Another Frustrating Postmates Day

Oops! Some high school girl expressed interest in delivering for Postmates while I was picking up an order from Chipotle, so I decided I'd give her the URL to this blog ... lol only to realize I haven't really started talking too much about the experience. So, this post is for her:

I'm not sure I like doing this. Of course I'm saying this after having plodded through the daytime dunderheads, who always frustrate me. I don't know why people who pride themselves on having “real” jobs have such a difficult time giving me adequate instructions for dropping off their food. For example, earlier today I lost a delivery opportunity because some lady working for the Portland Bureau of Transportation left me stranded out in the elevator lobby of the floor because she neglected to consider all the doors were employee access only. This happens pretty often, to the point where I'm seriously considering not delivering so much as a bag of chips until 3:00 PM; it just costs me too much time trying to get a hold of these people to clarify muddy or lacking instructions whilst mousing my way through labyrinthine secure office buildings — which ultimately costs me money.

Evening deliveries aren't without their problems, though those consist mostly of rush hour traffic stress and increasingly early sunsets. I actually prefer the orders and the customers of the evening hours: the orders tend to be larger, and the customers either aren't nearly as distracted or stupid as the daytime office drones are. Also they tip considerably more; many who work downtown are sullen Washingtonians or surly Clackistanians — the sort who piss all over the Oregonlive news story comments with their tea-party Victims of Liberal Agendas sniveling — and these people hate working downtown and despise things like tipping. (In fact, I think I'll compare tips received from deliveries conducted before 3:30 PM and after, to see if the number match my impressions.) The other problem with evening deliveries is sunset; that's when I turn invisible and am closer to the time when people start driving under the influence.

Yeah, actually, I just want a fairly steady 30-somthing hours a week wage-slave job. At first I enjoyed delivering for Postmates; I felt free, and it was exciting to be on a bike for the first time in nearly half a lifetime. Remember, I had gone through multiple mainstream jobs in the service sector that almost completely soured me to the idea of returning to work altogether. I don't have a schedule with Postmates, nor do I have a dress code, and I can pick and choose the deliveries I want to go on. But, it's not reliable or consistent, the damn taxes are ridiculously high because of my tax status as a sole proprietorship small business, and because about 51% of my total income comes from tips I'm forced into the awkward position of having to dazzle dolts like I'm some kind of server.

I like riding my bike, but it's become too much of an irksome and dangerous chore trying to share the road with fools who don't know how to handle four-way intersections without traffic lights, or for that matter can't even signal half their turns — and even then they don't until they're right at the intersection. And, well, this bike does need a little help. (In fact, I'm pretty jealous of these goddamn zombie Morlocks [street druggies] and vapid-consumer Yuppie riding around on nice equipment they use only fractionally as much as I use mine!) So, as soon as I'm in that culinary program and afterward when I'm wage-slave employed again, I may not do this at all and instead focus on other avenues to alternative income. No, I'm not saying what they are, at least not until they start earning me steady income.

(I hope the girl doesn't read EVERYTHING I've written in this blog! It's had some starkly melodramatic moments.)

The Future of Friendship

I'm a pretty shitty friend. I'm selfish to the point of being almost mercenary in my loyalties and commitments, I'm ready to succumb to suspicion at the least provocation, I'm emotionally immature — to the point where I probably more closely resemble an older adolescent when it comes to my expressions and responses, I'm irresponsible and unreliable and am not stable enough in my lifestyle to be an asset more than a burden, and my head is full of all sorts of weird hang-ups that seem to skew my perception of reality and my social posture toward the world.

