On Being Being A Bum

I quit work.

I would say I “retired” but that would indicate I am too old to work and have a pension of some value. Neither is true.

I’m not too old to work if only because four decades of experience can’t be replaced by youthful exuberance and there isn’t much pension left since the bank fraud and then dividing up the remains with an ex-wife who went after the money like a wild hyena on meth.

But what I have now is more valuable than a pension: a need for less, mostly because I live in Mexico where everything is cheaper. And I own a beautiful home I bought with my half of the recent divorce settlement.

What a deal! I got 50% of the 100% I earned over a lifetime.

I should have known better. Gold diggers are easy to spot but harder to shake. The last one, who I call “Plaintiff,” held on like a leech for nearly three decades until I uttered those fateful words, “Honey, I’m not going to work anymore. I quit.” She nodded and said she quit, too. She quit being married. She knew a high water mark in a bank statement when she saw one.

Now, almost three years later, I can truthfully say it was worth it. I know it sounds self-serving, and it is, but it really was worth it. For both of us. I found a kind, decent, giving woman and I’m sure it won’t take Plaintiff long to find her next meal ticket even though she doesn’t need one now.

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I was talking about quitting before I wandered into the dark relationship of women and money.

Back on topic . . .

From my first day of work on August 9, 1976, I knew I had made a serious vocational error and always looked forward to not having to get up to an alarm clock or a call from the front desk, not having to run like a jackal after airplanes, and not having to fight over other people’s money.

I said, “What I really want to be is a bum, free of responsibility, nowhere to go, not having to do anything.”

Now, after 40 years of fantasizing, I have arrived. I am free of women who view a man and his AMEX card as being one and the same. I don’t have to deal with flight attendants pissed they are waitresses in bad restaurants at 30,000 feet, free of rental car agents who grind their teeth wondering how the hell they got behind that desk and ponder killing to make it right.

I don’t set alarms. I get up when I wake up. Except for the mundane, I have no duties worth mentioning.

It’s good.

It’s good until about 9:30 in the morning. There is nothing pressing.

Hell, there is nothing to do.

At all.

Wake up.
Don’t look at the clock.
It doesn’t matter.
Try to go back to sleep.
Fail.
Get out of bed.
Pee.
Downstairs.
Coffee.
Pee.
Again.
Feed dogs.
Feed me.
Work out.
Too early for a vodka tonic?
Yeah.
Take coffee to the pretty woman sleeping in my bed.
Look at watch.
Not lunch time.
Walk dogs.
Write?
Too early.
Think about hobbies.
You need one.
Read article on hiking.
Walking without a destination.
Nope.
Rock climbing.
File with sky-diving.
I’m nuts but don’t have a death wish.
Skiing.
Not in Mexico.
Sit by the pool.
Later.
Look at the stock market.
Jesus H.Tap-Dancing Christ!
What happened to the money?
More Coffee?
No.
Already wired.

It’s just 11 in the morning?

I feel like I need to do something. But work is the only thing I know how to do.

I know.
I’ll read.
I’m tired.
Maybe a nap.
After lunch.
You need a hobby.

Turns out being a bum isn’t easy, but I’m up for the challenge.

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