I’m Getting Too Old for This Gang Life. I’m 87.

It’s time.

Tomorrow, after seven decades in this gang life, I’ll be announcing my retirement, effective immediately. I think I’ll break the news after the carjacking, but before bingo.

This is of my own accord, I’m pleased to say. I would hate to have this lifestyle taken from me like my car keys were. That still bothers me, by the way. Maybe it was karma for all those grand theft autos.

Not only am I physically waning, but the violent urges that were ingrained in me at a young age have subsided. I credit my two lovely grandchildren. Seeing their smiling faces has made me realize that in my golden years, the only caps I should pop are in the medicine cabinet. I think that’s for the best.

This will bring about many changes. I will, however, still go by Rooster. That’s never been more fitting, actually, given what time I get up.

I’ve known this day was coming for some time now. When I, a Blood, try to throw up our sign, my arthritis only leads to confusion: “Bland,” “Blond,” “Bald,” “Bread.” Embarrassing, I know.

Just seeing others’ signs is also an issue. Instead of feeling comfortable that I’m among like-minded folks, I’m only reminded of my hypertension.

That’s to be expected after 70 years of looking over my shoulder. I don’t bother with that anymore, though—not since my neck started acting up. Instead, I keep one of my wife’s pocket-sized makeup mirrors on me. Rather than pistol whip anyone who gives me grief, I do what Eliza and Gerald said: kindly suggest tolerance when men use items associated with the opposite gender. So far, so good.

The drive-bys have also come and gone. While behind the wheel last summer, I kept my car at the proper speed for the shooting, but just couldn’t go over 35 during the getaway. That didn’t go over well with the three teenagers with me. Neither did how they had to wear earplugs—not for the gunfire, but the talk radio.

My wardrobe isn’t what it once was, either. I’ve been having to cut down on red cotton t-shirts in favor of breathable whites and grays, since those are better in the sun. Sweating in this heat makes my Bengay run.

That’s one reason I’m in the 8 A.M. shuffleboard league down at the Y. But so is Mr. Fox. In another era, his cheating would warrant chopping off a digit. But now? An earnest chat to see if there’s some underlying trauma that rears its head during competition. I’ll see when he’s free.

That aside, the league has been going well, though my right shoulder was giving me problems last week. A bummer, for sure; it’s not even the one with the bullet in it.

My gnarled rotator cuff hasn’t interfered with everything, though. I’m still a master at scraping serial numbers off Glocks. I’ll miss it dearly. While the sound was once grating, now it’s like waves on the beach—as long as my hearing aids are properly calibrated. Ah, I can hear it now. There truly is no better way to unwind after bridge club.

But that’s about to end. Soon, I’ll find something to take its place, just like how a drive-by now means shooting the clippings from my lawn mower onto my neighbor’s driveway. It’s an eye for an eye. If he keeps it up, I won’t be taking my garden shears to his gut. No, no. But I’ll certainly ask the homeowners association to intervene, as my talks with him haven’t been fruitful. I even said “please.”

Some of the younger guys have been wistful about me. That’s nice, of course, even though they know me a fraction as well as my doctor does. “You don’t throw hands anymore,” they say. “You quit gambling.” “You stopped wearing gold.”

But they needn’t worry. I throw hands of gin rummy on the coffee table when my wife has me beat. Doing the crosswords in pen? Always a gamble. And third… Okay, I confess. I don’t wear gold chains anymore, that’s true—but only because they get in the way of my LifeAlert. My affinity for gold hasn’t waned. In fact, I own more now than I ever did, thanks to those daytime commercials for Rosland Capital.

I also appreciate their good-natured ribbings. “You traded your AR-15 for AARP!” one of them said to me recently. “It’s not so bad,” I told him. “Their magazine I can read in the can.” They got a kick out of that. Even at my age, I can still think on my feet. But I prefer my recliner.

Tomorrow will be bittersweet. Yes, I’ll have more time for family, and for the literature that’s been filling up my gun closet. Yet the remaining life I’ll lead is one of limitations.

So when I tell the guys that I’m riding off into the sunset, it may sound glamorous. But here’s the thing about that ride: I’m resigned to the passenger seat of my daughter’s hatchback, I’ve forgotten my sunglasses on the kitchen counter yet again, and we have to stop every hour so I can pee.