Coffee, Beer ; Setting a Precedent

As I pull up to lock my bike to a trash can I overhear two homeless men in deep discussion. “Do you drink coffee? Do you still drink beer?” Standard fare for the area. I go in the building, make my delivery, come out and here a whole new conversation, from the same men. “You see, if you own a house on that corner and you let a business, let’s say a deli, build their shop next to you. Then after 10 years you have just rezoned your area. You are setting a precedent for building codes in your area. I’m telling you, I don’t know when it happened, but America is Corporation Domination.”

I thought to myself, why are these guys homeless? They know more about commercial rezoning principles than I will in a lifetime. Or care to to know for that matter. But I do drink coffee, I do drink beer, and I do not want to set a precedent for corporation domination! So next time I see a homeless person, I won’t judge what they will do with the money if they ask me for some. I’ll just give ‘em some, they will most likely buy coffee or beer. But maybe they will teach me complex economic systems.

Short and Simple

Keys. Their is a direct correlation between the number of keys I need in life and my life’s simplicity.

Anger

“I’ve heard the size of a man can be measured by what angers him. Today, I am feeling pretty small. My bike helmet was stolen off my bike. It was wrapped and clipped around my frame. My bike was thrown to the ground and the helmet removed when I came out of the building from my delivery.

Now I understand why I must lock my bike. A bike is just to big of a temptation for anyone to not steal. I mean think of all the joy it brings. The freedom to ride anywhere you please with the wind blowing through your hair. Free of rules and regulations. (No cop, no stop rule applies here)

But a helmet? Why must I feel as if I need to lock the right to protect my skull? I mean it wasn’t even a nice helmet. New, but not expensive or anything. Did whoever steal it put it on and run down the street in pure joy? My daughter finds no reason to ride a bike to enjoy her helmet. Or my helmet or my wife’s helmet for that matter. Just give her a helmet and she’ll gladly forego the bike while wearing the helmet and laughing. She’s two. Did a two year old steal my helmet?

I took a few deep breathes, hoped today wasn’t the day I get creamed by a city bus and did what any self respecting bicycle messenger would do. I went back to work and enjoyed the breezes rushes through my long and dirty hair, while obeying not one traffic sign.

The Bag

Every morning I dread putting on my messenger bag. Because it weighs like 20lbs empty. And I get paid to fill it up which makes it weigh like 40 lbs. I love to ride my bike. I’m just a little tired of riding my bike with the 40lb monkey on my back.

Yet I continue to torture myself like a herion adict who is just to scared to go clean. I’m scared to stop doing what I know no longer enjoy doing. I tried for ten years. The high is not the same. It is mostly just hang over. I’m still talking about being a messenger and not heroin anymore. That was just a poor anology. I’m the king of those.

I road my bike out to a movie premiere. Of course I had to wear my bag. What else would I put my extra clothes and notebook in? Not my car like a normal person. I actually thought I would fit in. It’s a bike movie premiere. Everyone will have there bikes and bags right? No I’m the only person walking around the bar before the movie with his messenger bag. But since when did I ever feel in place?

Never. Definitely not in middle school. Or high school. College, a little, but beer helped. Now? Who knows. I look at my bag, my bag looks at me, and it all is just a reminder, “my job isn’t to fit in, my job is being a messenger.”

To Old

My Savior

I’m extremely sore, and riding my bike reminds me of this. I’m not sore from messenger work as much as I am sore from running into the back of some lady’s Escalade yesterday.

Which makes me think today, “I’m to old for this.” Just then I lock up to a parking meter and see a cane leaning against a tree right by my bike. It’s like God thinks I’m to old and is just making fun of me.

But when do you get to old for something? Are you not to old yesterday and when you wake up today suddenly you are to old?

I don’t know. I think it’s less of a physical thing and more of a maturity thing. I think I’m to old to be a professional pack mule, asked to carry heavy packages via bicycle through downtown. Or, maybe I’m just to “mature”?

I may never know, because until I find something better or get the guts to quit this job, I just have to remind myself, “you’re not too old, you’re just a bicycle messenger.”

FREE BIRD

Unfortunately the free bird I am talking about is not the “Free Bird” by rock legends Lynyrd Skynyrd: http://www.lynyrdskynyrd.com/

No, this bird had a sound like a car horn and flew by me wrapped in a SUV. The bird even chirped, “as#h@le” as he flew by on my left. I’m a bicycle messenger, so being on the receiving end of the bird, or name calling is a daily occurrence. Sad, but true.

If I had to stereotype, which I will, it’s almost always the same guy that flies me the bird and cusses me out. He drives a truck, usually lifted SUV or pickup, has a beer gut, and brown hair worn slightly over the ears.

I’ve learned these are birds you don’t want to feed. And by feed, I mean rebut or interact with. So, I close my mouth, squeeze my handlebars tightly so as to not let any of my birds lose, and roll right on past them at the next intersection.

I can’t control my surroundings, only how I react within them. And when that mantra brings me no peace, I just stare at the beautiful wheels rolling under me and laugh because I can hear the birds as I ride and the beer belly, bird flipping man cannot.

Important

When you are slammed, and I mean slammed, five deliveries in your bag, 7 pick ups writen on the back of a bubble gum wrapper, and the phone keeps ringing, all the while that little voicemail icon has been showing for the past fifteen minutes, kind of slammed. You FEEL important.

But don’t kid yourself. You are not important. You are simply busy. You are a bicycle messenger. You are suppose to be busy. You are not suppose to be important. The lady who called in the delivery is more important than you are. And she isn’t important either. This Christmas every vendor and/or contractor will be invited to your clients holiday party. You, however, will not be. And if by some strange happenings you get an informal pity invite, you will most likely spend the evening explaining to all the important people why you, the courier, are there. And don’t be to shocked when asking the wait staff from the catering company where the restroom is when they reply, “I’m sorry, this is a private party” and they then point to the exit.

But that’s just the way it is when you are a courier and your idea of dressing up is wearing a different pair of pants then you’ve worn the past 5 days. (that and not rolling up your pant leg on the drivetrain side)

The days over. All my deliveries are done. I have nothing to show for the work I’ve done and I don’t feel very important. But I feel content. I did what I woke up to do, and that was do what I said I would do. It goes without saying, messengers get the package delivered, on time, with a signature. And that my friend is important.

Bicycle Messenger’s

Hey Crew,
Anyone out there writing let me know. I’m ready to listen. San Diego, peace.

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