Being a bike messenger

Is probably one of the most liberating jobs i can remember ever having. i was a "fair weather" messenger for a bit over a year after i moved back to NYC after college in the midwest. by fair weather, i mean that if it were raining or snowing, i didn't call in. this is fine because there are no set days or hours for a messenger. there is no boss, there is no rules about how you get to places. nothing. it was a time in my life where any job i took was mercilessly low on the food chain, making it quit confining and harsh compared to life at a liberal arts college. i had tried things like being a doorman (had to answer to horrible tenants thinking that i was sub-human and stupid), selling beepers door to door (had to follow a set protocol and go to specific neighborhoods, often out in the middle of the ghettro), installing and creating art for places like planet hollywood (i had a crazy boss and very specific guidelines, no creativity), doing backdrops for broadway musical's (very much a sweatshop job, and the blue prints were very specific, no creativity either), and even painting murals for schools around the city lacked any freedom. for that seemingly creative job i had to answer to an infuriating bureaucracy of failed human beings known as the administration. they ended up fancying themselves a commitee of art directors. riiight. i remember feeling sorry for the kids because of the type of people who were watching over them.

the one job that i took, that was free. and free to a point that i don't think CEO's can even understand since EVERYBODY has a client, or somebody to answer to, even clients. no, bike messengering was kind of a solo show. all i had to do was maintain a relatively distant relationship with one dispatcher. a guy who could care less when or where i made my first call from, or if i did at all. there were absolutely no rules, except that packages should make from point a to point b in less then 2-3 hours. that's as easy as it gets. of course, the faster i delivered, the sooner i could move onto the next package and rack up money. but i had low rent, and a roommate. so i had no pressure to ride like the wind. instead, i worked at my own pace, which was a pretty good pace since i did like to ride fast, and i did find that the mystery of the next destination was enough to motivate me. i would go from a secretive back section of the U.N. to some sweatshop in chinatown, to a modeling agency, to city hall. all before lunch.

the narcissist in me loved the way receptionists looked at me like a wild beast, or a free spirit. they had both a bit of fear and longing in their stares. some pretended superiority, but i knew the truth. they were miserable. i was having a blast. i was out there, all day, in the concrete jungle. seeing more in an hour then they saw all month. it was perfect for somebody like me, right out of college. not yet ready to ready to be a "yes" man, but ready to be self sufficient. it also allowed me my final truly informative and reflective relationship with the city. it was 1995, and new york still had a little bit of grit. a small amount i'll give you, but it was still there. i wore my kryptonite chain lock over my shoulder for quick access, just in case. occasionally grabbing it threateningly to ward off aggressors, be they car-born, or foot-born.

many incidents fill my memories of that time. one absolutely humiliating fall happened right in front of the entire female freshman class of NYU. hundreds of girls were collected out in front of one of the school buildings waiting to sign up for their first college classes, it was a warm day at the end of august. there was a row of cones set up to block traffic in a line a few feet out from the crowd. they were a perfect improvised race track for me to do some quick showing off to the hordes. i proceeded to swerve in and out of them like a freestyler would. it was all going beautifully until the cones suddenly, and without warning, doubled in frequency from every ten feet, to every 5 feet. i tried to quickly double the snap turns i was making but ended up immediately overwhelmed. my tire hit a large cone dead-center sending my handles sideways. the front wheel locked sideways, and i flipped over forwards violently. i totally cleared the handlebars and rolled twice until i hit a parked car.

the fall must have been so bad looking that i didn't even earn any laughter from my audience. just some gasps of astonishment, and a few "ewww"s. needless to say, the pain i felt all over my body was not nearly as bad as the stinging humiliation i was going through. these girls were probably experiencing one of their first days in the big city, and there i was, playing the town idiot. i brushed myself off, tried to smile, and then jumped on my bike. of course, my front tire was a taco, so that added to my embarrassment. i had to pick the bike up and limp it around the corner to lick my wounds and quietly fix the bike in peace.

another, somewhat crazy situation came up when i was off my bike, crossing 6th avenue for a double delivery (two deliveries on the same block). i was waiting for the light, standing in a cloud of pedestrians which i guess, had drifted out into the street a few feet. you know when there's enough people that those out front drift and everybody follows without thinking that they might be in the line of traffic. well all of a sudden, everybody jumps back as a herd, and i am suddenly face to face with a fast moving taxi. he was no doubt swerving close to people to make a point. that it was his street while the light was green.

well, i just barely jumped back in time. the obvious intent of the driver annoyed my instincts and i slapped my hand on his windshield. only i didn't factor in his speed being additive to my hand's speed. my hand was completely flat and opened so it simply compressed, but didn't break. what did break was this asshole's windshield. i didn't even notice it except for a guy behind me asked me if i was ok and told me the windshield appeared to have smashed. i looked at my hand which was, indeed, covered in a glassy dust. it seemed a bit numb, but was otherwise ok. the cab made the turn at the corner and i then shrugged and started walking.

about a block later, the cab driver grabbed my arm. he must have jumped out and chased back after me. he started yelling about how i broke his windshield. i calmly explained to him that it was my arm, which he had in fact hit with his car. i realized that he probably didn't realize that if a car hits a body, even if its a hand, then the car is liable. pedestrians do have the right of way no matter how annoying we are.

he said that he was going to call the cops, so i shrugged, feeling pretty sure that i was in the right. cabs can't be used as threatening missiles just to make a point, which is what he did. but then, when a cop car was passing by, he waved them over and proceeded to fabricate. he told them, right in front of me, that i had hit his windshield with some kind of hard object. i was incredulous. i immediately showed them my red hand and said he hit me with his car. they looked at each other, very bored and annoyed, and then said they would call it in since they were on their way somewhere else.

so they pulled away and he got on a public phone to make a call to his dispatcher. i realized that everybody who might have seen the incident was already blocks away and that it was going to be my word against this guy's word, most likely in court. it seemed like some bullshit i didn't need or deserve since i had almost gotten creamed. so i switched modes from indignant citizen, to stealth master escapee. waiting for an opportunity to make myself sparse. as soon as Mr. Creative Storyteller turned his back to me i sped off through the crowd towards the subway entrance.

but knowing the train's propensity for being absent when you really need it, and knowing that this guy would assume instantly that i had gone down the stairs, i knew well enough that going that way would be a dead end. instead i ran around the steps and headed into the lobby of the building right behind it. i slowed my speed as soon as i was in sight of the doorman, and then coolly announced that i had a package for the 10th floor while showing him my bag o mail, and my sign in sheet. he nodded and i slipped into the elevator.

i remember thinking how crazy the situation was. how suddenly i was fleeing the scene of an "accident". and that potential for trouble had just doubled. so i put a cap on from my bag. i reversed my jacket. i took my messenger bag off and grabbed it by the top handle, so it would look more like a briefcase. i then rode the elevator for a minute. got off, and walked out calmly in the opposite direction, like there was nothing wrong. i saw out of the corner of my eye, the driver was in the middle of the street spinning around trying to find me. but i looked too different and wasn't in a rush.

i walked around the block and got back to my bike which, ironically, was right next to his parked cab. which, DID indeed have a smashed windshield. i got on my bike and rode off. out of pure spite i flipped him the bird, just in case he was looking my way. that's what he gets for swerving into pedestrians and then lying about how his windshield broke. justice was served that day. at least that's how it seemed to this guy. maybe he actually got stiffed for the windshield by his company and docked his pay, while his sick wife was in the hospital. or maybe he learned not to make a point with his two ton vehicle. i like to think it was the latter.