I was back in Scottsdale, running on fumes, staring down the last $70,000 in my bank account like it was a countdown clock. I had just crawled out of my Sedona sabbatical, that foggy hippie wasteland where I spent my time untangling my mind from the wreckage of my divorce. No job, no plan, just the aimless drift of a man who’d spent years chasing money only to lose everything in the end. I had decided I was going to live off that $70k until it was gone. Just ride the wave, burn through it like it was Monopoly money, and when it finally dried up—well, maybe then I’d straighten up. Maybe then I’d figure out what the hell I was supposed to be doing.
That was the plan.
And then the phone rang.
Jennifer. A blast from the past. She had always liked me, always had some lingering, unspoken thing hanging in the air between us. We had worked together at Amalia’s, back when I was still throwing money at tequila bars like I was printing it in my basement. I hadn’t heard from her in ages, and now, out of the blue, she was calling me up, sounding excited, asking what the hell I was up to.
“I don’t know,” I told her. “Just came back from Sedona. Lost everything in the divorce. Even the kids. Figuring out what’s next.”
She didn’t like that.
Jennifer was the kind of person who thrived on potential. She loved the idea of building something, of seeing people rise, and I had spent the last decade feeding that image, playing the role of the guy who was always one step away from striking gold. And now, here I was, talking like I was done, like I was tired.
“You can’t just get a job,” she said, almost disgusted. “That’s not who you are.”
I could hear the heartbreak in her voice, like watching a great racehorse resign itself to the petting zoo. She wanted to shake me out of it, light a fire under my ass, make me care again. She was practically in tears.
“James, you’re made for something bigger than this,” she said. “You don’t belong in a 9-to-5. You have too much talent to throw it all away.”
I didn’t argue. I just told her the truth.
“I don’t care anymore.”
There was a long pause.
“I’m just letting the current take me,” I said.
More silence.
And that was the last time I ever heard from Jennifer.
~
You already know what happened next. If you’ve read my stories, you know that the $70,000 didn’t last long. Most of it got eaten up by child support, because God forbid a man try to restart his life without the system stepping in to shake him upside down for every last penny. Then came the job as a property manager, a miserable little stint that made me hate people even more than I already did. And eventually, Hawaii. Project management. Wastewater. Somehow, I found my way into the blue-collar elite, making six figures, earning respect from the kind of men who build the world while everyone else just lives in it.
And now, here I am.
$160,000 a year. Benefits. A company car. A gas card. Bonuses at the end of the year. Christmas gifts. Handshakes from people who appreciate me.
The American Dream, right?
Yeah. Sure.
If I was still married, my ex would be proud of me. She’d be giddy at my benefits package, urging me to max out my 401k, to invest in mutual funds, to set us up for some safe, sterile retirement. I’d come home to neatly filed tax documents, to talks about refinancing, to the dull, colorless security of doing everything right.
But I’m not married.
I’m working because I owe $1,100 a month in child support until November.
I’ll be 57 years old when I’m finally free.
If I don’t pay, they take my passport. If I don’t pay, they take my license. If I don’t pay, I go to jail. They don’t give a shit about my life, my expenses, my survival. Just pay up or get buried.
So, I work.
Not because I want to. Not because I love it.
Because I have no choice.
And when November finally hits, I’m done.
~
I’ll wait for my Christmas bonus. Shake all the right hands.
Then, in February, when my lease is up, I’ll sell everything I have.
I won’t have much. Probably $40,000 in cash. But that’s fine. I’ll max out my credit cards, take out a personal loan, drain my credit score for another $40,000.
That’ll give me $80,000.
Then I’ll reduce my life to one backpack.
Just like in the Navy, when they handed me a sea bag and told me that was all I needed.
Then I’ll disappear.
Mendoza, Argentina.
A small place with a view. Something near a park. I’ll learn enough Spanish to survive, find a good butcher, a good restaurant, a few quiet spots to drink and think.
The goal?
Make $3,000 a month off my websites. That’s it.
No boss. No office. No morning alarms.
Just writing, wine, and watching the sunsets.
I’ll get dual citizenship after 12 months. Maybe buy a small property. Fix it up. Rent it out when I travel.
And when I need a break, I’ll disappear into South America.
I’ll roam. Explore.
Find out what the world really looks like when you’re not shackled to the American grind.
This is the last great reinvention.
~
I’ve got 3,287 days left in my life.
That’s 3,287 sunsets.
111 full moons.
469 weekends.
If those numbers are real—if that’s all I have left—then am I really spending them the way I should?
The plan is clear. The countdown is on.
I just have to get past November.
Then, I’m free.
I know people worry about me. They see me drifting, hear the detachment in my voice, the exhaustion in my words. They tell me to hold on, to stay grounded, to find something real.
But what’s real?
Is it grinding at a job until you’re 65, only to have your wife pushing morphine into your veins while whispering that she loves you because you had good life insurance?
Is it owning a house just so you can die in it?
Is it finding someone just because you’re afraid of being alone?
I’m done with all of it.
I don’t need a partner. If I get lonely, I’ll get a dog.
I don’t need status. If I need validation, I’ll write a book.
I just need time. Freedom.
And maybe, just maybe, a little old woman in Mendoza with piercings in her face, rolling her own cigars, letting me call her mami while we drink cheap wine on a crumbling patio.
The last great adventure.
No safety net. No guarantees.
Just a one-way ticket and a plan to never look back.
