My Parents Suck More At Retiring

I've mentioned before that my parents flunked Retirement 101. And they don't even have the sense to be ashamed! After years of busting their asses to keep me in yogurt (I was weirdly addicted to Yoplait "custard style" vanilla as a teenager), once my sister and I were out of the house they took stock, gave their notice, and retired to Missouri. Where they both got certified so they could go on ambulance runs at all hours of the night in the middle of the Smoky Mountains. Because that's their idea of retirement: take tons of classes and start a new job and invite strangers to haul their asses out of bed at 3:00 a.m. Frankly, I don't think they have any idea of the terrible example they're setting. What if more people decided retirement was a time to give back to the community? Chaos. Anarchy! When it's my turn, I'm not going to let my parents corrupt me with their perverted ideas of saving lives and being an asset to the community. I'm gonna be the polar opposite of an asset. I'll build that dream couch-fort in my living room, move in, and emerge periodically for snacks and occasionally clean underpants. That's how you retire. You turn yourself into a smelly anti-social recluse who only leaves the couch fort for an occasional chocolate malt.

But enough of my pipe dreams. Last week my dad, whom some of you know as King Al (my Alaskan Royals series), calls me and starts the conversation with, "How are you doing this month, financially?"

"Why, what'd you do? I've told you before, Dad: if you're old enough to commit felony assault, you're old enough to bail your own damn self out." (Okay, not really. But wouldn't it be cool if he did, and I had?)

Then he asks me if I know what an AED is. "Of course, duh. Who doesn't? I, um, I was just thinking the other day that it's been a while since we had an AED around here, because I absolutely know what an AED is. In fact, I should probably ask you if YOU know what it means, so I can make sure you're not sliding into Alzheimer's. Yeah, that's the way to go: you tell me what you think it means, and I'll tell you if you're..."

A defibrillator, he says. (It was a good thing he cut me off when he did; I could have gone on about the thing I didn't know about for an hour at least.) Oh! That kind of AED. Well, sure. Uh...why are you asking me this? Is it a quiz? Is it a game? Oooh, is it? What's the prize, what am I playing for? Give me another one. Go on, ask something else. Is the prize a big jar of Smarties? I love Smarties.

By now doubtless bitterly regretting his impulse to call, Dad tells me the fire department's AED is getting on in years. He also tells me that a rep for the defib warned them that they should replace it, as eventually it could be just as likely to electrocute a patient as revive them.

Cue my gasp of horror. Great: my beloved parents, blissfully enjoying their weird retirement, are running around the countryside with a machine that produces enough electricity TO BRING THE DEAD BACK TO LIFE, which they may or may not accidentally kill someone with, and if God forbid they should need an ambulance, may or may not accidentally kill themselves with.

Of course. Because this is a common issue for retirees. You gotta wrangle with the Social Security drones, you gotta fight with your health care provider, you've gotta plan a budget around a fixed income, you've got to watch you don't electrocute someone who had the nutty idea that calling 911 was a good thing...typical retirement stuff.

Not wanting my parents to pull time for negligent homicide ("The good news is, we made this run in under four minutes. The bad news is, we killed him. But we made great time!"), I asked what they wanted to do. Perhaps they could consider...maybe they could...quit and actually...I dunno...RETIRE?

Ha! Nothing so simple or sane. Dad tells me the department can get a good used one for around eight hundred bucks. And I was all, used? Used? My God, man, get a new one! Do you think I want all those accidental murders and your or my mother's possible accidental suicides on my conscience? What's a new one go for?

He told me, and okay, definitely a "cha-ching!", but not to a horrifying degree. So I said great...I'll write a check right--

No, he says. They had a meeting with the finance committee coming up, and he was hoping I'd be able to kick in $500 toward a used one. Again: my God, man! Enough with the suicide threats, and you can tell your wife the same thing! I'll cut you a check for a new one. Please, please let me cut a check for a new one.

I immediately wanted to push for that because, like many fictional kings of kingdoms that do not exist in our universe, King Al dislikes asking people for money. So I knew he would not have called if it hadn't been...well...life or death. The real thing, I mean. Not life or death like my life: "Whoever gobbled the last Milky Way, they are DEAD! Their families, DEAD! Their house burned to the GROUND!" "Okay, Mom, first of all, stop Netflixing The Untouchables. Second, you're in our family, too. And if you burn down our house, you're burning down your house." Hmm. I knew there was a flaw in my logic. I just couldn't put my finger on it because I'm suffering the agonies of low blood sugar because ONE OF THE BUMS I GAVE BIRTH TO ATE THE LAST MILKY WAY.

