…I am limping toward that finish line of working life: retirement.

I moved to NYC in 1984 to work at the Legal Aid Society located on Lafayette Street in lower Manhattan, six blocks away from the job I am retiring from. Since then I have lived in four of the city’s five boroughs (sorry Staten Island) and held 19 different jobs. I have worked in retail and wholesale, in law firms and publishing houses, for a video formatter, an interior designer, and a charitable trust. All along I have pursued my calling as an artist, as a singer/songwriter, playwright, novelist, musician, and poet. In retirement, my only work will be my art.

A few of those 19 jobs have been clunkers, but only a few. I was only let go once. Twice, I fell in love with a co-worker. Having already given my heart to another, there was nothing much I could do with those feelings except be transformed by them, as love always does.

During my working years I got married, became a Dad, saw my parents die, and watched my country ping-pong between hope and fear, and sink into a cesspool of right-wing lies and bigotry. I have saved, and inherited, enough money that, with Social Security and Medicare, I should be able to feed and shelter myself until my body craps out.

Counting down the days to retirement has been like scratching lines into the wall of a prison cell. Who knows how much the world outside has changed since I’ve been on the inside. The last time I was free of a world that distinguishes between weekdays and weekends was the day before I started kindergarten. Things have probably changed a lot out there. I know I have.