Okay, I suppose I'm not a SHITTY friend, but I can certainly benefit by being a more easy-going, accepting, congenial person who isn't so prone to paranoid delusions and doesn't like arrogantly arguing mostly damnfool points — both of which doubtless are born out of insecurities. (Sometimes I wonder just how much of both rational and irrational [as in self-promoting and self-defeating] human behaviors crawl out of this dark womb.) That'll be hard work, though, and one I'll have to be careful about; I can't lose my edge, being poor and aging in a West Coast that's getting wilder by the decade, and being committed to a nihilistic dark-underbelly-of-Buddhism humanist worldview — I can't let myself turn into one of those banal inner-chakra drones that is too trusting or sacrificing to be passed over as a chump by my more blighted peers, even to become a “better” person.

Until I iron that out, I'm going to be stuck in a lame sort of limbo. People find their friends where they are, in various senses of the meaning of the word. We all know that we tend to clump together like wet feathers; we hang out with coworkers or classmates, neighbors, similarly interested or ideologically oriented, even those who simply look more similar to us than others. One thing we sometimes forget is that we tend to get along better with similar personalities; Eeyore and Pooh weren't roommates, and never would have been capable of harmonious cohabitation.

The limbo I'm referring to is one in which I'll be in between friends? Well, that didn't sound eloquent, or even explanatory, at all. I've had two sets of friends in the past: my peers on the streets, with whom I drank and got into squabbles and adventures with, and my two “normal” friends. I'm in the process of losing the latter just as I'm striving to move beyond the former in my quest to better my life. It sucks, because the former, my prior peers, are the only ones I get along with consistently; I'm just too damn needy and moody and mouthy for my “normal” friends (and I'm despairingly certain the one among them I love the most is texting her way out of my life for good). And it will remain in limbo for a while, I suspect, because I'm just not that embracing of others — I consider befriending and dating new people a dismal lottery with video poker odds.

All maudlin aside, just what exactly will my future social life look like? If I quit drinking for good and work part-time, I'll most likely not be drinking Hamm's with Captain Caveman et al by the light of a loading dock lamp anymore. Even though I'll be working part-time, I don't typically pal around with co-workers, so that will leave me with ... heh, not much. Maybe I'll be forced by circumstance to take Proust's advice, and just play Karnöffel and koikoi with casual acquaintances? Even if I become that ultimate “better” person, I'll still miss the old Canterbury Tales crowd every now and then. (Not as much as I’ll miss that one “normal” friend, though!)

Another One Bites the Dust

Committed a total newb mistake last Friday night: I ate it on slick streetcar rails, fairly badly. I bashed an adductor magnus (such a cool name!), the adjoining hip and an elbow a little; my head, too, if I weren't wearing a helmet. (WEAR YOUR FUCKING HELMETS PEOPLE!!!) I'm going to get my hip x-rayed, days late, of course, because I'm a bad patient. I don't think anything got broken, though the elbow sometimes feels like I could have incurred a meager fracture of some sort. I'm still pretty gimpy from the accident, but I've managed to run a few deliveries the past couple days. Well, I'll be better soon, at least enough to walk normal and get on and off my bike somewhat gracefully.

Frankly, I'm starting to have reservations about being a cyclist. I haven't really done anything to my bike except wreck it and barely keep it running with a — probably dangerously — warped rear wheel. The deliveries are only paying so well, especially considering 51% of my earnings come from tips and how much in taxes I'll owe at year's end; I'd probably be earning more if I were still slinging Dippin’ Dots and popping kettle corn at the stadium. The roads are terrifying game preserves wherein prowl SUVs and biggus-dickus trucks driven by dangerously inattentive and inept buffoons, who flail at intersections, can't park, and never signal. (Weren't those big vehicles supposed to go out of style, or did they briefly and come back?) These supersized Hot Wheels are also parked alongside curbs, but up to a foot away … so, it gets crowded on a lot of streets, and I get nervous as hell when I'm squeezed in between walls of man-crushing titans. And then there's the inevitable end of summer: not too long from now it will be dark and rainy much of the time, not to mention windy and occasionally icy.

