They call it a golden parachute. I called it the get-out-of-jail-free card; the lump sum that hits you on the way out of the same door that you’ve entered all your working life. That was before my new reality landed. I was paid off, good and simple. Redundant! On the scrap heap. My office chair occupied by a cute young thing, niece of the CEO, goddaughter of the area manager, fluff. Thirty years of service but nepotism rules. Oh, they gave me the party. Pot-luck with balloons and noisemakers and Betty from accounting’s leathery lasagne. There were a few teary eyes; none of them were mine.
Richard Hughes image
The problem going forward was what to DO. I was single, not particularly attractive, not especially talented and just going on fifty. Half a century isn’t a whole life, is it? I have never DONE anything; always preferred to take my two weeks paid leave as extra days tacked onto long weekends during which I read books, caught up with my laundry, went out with the girls, patted the cat. Thirty years of nothing much at all.
As parachutes go it wasn’t exactly winning the lottery. One year’s wages and that didn’t add up to much. No recourse to getting anything more out of the tight-fisted bastards once I accepted it either, but it was that or the firing squad, so what’s a girl to do? Apply for another job? Sit tight until pension time? Invest the nest egg wisely? I’ve been sensible for thirty years. Time for a change in direction.
Now that I’ve got time on my hands, my hands turn to Google and I’m searching out all the places I’d like to see. Bucket list places, like Iceland and Italy and Ireland. A quick figuring of the cost of it all and I’m reckoning I could blow the parachute in six months, no problemo. Then I ease on over to thinking road trip. If I got myself one of those camper vans, me and the cat could drive across Canada and back across the US (political situation having hopefully improved); put my stuff in storage; save on rent. Yes, I could just about manage that. I cover my small dining table with maps and plans and notes and guidebooks, planning a future for the first time in my life.
And it all goes really well. My notice on the apartment is given. The movers and the storage unit booked. I find a cheap camper on Kijiji, a little worn around the edges but it’s mine. It’s a sort of pinky-beige and has a roof rack. I call it Moose. It even has a toilet and shower and a kitchen and a fold out bed which the cat dozes off on, so it is definitely cat approved. I take a week to clean it out until it sparkles. Then I drop some of the parachute on the mechanic who sighs a lot while inspecting under the hood and even more when he gets it up on the hoist.
Pinterest image no attribution
A week before we are to leave, my mother comes to ‘visit’. She arrives at the apartment carrying a chocolate mousse and a suitcase. She has left husband number five and came over as soon as she finished her bridge game. She will stay until she finds another man, she says. I explain that I no longer have a job and I will be leaving soon. The only thing that she takes from the conversation is the number of noughts in the golden parachute. My mother likes money immensely. She just can’t hang onto it. I tell her she can stay until the movers arrive. After that she’s on her own, even without another man. She hangs around eating chocolate mousse; drinking my beer; painting her nails; posting her profile on dating sites.
I keep busy packing the camper. In go my food, my clothes, my cash, and treats for the cat. We are ready for the off. On the last morning I ride with the movers to the storage unit. Then I walk back through familiar streets. It’s sunny with a hint of Spring in the air. I breathe deep and stride along. The future awaits. I’m prepared, I exhilarated. When I round the last corner I break into a run. The camper is gone, and so is my mother, and so is the cat.
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Clo Carey – April/20
Blog Challenge One Word Prompt – Mousse/Moose
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Teetering on the Edge 