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.