We'll see. I may feel better about it after my body heals and I manage to get some real work done on the bike. Also after I get a decent part-time wage slave job somewhere. lol And, yes, I'm also going to buy some body armor, probably of the kind mountain bikers use; I'll totally feel ridiculous wearing it for a while, because I'll probably end up looking like some poser Dark Lord of the Sith — but I'll be damned if I cruise around with no protection at all, like those foolish single-speed hipster/messenger kids do. And, as silly as it may sound, I'm pretty bummed about having lost my cute little lucky cat bell! I'm replacing it, of course, but this time I'm going to fasten it to my backpack with some burly nylon cord.

A Return to Hourly Wage Slavery

Well, hell. It's time to start looking for a part-time job. I've been delivering for Postmates for ... over three months now? and I'm not sure how I feel about it. The thirty-percent taxes, while accelerating my paying off of my defaulted student loans (sigh), are a bit high for a guy who still doesn't earn enough money to get out of subsidized housing — lol at least not unless I live in a tent or an RV, or something similarly homeless. Not only that, but just how feasible will it be for me to try to earn a living delivering food by bike during the wintry New Year doldrums? And what about my bursitis? It's quite possible that I may not be able to mount and dismount my bike, or ride it for any great distance, sometime within the next few years.

I'm not trying to talk myself out of or into anything. Service and food work is generally fraught with chaos, melodrama, agitation, indignity, and pain. But it pays more, is comparatively consistent and reliable, is generally conducted indoors, and doesn't put my life on the line by requiring me to share the road with dangerously inattentive and impatient dunderheads piloting world-devouring behemoths. And, well, as much as I tend to be critical of and dismissive of other people, it's nice sometimes to have co-workers to share some Canterbury Tales ribaldry with.

Yeah, I don't want to get some job wearing a damn polo shirt and a name tag, encouraging the infantilization of successful American consumers with my scripted dialog and sarcastic sycophancy. I also don't want to ride my bike surrounded by SUVs driven by imbeciles glued to their phones, eventually in ice and rain. I don't want to do anything, anything at all. I'm tired of life; I was tired of it decades ago, back when it was relatively cheap, beautiful, peaceful, and full of promise. All I see right now is repeated failures and persistent loneliness until my body falls apart on me — possibly fairly soon! — and I die, alone like an abandoned cat.

Big Mouth La La La La La La

Well, shit, I just can't be relaxed or keep a civil tongue about me anywhere, can I? I pretty much verbally flipped an office drone off earlier today, telling her “Well, you don't have to tip me, and I've already blacklisted this address from future delivery requests.” It's these fucking office buildings downtown. The security — hell, where the elevators are located, even — is different for each one: in some buildings you just cruise on up, but in other buildings you have to go through some kind of liaison or procedure. Senator Merkley happens to have an office in this building, so I ended up lost in a maze of some ugly computer interface ... my pole star being an utter lack of delivery directions.

The long story made short: I called her, the elevator finally came (lol for someone else, of course), I hung up after I told her it arrived, and upon hand-off the customer complained about me hanging up. The conversation was over: what about “Never mind! Here it is!” is so hard to understand? Imbecile! Most people have the social and life skills of boxcar rejects, really; it's just that some people keep their shitty jobs, some people's spouses don't cheat on them or divorce them, some manage to hide their ineptitude and laziness in the maze of middle-management politics, and a select few manage to enslave everyone around them — to leech off of and deflect accountability onto. It all could have been avoided if the fool had simply included in the delivery request instructions on how to use the security terminal to get her fucking food to her!

Still, I didn't need to point out to her that her lack of useful (okay, I was polite and said “explicit”) instructions caused the delay. Still, it was a double delivery, and the other shit was getting cold because some vapid cunt was being both retarded and lazy. And I'm sick and tired of how precious and infantilized American consumers have become; they just get more and more like children, with every passing year. Anyone ever read H.G. Wells? (That was one weird dude, for the times, by the way!) Remember the Morlocks and the Eloi from The Time Machine?

Look them up. They were very much like your standard-issue Starbucks chumps ... only infinitely more agreeable.

