As promised, this is a brief excerpt from Chapter 11 of my novel/novella/long-short story, "Uncommonly Normal," which can be purchased on that amazon website right here.
Please enjoy responsibly. Like a normal person.
Chapter 11
Retirement’s a Party
Age: Social Security eligible
They threw me a retirement party.
“Yes, that was sweet of them.”
I was crotchety. I said I didn’t want one.
“It doesn’t seem like they listened to you.”
Nobody listens any more, Ricardo. That’s what’s wrong with the world.
“Are you saying that to sound normal, or because you believe it to be true?”
Well, Ricardo, I appreciated the sentiment. And I told them all as much. But I was somewhat embarrassed by all the attention. Wouldn’t you be?
“Hard to say. I have no frame of reference. And no imminent plans to retire. And no compulsion to act mildly embarrassed at functions that call for appropriate displays of mild embarrassment.”
You were there, weren’t you. It sounds like you were there without my knowledge.
“I do plenty of stuff without your knowledge. Sometimes I don’t even tell you when I save your life.”
Say, how many times have you done that? Save my life, I mean. Is it more than five? More than ten? Just once?
“That’s classified. Besides, it’s not always a life-saving operation, old pal. I do plenty of housekeeping kind of stuff too; it ranges from shielding your seven-year-old face from disfigurement to keeping you from falling down the stairs.”
Like the day of this story. Awww.
“That was nice of me, wasn’t it. Your first week of retirement didn’t need to be spent in the hospital. You didn’t need a year of PT to retrain your broken hip. At your age, especially.”
Thank you. I think. ‘At my age.’ Bastard. Get off my lawn.
“Hey, I’d like to hear your version of the party.”
Should I anticipate you’ll be, ah, contributing to the story?
“You should anticipate what you always do: every life experience is another opportunity to fit your square brain into a round hole.”
(That would be harsh, coming from anyone else.)
* * *
“Give it up for the old guy!” That’s Tran. Working together for almost twenty years allows him to say such things. Plenty of applause ensues.
As you might imagine, with my history of avoiding freakish behavior at all costs, I’ve managed to not make a whole lot of enemies at work. I tried, selectively, (because who doesn’t have nemeses? They’re virtually necessary) but the few people who worked up enough fervor to dislike me, those folks organically faded out of my life. Some even died. I’m trying to not be disturbed by that fact. People I know have been dying left and right, and it doesn’t feel OK. It doesn’t even feel normal, even if it should. That’s going to take a lot more getting used to.
So they threw me a big shebang, here in this banquet hall on the Friday evening of my last day. There’s a cake with what looks like a hundred thousand candles. They appear to have bought me something. Tran’s hauling over a stash of gifts right now.
“Here you go, pal. Don’t strain yourself,” he teases.
Three wrapped presents; the first two happen to be bulk-sized tubs of generic Metamucil.
Generic. Nice.
I laugh, just enough. “Very funny, people, hahaha.” The third package is substantially larger; taller and cylinder-shaped, with a metal rattling sound inside. “Canes? A whole set?” I guess playfully.
“Close,” Tran says.
Turns out, they’re golf clubs. A fancy, expensive set. And in the bag, a certificate for one weekly round at a nice-but-not-too-nice local course for a year.
“We pooled our money and the company chipped in,” Tran pre-empts, before I can predictably complain that it’s too much.
I’m touched. “I’m touched, everyone,” I admit. I look at Leah. “I didn’t know he was that great of a co-worker!” she yells. “He’s only an average husband!” Lots of laughing, even by me.
That line doesn’t sink in until much later. I think she was just being funny.
“Speech!” someone cries out.
I pretend to decline, which, as expected, is ineffective. The “speech!” chant grows, synchronizes itself, and I am officially on the spot.
“I didn’t practice anything,” I say, delivering the first line of my rehearsed speech, “but I can ramble on incoherently for a while, then doze off mid-sentence. Don’t wake me, I get cranky these days.”
I let the laughs die down.
“Those of you who’ve had the disproportionately special privilege of working with me know that I’m not a feather-ruffler. I’m a good negotiator, I think. I can find the middle ground, after all the practice I’ve had.”
A hearty “That’s right!” leaps from the back. Though it couldn’t have been, it sure sounded a lot like Ricardo’s voice. I recover quickly and go on.
“I’m a decent enough listener. I could be more organized and more consistently on time.” Some knowing chuckles. “Make no mistake, though, people. It will be a while before I miss setting my alarm and driving into the city at rush hour five times a week. Even to see you guys.
“Still, I’ll probably miss you before you miss me.”
(That’s the money line, the one I knew had to be in there, required by law to be included in a retirement party speech.)
I ramble on for a couple more minutes, with some juicy story about Tran, some obligatory complaining about some unenforceable yet immortal workplace regulation, before I neatly wrap it up.
“Don’t get too comfy, everyone. Leah may yet send me back this way. Give her a couple months of me puttering around the house, and she may choose to preserve her sanity and secretly fill out a job application with my name on it. So if you suddenly see me in the call center, you’ll know how I got there.
“In all seriousness, thank you all immensely.”
And that was that.
