Not a day goes by when I don’t want to kick myself for winding up in this Margaritaville knockoff retirement home. My logic seemed irrefutable at the time: I didn’t want to outlive my money and I really wanted to leave something behind for my daughter.
Daiquiritown became tiresome quickly. Being on the beach is nice, but I am no longer built for being tossed in the surf. I had no idea drinking and relaxing could become so damned boring. We don’t even get to listen to Jimmy Buffett tunes in the lounge and bar anymore, thanks to the cease and desist letters sent on behalf of Jimmy Buffett’s estate. Instead, we get the Jimmy Buffett-adjacent artists that don’t care how their music is used. Like that country singer famous for dropping n-bombs.
My daughter, Tabitha, claims I never did much for her. I guess she isn’t wrong, but if she wanted to see what a truly selfish mother looked like, she should have grown up with mine. Tabitha never knew that version of my mother; she only met the loving granny who swore she lived to “spoil her grandbaby rotten!” I had calculated that, with my modest budget now set out until my life’s end, Tabitha stands to pocket $350k when I kick off. That $350k was earned through years of aggravating and soul-crushing work as an insurance adjuster. Surely, I figured, my sacrifice would show her that I am trying. That I care. That I am sorry she was left alone so often when she was young. Tabitha had cried and hugged me when I told her my plans, gushing about how that money will help her and my grandson. But I have been here for four years and I get little more from her these days than impatient phone calls.
Every two weeks, we are required to check in with the physician. As I ease onto the rattan chair, I brace myself for the inevitable lecture about my drinking.
The doctor is wearing a Hawaiian shirt, like nearly every other male here. “We need to talk about your alcohol consumption, Gail,” the doctor says. “You are budgeted for twelve alcoholic beverages per day, yet I am seeing that, on most days, you barely crack seven.”
“Well, I really don’t like the low sugar options,” I complain. An amputation would demolish much of what I hope to leave for Tabitha. “The light beer and calorie reduced wines are disgusting. Don’t even get me started about the dieritas.”
The doctor nods. “Well, what about bar rail shots mixed with diet soft drinks then? Or with Crystal Light? If you want to keep to your budget, you really can’t risk adding on extra years.”
I had been a strong proponent of the Death With Dignity legislation. Healthy seniors are allowed, under this system, to select their desired end dates, with healthcare professionals assisting them with meeting their goals. But I just don’t know anymore. The fact that the swim up bar is accessed by a number of residents who suffer from incontinence highlights that dignity is by no means guaranteed.
“Well, maybe I should change my program? Since this one isn’t working that well.”
The doctor pulls out several brochures. “Our Ellis Pearcey package would likely be more enjoyable for you. It is quite an expensive upgrade. You are likely looking at the same end date for your participation, given your family history of heart disease. But there wouldn’t be much of anything left for your family.”
Tabitha. What was the point in working hard all these years if I can’t leave anything for my offspring? On the other hand, the ungrateful little sow has only brought down little Ryan to see me twice since I showed up here.
The Elvis knockoff looks positively decadent. I can really get behind spending my days wandering between the Jungle Room and other Graceland inspired settings. Cruising around in 1960s classic MGBs and shooting at televisions with handguns also sound like fun, provided the arthritis in my hands stays under control. “I am not sure I could keep up with eating that much meat and fried foods,” I tell him.
“We do have another program that helps people meet their end dates quickly, and we can enroll you in that one closer to the expiration of your selected date, if the program you are in isn’t doing the trick.”
The brochure she hands me advertises the Timi Kendricks Experience. “Basically, we give you barbiturates to enjoy with alcohol, LSD, and cannabis in our psychedelic setting. We have yet to see a client fail to meet their checkout goal under that program. And you will still have plenty of money left for your family!”
I take the brochures with me. So many decisions. Maybe I could spend less time overall, but with most of my remaining days spent in the Elvis knockoff one, topping it off with the Timi Kendricks one? That way, I leave the same amount behind for Tab. But only if Tab gets it together and gives me the respect I deserve. I deserve respect, don’t I? I wasn’t perfect. I know I treated her like she was older than her years and I really leaned on her for housework and cooking while I worked the late hours. But I tried. And if I didn’t try enough then, at least I’m trying now. In the meantime, I guess I will resign myself to wasting away in Daiquiritown.
Angela James is a writer with solid plans to emerge at some point. She lives in a small community in Ontario, Canada with her spouse and many, many pets. “Death by Jimmy Buffett” is her debut publication.
Angela, I love your piece. (And the retirement plan.)
Your debut publication??
Bet you have many, many more.
Thanks!
Love this story!