of the season.

Most of us had spent a good part of our lives playing ball.  Others, newly retired, had taken it up only recently.  But we all shared the same enthusiasm for the game.

We enjoyed swinging the bat with wistfully-remembered power in the on-deck circle; we relished the anticipation of our turn at bat while waiting in the batter’s box; and we cherished the elusive base hits we sometimes might stroke.  There was always an exhilarating feeling of freedom in running ‘round the bases at top speed, or in chasing full-tilt after a long fly ball in the outfield—the wind rushing in our ears, visions of grace and glory flickering in our mind’s eye.  At such moments, nothing else mattered in the world but the game.

The game was the thing, and we wished it could last forever.

But it couldn’t, of course.  Even back then, we could see the end approaching—still hazy on the far horizon, perhaps, but in sight, nonetheless.

The signs were small at first, but the start of each successive season brought more of them.  The bats seemed heavier, the balls smaller, the bases farther apart.  There appeared to be more holes in the infield for opponents’ ground balls to skip through.  The throws in from the outfield lacked some of the crispness that was seen in other years.

In fact, I discovered to my chagrin that I’d become a centre-fielder with a second-baseman’s arm!

The most significant sign of all was the constant aching in our legs, our arms, our backs—lasting just a little longer than it ever used to.  We feared for the day when it would linger all the way into next week’s game.

I suppose that’s why we eventually switched to a tamer version of the game, limited to those sixty years of age or older.  Gone were the young, aggressive Turks who had overtaken us on the base paths.  Gone, too, were the strong-armed pitchers who could overpower us in the batter’s box.

And gone with them, unlamented, was the notion that winning was the only satisfactory outcome.

Our game morphed into slo-pitch.  The ball would float in from the mound to the waiting batter, crouching, bat-cocked, in gleeful eagerness.  When he hit it, more often than not it was to one of the waiting fielders—of whom there were ten (in deference to our declining ability to cover the whole field).

Many of the old softball rules were changed, or at least modified for our game. For example, a team’s turn at bat still ended when three players were tagged Out!, but no team could go through its batting lineup more than once, even if everyone batted safely.

The best part, though, was that no one seemed to worry too much about winning. At the end of every game, the players would file past each other across the middle of the infield, laughing, slapping high-fives, and complimenting each other on a game well-played.  When asked later (perhaps after a brew or two) about the outcome of the game, we often had trouble remembering the final score.

Most of us always loved playing ball, and were awfully glad there was still a game for us to play. Because playing, far more than winning or losing, was the elusive reward for our efforts.

My playing days, alas, are far behind me now, but I remember them fondly.  And I’m glad that, by the time I was through, it wasn’t who won the game that counted—it was who showed up to play!

I wish I still could.

The Best In These Worst of Times

Almost no one during the past several months of pandemic restrictions would consider these the best of times.  Indeed, for many people these are the worst times they have ever experienced.  Lockdown, loss of employment, illness, even death are the unfortunate lot of hundreds of thousands of our fellow citizens.

Nevertheless, a gentleman of my acquaintance is managing to cope with the current hardships fairly well.  He has been retired for almost one-third of his life and—thanks to prudent financial decisions made during his earning years—lives, not extravagantly, but comfortably on his investment income.  His children are grown and gone, raising families of their own, and he visits with them a couple of times a week on social media.  Never an overly-gregarious sort, though not a hermit by any means, he has always enjoyed time alone, so the isolation wrought by stay-at-home orders has not unduly affected him.

He has a relationship with a younger woman, some fifteen years his junior.  She, too, has grown children, all of whom live in far-distant cities, and it’s been more than two years since she’s seen them, or her grandchildren, in person.  Unlike the gentleman, however, she is not retired; she continues to ply her trade as a housecleaner, the very occupation that brought the two of them together.  She spends three hours in his home every Thursday afternoon, vacuuming floors, dusting furniture, polishing silver, cleaning bathtubs, and doing whatever other chores are required.

The gentleman cares about her, treats her respectfully, but never allows his fondness to cross bounds of propriety.  She, although mindful of the employer/employee relationship they have, is fond of him, too.  They generally spend five or ten minutes chatting when she first arrives, not just about the chores he has lined up, but a general catching-up on each other’s news.  While she’s working, he stays out of her way, then moves to one of the rooms she’s finished cleaning when asked.  Occasionally they call back-and-forth, each comfortable in the presence of the other.  Before she leaves, they chat again for a few minutes and wish each other good health until next time.

All in all, the gentleman and the woman enjoy a pleasant relationship.  But deep down, they both know it is an unequal relationship.  He engages her services for reasons both pragmatic and personal, not because he has to, but because he wants to.  On the practical side, he can afford to pay the cost, and he does not want to do the work himself.  As a personal matter, he understands the woman must earn a living, and is more than happy to contribute to that in return for her labour.

To that end, he is generous, paying the woman more than double the minimum wage, but not as an act of charity he fears she might construe as condescending.  He truly values the work she does and the care with which she does it.  More importantly, he is not prepared to lose her services to a higher bidder; consequently, he is happy to reward her work commensurately.

The woman, for her part, is happy to accept the wage he pays.  She is proud of her work, looking after his home as if it were her own—as she does for all clients—and believes she gives full value for the money she earns.  She gazes pridefully around each room as she finishes—looking for anything she might have missed, yes—but also basking for a moment in the glow of a job well-done. 

Still and all, she doesn’t do this work because she wants to; she does it because she has to.  Retirement for her will not be early or voluntary, as it was for the gentleman; rather, it will be begrudging and financially unwelcome, even if ultimately necessary when age and health will have rendered her no longer able.  She appreciates the gentleman’s obvious satisfaction with the work she does, of course, and loves that he tells her so every week.  He enables her to look upon herself as not just a paid employee, but a valued one.

Nevertheless, the facts remain: the gentleman is the employer, the woman is the employee, and the relationship, no matter how personally pleasant, is unequal.  For him, the service she provides is beneficial; for her, the job is crucial.  The exchange of capital for labour is, for him, convenient; for her, it is critical.  Where he regards her as a respected employee, she sees herself as an essential worker.

The gentleman tells me he has no plans to alter the situation.  The woman, I suspect, also has no desire for a change.  Having found an optimal arrangement that addresses their respective needs, they have settled in for the long haul.  In this pandemic-assailed world, despite the baked-in inequalities of their situations, their relationship is estimable.

It marks the best in these worst of times.