That's life or death in my house (for which I'm beyond grateful). But going on a run and finding a neighbor has been flat lining for half an hour...that's life or death for the retirees (not to mention the poor neighbor). So King Al would never have gone near a phone unless it was pretty damned vital. So in a very short time I went from being morbidly curious ("Are you calling me from yet another holding cell? Is it that close to Halloween already?") to real dread that he wouldn't let me pay for it ("No problem, I've just gotta find my checkbook...it's not in my pants and it's not in the crisper drawer...did I leave it in the bathroom?").

They weren't looking for one big check, Dad explained. He went on to say the burden shouldn't be on someone who lives over a thousand miles away and is unlikely to ever need to be jazzed back to life by a fire department employee in Missouri. But it was more than that. It was about pulling together as a community. "It's our town, our neighborhood, and people want to pitch in to help. Which is...you know, it's supposed to be like that." (It absolutely is, I thought but did not say, but lots of times it's not like that at all. Not one bit.) "So it's better if we all do it together," he finished.

Sensing I was smack up against both the rock and the hard place, I suggested we split the diff: I'd cut a check for $1,000 (FOR A NEW ONE) and they could raise the rest in town. FOR A NEW ONE.

"Are you sure?" he asks. "Because, hey, we'd be really happy with $500. We don't want to jam you up, here."

"Dad, it's totally fine. It's no trouble." Our book royalties pay out twice a year, in the spring and the fall, so we were having a good month. And if we hadn't been having a good month, I would have found the money somehow. I have a conscience (buried deep deep deep in the center of my reptilian brain), so how could I enjoy the solitary splendor of my couch-cave if I hadn't helped? "I'll pop it in the mail tomorrow."

"Are you sure? Because we would have been more than happy with--"

"I'm looking for stamps now," I said, cutting him off. "I'm getting my checkbook. Okay, looking for my...hey, there it is! Always the last place you look. Which in this case was the garage next to a gallon of windshield washer fluid. Okay, so, I'll mail it first thing in the tomorrow. FOR A NEW ONE. FOR A NEW ONE."

"I was hoping I'd be able to come in with five hundred," he mused, "so they'll be happy with twice that. Listen, it's a tax break. I'll have the secretary send you a letter on firehouse letterhead so you can show the IRS."

"Great, but tell the department secretary there's no rush, I know she'll take care of it when she can."

"The secretary's your mom."

"Oh. Tell the secretary I said hi and miss her lasagna, and that her grandchildren are driving me to an early couch-fort. And tell the guys at the meeting that I wasn't gonna cough up a red cent for weirdos who are bad at retiring, and then say that I laughed mockingly to your face (via your cell), but you had something on me and blackmailed me into coughing up a thousand, which I bitterly paid while choking on my own savage defeat."

"Hey, that's a great idea!" he said cheerfully. (We both love fiction.) "Blackmail! Excellent." Off he went to chat up the committee and spread lurid rumors about the fake thing he had on me, and off I went to my checkbook. FOR A NEW ONE. FOR A NEW ONE.

Now. Tell me: does going on ambulance runs while being an ever-more valuable asset to the community due to keeping certification current while also keeping an eye toward equipment upgrade to save still more lives...does that sound like retirement to you?

Me, neither.

* * *

An addendum: when my assistant,Tracy, came in the next morning, I told her the whole story. Her verbatim response was: "Oh, you gotta blog about this! Everybody loves King Al stories." (Translation: Tracy loves King Al stories, and occasionally projects, but what the heck. She's entitled...she's got the most annoying boss ever.)

Fast forward to a couple of days later, there's a voicemail from Long Live The King. I'd gotten an e-mail over the weekend from my mom...whoops, from The Department Secretary, saying the check had arrived. But the king is old school: he was the one who called to ask for a donation, so he was damn sure gonna call again when it came, to thank me.

"Yeah, we got it and I gave it to the treasurer. And I understand Tracy thinks you should blog about it..."

I wasn't going to, of course; Dad didn't have to worry. I try to keep my personal life and my writing life separate. And I'm terrible at it, but I make a half-hearted effort now and then. Anyway, Dad was like me. We like to keep a low profile. We hate being the center of attention. Most of the time in a crowded room, people don't even know we're there. For my dad and me, it's enough to know we're doing good things. We don't need anything beyond that, which is why we're more comfortable under the radar.

"...and I agree. Definitely blog about it." What? "Then you can put in a plug for the fire department, and put in our address, and all your fans can send the department five thousand each. That would be good."

Wait, WHAT? Listen, pal, if my fans have five grand to spare, they should be FedExing it to moi, P.O. Box 193, Hastings, MN.

"Or a dollar each, we don't care," he continued cheerfully, no doubt picturing my annoyed reaction to his voicemail. "But seriously, your gift...at some point it will save someone's life. And we do appreciate it, so thank you very much." Hmm, that was something. I hardly ever hear that I will inadvertently save lives. Mostly I hear that I inadvertently (or very very vertently) ruined them.

But see? See what I put up with? Worst retirees ever. I rest my case.