Having spent decades in the grip of corporate life, upon retirement I decided I had managed to beat the system, and thought: “You can’t fire me, I quit!” 

Because in large part, my career had been a matter of trying to leave on my own terms before they could sack me first. Over the years, on a weekly if not daily basis, I had seen numerous colleagues suddenly disappear, as if they had been snatched by the secret police. On a given morning, you’d come into the office and find bare cubicles that, the previous day, were full of vital people with their phones, computers, and family photos. Those of us still standing exchanged ominous looks: we knew that the disappearances were due to events called “downsizing,” “rightsizing,” and “restructuring” among other bullshit terms; and the organizations we worked for implemented these actions as nonchalantly as they took out the trash.  

So if you were a mid-level manager like me (and most were), you expended a certain amount of energy ducking for cover and engaging in misdirection in order to avoid the secret police, also known as Human Resources. The randomness was especially unnerving—there seemed to be no criteria for selecting the employees for termination. Sure, there was some dead wood, but victims also included a number of highly-skilled professionals. Ultimately, most were “average”: competent, short of stardom, and not deserving of having their lives so casually wrecked. 

To be candid, I was in that category myself. So as I approached retirement age, and could finally visualize a dignified exit, I was beset with paranoia, sweating over every message from my boss, Human Resources, or anyone who might do me harm. When I produced something that wasn’t met with rousing acclaim—which was practically everything I did—I couldn’t sleep. I felt like the troops recalled in Jaws, adrift in their life jackets, menaced by sharks as they awaited rescue – like the guy said, “That’s when I was most frightened.”

It’s not like I had any place to go. I had two failed marriages, no children, few friends, and an empty home. (No grandkids for me to spoil.) I understood the risks of an aged, isolated life. But my decision was easy: anything was better than prolonging the nerve-racking charade of my career.   

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During my last day in the office, on my way out, I paused at the second-floor balcony that overlooked the lobby. That morning, I had received a clock with the company logo, a few handshakes, pledges to keep in touch, questions about what I was going to do, etc. I don’t think anyone gave much of a damn. I was a time server in their eyes, at best a canny survivor, and in a couple of days, it would be like I had never been there. This would be my final time perusing the lobby in this familiar way; I felt maybe a twinge of regret. 

Otherwise, I felt very little. I watched employees walk across the floor and navigate the wide staircase, past the security desk near the glass entrance doors. As it was late Spring, women were getting away with relatively skimpy clothing. Men wore short-sleeved polos, tucked into khakis. Hauling laptops and phones, badges affixed to their clothing, they all seemed lifeless to me, as if they were inside a terrarium, remote as stuffed animals.  

Then I noticed two young women walking together, one with long, flowing dark hair and bare shoulders. She moved in a smooth, unhurried way that, from the angle I had, looked like she was floating. The sun streaming through the window framed her in a soft golden mist. Roused from my stupor, I leaned heavily into the railing, as if tempting gravity. 

I slipped into a daydream, transported to a very hot afternoon long ago. 

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I guess I had to get away, and here is where I went: back more than 40 years, to a lake in upstate New York. On this day, I was on a break from my job as a summer camp counselor, where co-workers included lots of young people like me. Naturally, I had serious crushes on a half-dozen girls, and more than a passing interest in many others. Like many young men, I walked around in a perpetual state of arousal. When the weather was especially hot, my desire took on a dazed quality, detaching it from reality.       

I remember doing a brisk crawl stroke, pulling through the water, feeling the sun on my back like fire. The park was crowded, but I was moving away from everybody toward a small dock at the center of the lake. When I reached it, I climbed its ladder, satisfied by my exertions. I stood and let my muscles settle as I looked at the oaks and pines surrounding the lake, their dense foliage shimmering like a mirage.      

    
I had the dock to myself. I sprawled onto my stomach and rested on the hot surface. Quickly, perspiration bubbled up on the back of my neck and in my underarms; I felt it itch and slide, and smelled its salt. I closed my eyes and listened to the squealing sounds of people’s summer fun. 

Gradually the noise receded, slipping away until it was as small as a distant glint of light.     

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A deep breathing sound intruded. As I was half-asleep, I thought it was me, but then realized it came from below. I peered through the narrow space between two of the dock’s floorboards. The water, a couple of feet away, looked greenish: a rippling, murky drink with hints of sunlight. Then, along its surface, a couple of hands appeared, followed by arms and then a lustrous patch of long, flowing dark hair.  

To my wonder, a lithe female figure was breast stroking beneath me, gliding parallel to my body from my feet to my head. I could have touched her, if there had been no dock. She wore a two-piece suit in a bright, vibrant color – scarlet or purple, I think. Her movements had a slow, mesmerizing ease, arms circling, head gently bobbing, and long legs propelling what felt like a dream. Though she drifted in shadow, her body gathered what light it could, and glowed as if from within. I watched her pulsing muscles climb a steep, ecstatic curve to her rear end. The lake’s odor—ripe flora, mugginess, and human skin—grew so pungent I tasted it. What kept my heart racing, and my breathing beyond control, was the gravitational pull that enticed me toward the girl’s body. I imagined the thrill of dropping onto her, like a tree busting through a roof.   

It was as close to having a genuine, carnal encounter as you can get – without actually touching someone. 

By the time her feet had slipped from my sight, I was paralyzed with the kind of excitement that churns your blood and sends that deceptively cool tingle through your nerves. It took me some time to recover. When I lifted my head to look around, nobody was nearby. 

Though I usually wasn’t so bold, I knew I had to meet this girl. I leapt off the dock and swam to shore; my energy was boundless and I reached shallow water in what seemed like seconds. I emerged, swiveling my head, hunting with the gut-level need that enables absolute focus. I looked past clusters of white, damp bodies waving towels, tossing balls. I finally saw her, or thought I did—the long dark hair, the bright suit, walking with another girl near a stand of trees. I dashed toward them, kicking sand all around. 

I caught them on a grassy patch as the intense sun yielded to shade. “Excuse me!” I insisted. “Excuse me!” My head started to buzz—no doubt from my exertions.   

She stopped and fixed violet eyes on me with a respectful, if uncertain, smile. 

I noticed that she wore heavy pink lipstick. Then, the trees dissolved. I blinked at a wall with framed photos.  

Just then, I was damned if someone didn’t slap me on the back, hard. “You in a hurry to get out of here, or what?” 

“Pardon?”

“The way you took them stairs.”

It was a young big guy with short, sandy hair, in a polo and khakis, a very familiar-looking fellow. “So what are you gonna do with yourself now?” he added.

I recognized him through the bloodless, air-conditioned reality of the present. His name was Pete, and for years he had sat in a cubicle a couple of rows away from me.

My head throbbed as if something was trying to knock its way out. I stood awkwardly between Pete and the dark-haired girl whom I had seen from the balcony. Her smile was wavering. (Well why not? I was just some old fool.)  

For a moment, I studied her face intensely. Then I apologized, told her I thought she was someone else. Her attention whooshed away and she walked on. Her friend glowered at me before she followed.

I said, “I’m not sure, Pete. But I think I better get the hell out of here.” 

I offered my hand. We shook, and I hurried toward the exit. I needed to get home before I cracked up again.

But as I stepped outside, I breathed in ripe flora and mugginess, and greenish, dark water swirled along the rim of my mind. 

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