My Summer Retirement

It’s this time of year when the sun is shining and the skirts are short, that most of us go insane staring at computer screens in a cramped office for 8 hours a day.  Inevitably, like your winter dreams of moving to Vegas, summertime illusions bring thoughts of quitting your job and livin’ it up “Weekend at Bernie’s-style” for the next 3 months right here in Boston.  At least it did for me 5 years ago.  It was 2001 - “The Summer of Pete”, and here is my story…

My first job out of college I maximized my History major by implementing payroll software to hospitals throughout Middle America and existing parts of The Confederacy.  Sure an “It’s Good to Be…” E! Channel special was in the works, but after three-whole-years of traveling primarily to the likes of Marion, South Carolina, Burlington, Iowa and Waycross, Georgia (incidentally just a hop, skip and a mule-ride away from the Okeefenokee Swamp) I decided enough was enough.  But not just of the job, of working in general. 

My master plan was to take the money I had saved up, plus the small bills I’d receive after selling my brake-less 92’ Maxima, and finance a temporary “early retirement”.  I would enjoy the rest of my summer in Boston doing things I always wanted to do, like grow a mustache, and then find a new job sometime in October, obviously, when the temperature started to dip.  Although called “freakin’ stupid” by friends and family alike, I remained undeterred/stubborn.  And following an awkward office retirement party, I exited the building for the last time, practically floating the entire car ride home singing aloud the Pointer Sisters’ classic, “I’m So Excited!” which ironically played on the radio.

And so it was.  At age 25, I was retired.

Most of retirement was spent lounging on a flimsy, plastic beach chair with purple and green “fishies” atop my black tar roof (not roof-deck) in the North End.  There, my activities included… well, nothing.  I listened to EEI on my transistor radio, sipped fake iced tea from a Dixie cup and sunbathed for no less than 5 hours a day.  By the end of the summer, I even set up a 3-hole miniature golf course for which I still hold the course record (3) and was on a first name basis with the pigeons. 

On the few occasions when I felt like rigorous exercise I’d play H.O.R.S.E. with vacationing school children or bocce by the water with bare-chested, 85 year old Italian men with polyester pants, medallions around their necks and rap sheets from the 1930’s. 

(Me in 55 years.)

The point was I was enjoying my summer off.  No more planes to catch or TPS reports to run.  The world was going at my pace now, not the other way around.  Sure, I planned on rejoining society in a few short months but for now – F it.  I was 25 going on 65.  Retired and as Loverboy once sang, “Lovin’ every minute of it…”

Until a little thing called 9/11 happened that sent our economy straight into the fucking shitter.  Jobs went from hard to find to next to impossible, and I knew my days of nothingness were over. 

Yikes.

Now well into October, my $9,000 of savings had dwindled to $3,500 much faster than I thought.  I had submitted over 75 resumes in the past month and half, all coming up empty.  Applying for jobs now took up the majority of my day and my resume was adjusted more than a left fielder’s crotch. 

Realizing employment might take a while, I decided to register for a $400 bartending class on Boylston Street where I spent 7 hours a day mixing drinks with a half-in-the-bag old lady instructor and promptly got my license in a week.  Unfortunately for me, not only did I lack the necessary good looks, nice ass, or real-world experience for a position at any legitimate establishment, but by now had the charm of chain-linked fence.  The only use I ever got out of my license was at a friend’s apartment, where, at a party for 15 of her fellow MGH nurses, I ended up making a mess of her kitchen and several noticeably weak Cosmos for 3 cute girls and 12 gay men. 

It stunk.  My carefree life of retirement had officially morphed into the doldrums of unemployment.  I was home all day going bonkers watching 35 different f’n judge shows, and by mid-December I had just $900 left to my name -- barely enough for January rent and a small “over/under” wager on the Tangerine Bowl that naturally proved unsuccessful. 

In 6 short months my life savings was exhausted, and worst of all, my master plan had failed miserably.  Arrangements were now being made for the dreaded “Doomsday Scenario” -- moving back home to my uncle’s attic in Connecticut.  

Then, on a cold, gray morning in late December on my traditional visit to the North End library where I racked up more internet hours than Curt Schilling, I applied for a job I thought I had a legitimate shot at.  Unbelievably, I received a call back the next day, had an interview the following day, and was offered the job 2 days later.   

Holy F**k.  I got a job.

Now, bitter from 5 years of failed relationships and betting on Aaron Brooks, I am far too wise to retire again until it becomes socially acceptable.  And while I never “grew the stache” like I had hoped (that would’ve been tremendous), my summer retirement was a learning experience to say the least.  Actually, it was pretty God damn scary.  So if you’re thinking about quitting your job and putting golf balls on your roof all summer, that’s fine.  Just take it from your close friends and family, and me, who are telling you we think you’re freakin’ stupid.