Retire Now

“Hello,” said a cheerful voice belonging to nobody I know. A stern look on my face usually wards them off. I have nothing to gain from greeting you, Mr. Random Man, as you are leaving. Why is that even considered polite? You are leaving and I am arriving. As with two ships passing in the night, merely avoiding each other should be the proper protocol.

This line is so long. No wonder that guy was so happy. At least he is proof that the line does indeed move. How much longer until the next customer leaves? The sweat forming beneath my undershirt is soaking it. There are only two postal workers to get to over a dozen of us in this line that stretches into the post office box lobby. My calendar is clear for today but I still need to hurry. Once these letters are sent, that’s it—no more letting people down.

I don’t recognize any of the customers except maybe the woman three spots ahead of me. Hard to tell from the back, but she might be Melissa. Such an enviable life she has within reach. Nearly perfect with a doting husband, adoring children, and upward momentum in most aspects of her life. A truly excellent situation except for her PTSD and depression. She is trapped inside the past and her own thoughts, forever wrestling images of herself until she figures it out.

I am the best clinical psychologist my clients have ever had, so why am I doing this? They need me. They will suffer without me. I want to help them, I do. I understand them. I know them. I really know them. Most of them have spent years with me, sharing their secrets, desires, and fears. They can barely grasp the truth, that they can choose to cast away the anchor of their past. No, they need me to hold their hands through it, unraveling the clutches of their thought patterns on their current behavior and emotions. I am good at it. I am very good at it. They will suffer without me.

I should turn back. They really do need me. It is ridiculous that I am even considering retiring. All because I lost track of scheduling one appointment. I haven’t lost track since then. I have made mistakes before and learned from them. It was just one newer client on her third session. The stress that I caused must have pressurized her greatly. She came to me because she ultimately suffered from abandonment issues—I deduced that almost immediately when she described the situation with her mother. If she ever comes back, I still need to be in practice to help her through that along with all my other clients.

I turn around to leave but two more men have lined up behind me. “Excuse me,” I say to them as I step to the side to bypass them in this narrow section of the lobby. My momentum is stopped before I realize what happened.

“Hey, watch it,” said the woman leaving after finishing with the clerk, her elbow raised defensively as she walked past.

“Sorry, coming through,” said the next departing customer immediately behind her.

The line ahead of my spot creeps forward as the next customers approach the clerks. The sour expressions of the men in line behind me are not necessary, are they? I really do not like dealing with people. I love helping the ones that I can, but it is time to accept that I will just let too many down. I am slipping. I am no help if I can’t keep to a schedule. It’s too late now. The line is moving forward and so am I. I will help my clients this final time by telling them to find a new psychologist.

Another two customers leave. I need to focus on something else besides this doubt. If I just stay in line, I will be get to either postal clerk to send out these notifications. Only a handful of people stand between me and retirement. They won’t know it, but my fate will be sealed by these clerks. The woman working for Uncle Sam at the right counter seems cheerful, quick, and happy to help. She's too far away to make out her name tag, but her overly chirpy voice is distinct. The other clerk is much closer to where I am and I can read his name tag. Robert seems—Robert! I thought he retired!

“What…” I say, paused in the doorway. I say it so weakly that even the next departing patron blading his body to brush past me does not appear to hear. It has been years since I last saw Robert; the golf trip to Tulsa. The fool used the rest of us on the trip as his excuse. I have helped addicts handle their addiction but he refused any help.

The next two customers depart within a minute of each other. In a short while I will have an even chance of talking to him, the same odds as when he lost $12,000 on red. The broken promise to his wife is one thing, but his excuses were the last straw. That was his chance to admit he needed help, and he blew it.

One more customer is finished mailing their package through him. He had retired or quit years ago I thought. What is he doing here?

Two more customers leave. Melissa’s doppelganger approaches Robert and another customer approaches the other clerk. It’s definitely not Melissa from the angle I see her now. Good, I don’t need another opportunity for an awkward encounter and it’s always best to not encounter clients outside of the office. If this woman finishes with Robert first, I will probably not have to talk to him either.

