"Excuse me manager, can you get someone on my smoothie? I'm going to be late." My boss promptly stepped over me as I was doing the fish on the floor, electrocuted by faulty wiring in the blender of the juice bar that I worked at in Brooklyn. "One moment please sir.” She said as she shuffled my replacement into line to finish his drink. It was then I realized I had no future in retail.
The place was a hell-hole where the worst New Yorkers would come to savage you, where there was no place that you could hide behind the counter. They called themselves healthy but really they were looking to suck the life out of everything they could get in their sights. The place had the atmosphere of a Hogan's Hero's concentration camp where management was the dumkopf guards and the customers were the SS...“Vee have vays ov makink you shrivel!”.
The job didn't pay well so all the cashiers colluded in stealing from the till and that was something I had to learn to ignore (under fear of death) as I moved up to crew chief. Later on when I quit I heard that the cook was stealing from the walk-in fridge to start up his own catering business. Management had always thought he was such a good worker, staying late to come up with new recipes.
My friend Matty had been a bike messenger for this weed service called 'The Pope of Dope' for awhile and told me how cool it was. I wasn't into the pot delivery game but I liked the idea of not having a boss breathing down my neck every minute. I had also heard that it was the easiest job in Manhattan to get, so I decided to go for the legit version.
When I first moved to New York I had no idea what a bike messenger was. The first time I saw one, I guess I was in his way as he flipped his chain around his waist and took off down the avenue in a puff of disgust. I thought "what an asshole, what's he in such a hurry for?"
As a couple of years went by and I ran across more professional messengers, I realized that these guys were just working hard and trying to hustle on to the next pickup. I gave em wide berth and was sort of jealous from afar as I hated my retail job and their gig seemed so much more adventurous and fun.
After the electrocution incident I applied for my first messenger job at Breakaway, one of the larger companies in New York. Orientation was a trip, the only guy out of about ten in the room that wasn't hired nodded out half way through. He asked 'why wasn't I hired?' and the owner said, 'because you fell asleep.' Take note, grads.
I soon found out that although it might have been the easiest job to get in Manhattan, it was probably one of of the hardest to do right. But, I had set my mind to being a bike messenger in New York City, and I was going to move mountains. The problem was, I didn't know anything!
I spent the first three months sitting at red lights in the snow in a cheap yellow raincoat and a gigantic visored helmet that my Mom bought me. I was trying to ride an $18 Panasonic 3 speed with chopper sort of handlebars through four blizzards in my first winter. While I looked really cool, my bike literally fell apart under me in the fourth month. I had to carry that piece of shit 40 blocks and up three flights of stairs to throw it on the floor of home base in disgust. I was done!
That was my first walk of shame. One of many.
After that my friend and later mentor Eli took me aside. “Friends don't let friends ride junk.” He said, introducing me to another messenger that also worked at a bike shop. Together they hooked me up with a $200 Pugeot with actual road bike components. Something that would stay together and keep me from getting laughed at so hard by my fellow messengers. I learned a lot from Eli over the years, but that first lesson has stuck with me all the way. In life, as in messing and video games, always level up!
At some point in my rookie year I started to recognize, and be acknowledged by, the NYC messenger community. I noticed that some of the same guys and girls would always be out there in the worst weather. We began nodding to each-other in the way a ditch-digger might do to those from another crew. 'Diggin' ditches in the rain again, huh?'...'Me too homies, me too.'
The people I met were from all countries and walks of life but usually shared a hard-scrabble commitment to, if not true pride in the job. This was really an off the wall way to make a living and it was reflected the many unique and inspiring people that were attracted to it.
I'll never forget the time Dexter blew past me on 6th Avenue on his fixed gear. His one leg pumping unbelievably fast, bigger than both of mine put together. Flashing a smile he just shouts 'good vibrations!' and disappears down the blocks. His story of how he lost his leg under a truck and decided to keep on being a bike messenger is worth checking out here:
http://clutchcouriers.blogspot.com/search?updated-min=2007-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&updated-max=2008-01-01T00:00:00-08:00&max-results=3
One time I stacked it so hard on the iced cobblestones in Soho I was literally seeing stars, but I knew that I had to get up out of the intersection before being run over, so I used the force of the impact to bounce myself up onto the curb. Some courier I had always thought was a snob pulled over to check on me. “Hey, you a'ight rookie?.. Y'know it's not how you fall, it's how you get up!” Kinder words had never been spoken, and they gave me the strength to hobble back to base.
Being a bike messenger in New York is almost indescribable. The horrible and amazing things you see are a numbers game. 8 million people in Manhattan, 3,000 messengers, 10,000 cab drivers all pissed at you being in their way.
I've seen bodies fall from twenty floors up and bounce five feet on the pavement, I've seen meat hanging off of lampposts that used to be human, the passengers screaming in the street. I've seen people hit by buses blowing red lights at full speed and then get up, dust themselves off and say, “nah I'm all right.” to horrified onlookers, only then to fall over dead.
I was mugged at knife-point, had a gun pulled on me, got doored and then rolled out of the way of a bus just before being squashed, but somehow, I loved it. I would get up every morning, put on my battle gear, kiss my daughter's picture and roll out with a huge smile on my face.
It was the freedom. 18 years later it still is.
Seems we were both out there the same year 94-94, when I went back after my 87-88 year. It was really different then more business less enterprenial, it was easier in 87 too as people didn't have fax machines, so they had to use the messengers.
ReplyDeleteWhen I went back in 94, at 24 I felt too old, but I felt so old by that point anyway, I'd been working fishing in Alaska, and just came from camping in Mexico for a month and NM. So I had found other forms of freedom. I still loved messengering, but it was a lot more competitive for women. Before I was at Chick Chack, but I started back at ABC and graduated to Mother's
Messenger Service as I got faster.
I had started in 87 as a walking messenger which sucked, until we found the competitive cyclist who lived in Apt X before me had forgotten his Bianchi 70's racing frame I loved...I remember Rough Riders having a parts shop, but could have been similar name, in Hell's Kitchen.
Put it together for $50, and I was set to go. 1st day rained, hailed, sleeted, and snowed, crazily, took as a sign. I had been handing out flyers and telemarketing before that, I had answered every ad in the paper, but without a fancy degree from some fancy school, no one would hire me, esp at 17. One of the reasons the Reps are bs, cause I busted my ass for a entry level position in NYC as a teenager and was given nothing.
Was scared coming back in 94 by the trucks and buses being more aggressive then I remembered, they would speed past, esp. on the East River, prob result of more messengers on the road, and publicity on the conflict. Also like 87 it was a bad winter that year, you prob remember, my snot would run and freeze to my face, I was like screw that.