Hard for the Money

Gig work, such as the Postmates deliveries I'm currently doing, is a completely different animal to all the other denizens of the working world zoo I've encountered.

First of all, I'm self-employed (and a sole proprietor ... lol whatever exactly that means), so I'm paying more taxes. I won't have any actual numbers until February 2020 but my reading into the matter has led me to conclude that it'll amount to between twenty-five and thirty percent of my gross; as a wage laborer I would only pay about nineteen percent after the Earned Income Tax Credit, and by claiming three instead of two withholding deductions. I just recently talked to an IRS representative over the phone, and apparently I'm expected to file quarterly but ultimately what matters is that I have money set aside in a separate account at the end of the year — and that I make sure it's enough, as in probably around thirty-two percent of my gross. I don't drive, so I can't claim mileage for deduction purposes, which is unfortunate, but at the same time I'm not paying for gas and insurance, and maintenance and repairs are pretty cheap if I can keep my bike out of the shop.

From a straight fiscal perspective, that means if I want to earn the equivalent to say thirty weekly hours at minimum wage (soon to be $12.50/hour here in Portland), I'll need to gross about $550 hours a week, or about 105 deliveries (calculated at $5.25 average total per, including tip). No way in hell am I doing 17.5 deliveries a day (six days a week)! lol Least of all in the lean, brittly and blusterly cruel months of winter. At my most fit and motivated I'd do sixty deliveries a week, for $215 gross, or $925 monthly. The equivalent to twenty-one hours slinging Dippin Dots at Blazers games and concerts.

That's a lot of waiting around on call and a lot of weary miles ridden, a lot of maintenance and repairs, and a lot of exposure to the elements and to danger in traffic, for the pay ... but it's the trade-off I chose to make when I realized I wasn't cut out to slog through stadium customers. I set my own hours, don't have to wear a uniform or a smile — just look somewhat normal and keep the snarls tucked away inside — and there's no politics because there's no direct supervisor or any crew I'm a part of. I'm also not killing my legs and hips standing on that hard Moda Center concrete. But, I work harder for less money, am still lacking in career prestige in most circles, and that rotten King John is crawling up my bum! Also, I'm so autonomous, I feel about cut off from society as I did when I slept on loading docks and recycled for fast food and beer money; and so it's proving to be kind of tricky being responsible about my job.

I hardly even run into other delivery folk when I'm in Engage Number One! mode, so it's a strangely lonely existence as a member of working society. Which alienation is slightly exacerbated by the cold dismissal of many cashiers and servers, who probably rightly view me as a threat to their livelihood (not to mention I'm a lost opportunity for a tip). Not that I'm all about solidarity or community, but it's easier to feel accountable and like a contributor when you're unmistakably part of the working-world biomass instead of some shadow flitting in between the branches. So, just to give you an example, if I wanted to I could grab a six-pack of the Beast and crack one open in between deliveries in various parks ... maybe get lucky for a few weeks before I get into some asinine altercation or run down by a motorist because I'm drunk. At the very least, I wouldn't get fired that day.

Really, though, all I'm worried about is screwing up filing and paying my taxes, getting into a bad accident, or my bike getting trashed or stolen. I'll sort out the lifestyle conflicts eventually, and since the government's paying my rent I can even afford to get lazy about running deliveries whenever I feel stressed out or my leg joints get crabby on me (ugh! winter!). Besides, I haven't completely given up on wage slavery — I'm confident I'll have a steady part-time job by next summer. lol As in one that I'll keep.

Time to Curb the Bellicosity

The decade that begins in the mid-forties and ends in the mid-fifties just may be the most crucial decade in a person's life, if that person is getting a late and disadvantaged start in life and has mental health and addiction issues. Or so I'm just beginning to realize.

