Retiring into private life in Jamaica in the 1950s, as James Bond

Time-travel with me to Jamaica in the 1950s. It could be the 1960s, it just depends on if I survive, and how old I was when I was given the license to kill by Her Majesty's Secret Service. I'm James Bond.

This character has fascinated me since I discovered him when I was fourteen or fifteen years old. A friend of mine invited me along to see the latest movie, and I liked it so much that I decided that I would enjoy reading the books (I've always been a nerdy, bookish, person).

Now calm down there if you think that I'm one of those people who insists that the books are better than the movies - I love them both. But the books helped explain the character in a way that the movies never did. And every once in a while in the movies you see Bond walking on a beach in Jamaica, and it reminds me of his original point of view, which wasn't all that different from a lot of people who do dangerous and dirty jobs - Bond looked forward to retiring. And I don't mean at 65, his goal was 40.

Let's see, since I'm James Bond and have successfully stayed alive until age 40, I must have been in my early to mid-thirties when I joined the Secret Service. I'm a veteran of World War II, Commander in the Royal Navy, and during the war I developed some special skills that Queen and Country put to use afterwards. I was an assassin.

After the war, as I was wondering what to do next, I got a call and was asked if I would consider continuing to serve my country, this time as a secret agent. I accepted because it sounded exciting, and I wasn't ready to just quietly fade away, I was too young. I was given the job of, ahem, "licensed troubleshooter", and while the job didn't pay much, it would at least get me out of England, and at the minimum pay my travel expenses. But they made it very clear from the start that the day that I turned forty, I would be pulled from active field work, and be assigned to a desk job.

A man like me can't just sit behind a desk, so I was determined that I would politely resign at age forty, and retire into private life somewhere warm and where I could live inexpensively, like Jamaica. 

So here I am, in Jamaica. No, I'm not in a fabulous villa like you see in the movies, there's no way I could afford anything like that, I'm not even getting my military pension yet. But I'm doing fine. I have a good friend who gets me the brand of vodka that I like, and I've found someone here to love, and who loves me. She will listen to me as I talk about the old days, and then fall asleep in my chair, and she comforts me when I wake up in the middle of the night screaming, or crying, about what I had seen, or done. Why she cares for an old wreck like me, I don't know, but I'm glad she does.

We have all the time in the world.

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