Retirement was a scary thing for me. Odd thing was this: Every man I spoke to about retirement was a little frightened about walking away, but the women I spoke with were usually more enthused about it. All men had were hobbies, and chores, they usually didn’t have a life outside the job. Women already did. Work, their careers, their dedication to a paycheck and being told what to do, wasn’t as strong or as personal as that feeling was with men.
Alcohol, suicide, heart attacks, and going back to work was what men did. My first project manager killed himself. I wasn’t going to. I had a plan long before my sentence was up; I started writing more.
I went back to work for a year, but then when I realized that life was not only short, but getting shorter every day, the time had come to walk away, and never look back again.
Vicky White knew she wasn’t going to retire, yet she turned in her paperwork. I think that will be the only real clue we ever have. White went on a last adventure, to taste a life outside the only one she ever really knew, and in doing so, Vicky White also knew there could only be one ending for her. At fifty-six years old, going to prison would mean ten years for helping her lover escape, if she was lucky. Quite possibly, White could have been sentenced to more than ten years, and at the end of that sentence, she would have nothing. But what would she have anyway? This is how most men look at life without work, you know.
She had to know her life on the run would be short, frantic, dangerous, and filled with fear. She had to know everyone in America would be looking for her, every motel clerk, every gas station with cameras on every pump, every pizza delivery guy, every stranger on the street and every security camera everywhere, twenty-four hours a day, would have an eye open for Vicky White.
Yet she chose this life, after months of planning, and she chose her retirement date as the launching day. This was never going to end any other way than with her death, and she knew it.
Vicky White flung herself off a very high place, and it took eleven days for her to slam into the bottom.
Eleven days. That’s what Vicky White got for her retirement, an eleven-day run with a dangerous man, knowing each day might be her last. Eleven days.
It is a sad day when a woman whose career was called “exemplary” would rather be dead than live on after work had ended.
I’m not asking you to pity this woman, or forgive her for releasing a murderer back into the wild. I’m asking that you look at her life, her career, and understand why she did this, so it won’t ever happen to you.
Mike writes regularly at his site: The Hickory Head Hermit.
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.