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.

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.