I say this because I'm having a hell of a time controlling my obnoxious combative behavior. It seems all I see in the world around me, or more specifically the human social world around me, are injustices and obstacles and enemies. And my immediate response is to shoot off my mouth and get argumentative or retaliatory insulting, even in small matters where it's obvious that diplomacy would be much more appropriate. Example: a misunderstanding at McDonald's last night resulted in me receiving two medium fries instead of two large fries, which had to be rectified because I was delivering other people's food. Instead of apologizing and asking if I can just pay the difference and they drop another medium fries in the bag (three of those roughly equal two larges), I grew insulting and demanding — just like those entitled imbecile parents I had to deal with at the Moda Center during the Christian concerts and Disney on Ice shows!

Not only am I occasionally being an overbearing and dehumanizing customer, but I've quickly become a belligerent cyclist, of the stripe that slaps the hood of a car because it's parked in the middle of E. Burnside Street. Sure, asshole shouldn't be parked there, but that asshole can also run me down and road rage is a very real thing. Besides, I'm new to city cycling, so even though I'm confident I'm generally obeying traffic laws, being courteous to pedestrians, and signaling and all that good stuff, I'm also sure I'm committing some stupid blunders that motorists aren't screaming and waving their fists at me over. It's foolish, childish, and ultimately disgraceful, self-harming, and stupidly unnecessary. In fact, I find it kind of embarrassing, that I'm starting to behave like this; it's like I never left the streets, and that chip on my shoulder is growing even when there's no good reason for it to exist in the first place.

So, yeah, I need to deal with this, because if I don't I'll rapidly approach the point of no return, where it's too late to try to make significant self-bettering changes. Neuroplasticity can only be carry you so far, especially when approaching old age. So, I'm going to record some affirmations to have my phone play over my headset every half hour, just to remind me to pay attention to and take ownership over myself a little better, at least until it becomes instinctively habitual to do so. I don't want to end up like Fred Sanford.

Gig Economy Worker

After nearly three and a half years I've left the world of wage slavery and have embarked on an adventure in the new gig economy.

I haven't had much luck with employment, ultimately flaking out on jobs because I've become something of a social problem in any group setting -- I just don't feel like putting up with any bullshit, and bullshit is one of the four pillars of the working world, or so it's always seemed. I mean, I'd probably do pretty well pushing a mop in that lonely schoolhouse in Little House on the Prairie ... but in the meantime I need to earn money somehow. And canning isn't much of an option anymore, considering how many people are at it and how many sources get locked away. So, I'm now a Postmates courier, and I may also become a Doordash "dasher". I even bought a bike for the purpose! A bike which may change my life more than just about anything has in decades.

I love the bike, but it's going to suck some considerable money out of me. I've already replaced a rear spoke and bought a rear rack and a couple locks, and at some point soon-ish I'll need to upgrade the seat post and saddle, replace the pedals, and figure out a new handlebar configuration that won't strain my broken wrist so much. And then there's the safety gear, like a visored helmet, some kind of mirror, and the lights and reflectors. lol Shit, I should probably insure the damn thing, too. And, I'm making less money. I'm technically a private contractor, so I'm going to pay out between 25% - 30% of my gross in taxes every year. The demand is somewhat whimsical-seeming, too; some days I'll be sitting around somewhere for a couple hours before a delivery request arises, other days I'll have back-to-back deliveries and even a few doubled up.

Getting into the money aspect of working for Postmates isn't what I want to do today. My brain is too tired to navigate that minotaur's lair.

But, yeah, fuck regular jobs, and the bike is FUN FUN FUN! I don't make much money delivering food, but I'm getting more exercise than I have in years and I'm not getting moody or weird on people at a job in some kitchen or behind a cash register somewhere. I do need to mellow out with the Road Warrior posturing, and I certainly can learn to better navigate urban street traffic and efficient locomotion, but for the time being at least I'm actually enjoying physical exertion and being outside my apartment. I'll make this gig delivery thing work somehow, and if I'm lucky I'll not get into any serious accidents and will end up looking good and getting healthy.