An ex-coworker and friend of Lynda's is in town for a few days and staying at a hotel in downtown St. John's. We used the excuse that it was a Tuesday night to ensure he wasn't trapped in his hotel room watching a Miami Vice marathon and having to endure the shouts and curses of the prostitutes peddling themselves. The hooker and john show takes place every evening at a corner or two in the east end of our fair city. To those of you with your heads in the sand, St. John's has it's vices too.
Off we went to a local pub, where we know that live music can be heard seven days a week. There were just enough people in there to give the Water Street watering hole a nice vibe, but not too many that we couldn't get a decent table. It turned out that a popular musician, who is also a friend of mine, plays there every Tuesday from 7 to 10 p.m. A round of drinks arrived and we ordered the large plate of grub that has everything on it that one would expect from a Newfie-Irish pub. Exactly what those things are is anyone's guess, as it all wears the same batter and gets bathed in the same hot oil. Some good though!
With drinks in hand, Lynda took that moment to propose a toast - "To Jim and to his latest retirement." Earlier that day, I tendered my resignation for the provincial government job that I held for four weeks and two days. I didn't worry about giving the standard two weeks notice and I'm not sure if I was supposed to or not. It would seem kind of bazaar to stick around for that long, given that I occupied a desk there for less than a calendar month. I wonder if they'll pay me for the two weeks anyway in lieu of the notice? I'll have to get the union rep to check that out. I have to get something out of those union dues that I paid for the first time in my working life.
Lynda has actually been extremely understanding. Not that she truly understands what goes through my head, but nonetheless, understanding in the way that I need her to be. I'm now, once again, fully employed in a much more meaningful way. I like having my old title back - dad, chauffeur, coach, chef, dog walker, and writer. I'll stick with this job for a while. I'll probably always be searching, looking for that career that epitomizes the statement "do what you love and love what you do".
My musician friend finishes for the evening and is probably heading home to his wife and young children. Music was once his life, but I can tell that now it is more of a passion. He plays not because he has to but because he wants to. Having a passion, a zest for something in life, is really what it is all about. I love witnessing that in people.
It's after 11 and we need to get home to our kids and let mom get to bed. We drop our friend back at his hotel and we don't see too much Sodom and Gomorrah type activity on the Duckworth Street corners. It's still early by the business hours of those people and it is a pretty nice September night by St. John's standards, so I have no doubt that program will rerun this night, as it has for generations. We live in suburbia, so this type of entertainment is not available to us by merely looking out of our windows. It's okay though because the boob tube will help me wind down from the excitement of my retirement party and from the lump in my stomach caused by the kitchen sink stuff I ate. I can channel surf until I find detectives Crockett and Tubbs kicking bad guy butt in Miami. I can be patient. I have all night.... I'm retired, again.
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