Oh great, the other customer finished with the chirpy clerk and the final customer in front of me approaches her. Now I just need Melissa’s twin to take a long time more with Robert and—

“That’s everything, ma’am. Have a nice day,” Robert says to his customer. I turn to look at the posters on the wall to avoid eye contact. “Next! I can help you sir,” he says to me.

“Hello, I—” the breath I drew just was not enough for this simple sentence. I try again, “I need to mail these off. There are 25 in total. All different addresses.”

“That’s what we’re here for! Let me see those,” Robert was always cheerful with his work, but he seems more strained than I remember. Is he forcing it? Does he recognize me? He reads off the names as he adds the stamping and processes each letter. “Arthur Penning… Cherry Evans… Ethan Pinnock… These all have had the same ZIP Code so far.”

“Well they all live locally.”

“I see that.” He continues saying the names as he processes the letters. “Gary Winsworth… Joan Lambert!” He seems surprised.

“You know her?”

“She’s my niece. She’s had a rough go of it.” He says slowly. “But haven’t we all,” he points to his naked ring finger. “Something really bad happened to her with her ex. I knew someone that could help so I sent her to—" With his mouth agape from the realization, he stopped processing any more letters. The high pitches of the other clerk carry over here to fill the gap.

“So that’s why she said I was recommended to her.”

“It’s been a long time, Samuel,” he says in a measured way as he recovers his composure. He has not restarted processing my letters though. With the letter to Joan in hand, he says, “My niece said you canceled her appointment. What gives?”

“I need these letters to go out. I need to help these people.”

He persists with his inquiry. “You didn’t help her.”

“I can’t help those who don’t ask!” My eyes widen. The sharpness in my voice at the end took me by surprise.

Robert appears unphased. His only movement is to resume processing the letters. “I thought she asked for help, that’s why she was there.”

“Yes, she did. I—” Again, my breath seemed too shallow to finish the statement. “I had to cancel.”

“Why? She could have really used your help. You are good at what you do with people willing to get help.”

“I could not remember her appointment.” The release of pressure in my chest is wonderful. Aiding this feeling is the realization that he is halfway through the stack of letters.

Robert laughed. “What? Let me ring you up a calendar to help out.”

“I don’t need a calendar. Never have! My memory is like a steel trap. Or at least it used to be.”

“But you just said you forgot. And now you say you are helping out these people. What do you mean?”

“Those are letters to notify all of my clients and potential clients that I am retiring. They include recommendations for which psychologists they might consider for continued treatment.”

“So you’re retiring. I’ve done that before, but the divorce shredded those plans and I like to eat.”

“And spend your money on other things.” The barb hit home by the painful expression in his eyes.

“Not anymore. I really hit rock bottom after Tulsa. Mary didn’t believe me when I told her that y’all were the ones that drug me to the casino. She could always see through me, but I guess the loss was just too big that time.”

“And you promised her that you would get help before the trip,” I say to remind him.

“That’s true.”

“And you didn’t.”

“That’s true. But after the divorce and being forced back to work, I finally got help. Cost me all the rest of my money, but I did it.” He finishes with the last letter and sets it aside with the stack.

“You could have called.”

“Would you have answered?”

I pause to think. “The blame shifting was horrible.”

“Yeah, the doc told me that that’s all part of it. I don't blame ya for how you feel. Anyways, that will be $15.75.”

I put the money on the counter. “Sounds like you did not need me.”

Robert talks faster. “You know, I sent her to you because you are really good at it. She was upset, sure, but that’s no reason to quit. You could just hire some help to track your business.”

“I don’t need someone’s help. I need to not let anyone down again.”

“Are you sure you want to send these?”

“It’s time to move on,” I say to Robert, turning to leave.

“Wait,” he says, handing me a calendar. “Here, take this on me.”

"Okay, thanks. I think I will need those letters back too."