A Life on the Road (pt. 1)
So, for whatever reason (shame), I haven't really come out and said (admitted) what it is I do for a living. I am, for lack of a better job, a courier. Yes, tragic, I know. Perhaps a step above Pizza Hut delivery boy, but mostly it is a lateral move. So be it. I am as God made me. Anyway, I figured that I'd illustrate just what it is I do by taking you on a step-by-step account of what I did today, which was, by and large, a typical day (unlike yesterday, which found me running back and forth inside and outside Santa Anita race track, trying to figure out where the fuck I left my car, followed immediately by a quick jaunt over to the Jet Propulsion Lab). Okay, here goes:
7:00 AM - Wake up, shave, shower, try to force myself to shit.
8:00 - Via walky-talky (or two-way telepager, or whatever it is the kids call them), I contact the office (or, as we call it, "base") and tell the dispatcher I'm ready to go. He tells me to contact him when I've reached Beverly Hills.
8:20 - I park on a residential block of El Camino, press the button on the side of the walky-talky, wait for the specific beep that let's me know I'm getting through, announce myself with a quick, "747 to base" (I am driver 747). "Go ahead, 747," replies Mike, the head dispatcher. "Just checking in from Beverly Hills," I tell him. "Oh," I add, "is it too late to give you cash and have you tear up that check I gave you the other day?" (I'd borrowed $30 on Monday so I could fill my tank, and in exchange had given them a post-dated check, which would have bounced had they tried to depositi it). He tells me he'll see if the check is still around, and to stand by, which means sit there for 10-15 minutes, then call again to remind him I exist. I say, "10-4," turn off the engine, and sit back and listen to Howard Stern try to get some British chick to show him her tits.
8:35 - Just as I'm about to call base, the walky-talky beeps and a message appears telling me that I have a message (besides the one telling me I have a message). The message instructs me to go to a law firm that serendipitously happens to be just two blocks from where I'm parked. I start the car and go half a block before the walkty-talky beeps and a voice says, "747." I pull over again. "Yeah, 747 here," I say into the thing. "Hey, cancel that order and head up to the office and I'll give you that check back." "10-4," I say, then pull back out into the street and continue driving north up El Camino. Another half black, and a thought crosses my mind. I try to page the office, but Dispatcher 1 is not available. I drive the next block and a half and park next to the building where I was originally supposed to make the pick-up. I try the office again, and this time get through. I tell the dispatcher I'm right at 120 S. El Camino if he still wants me to make the pick-up. He tells me to go ahead, so I do. It is a small, fairly old, fairly typical Beverly Hills office building (there are two kinds of office buildings in Beverly Hills--the high-profile type, and the type that looks like something from a '40s detective movie. This one is the latter). I find my quarry in the form of a manilla envelope taped to an office door, grab it, go back down to my car, and drive out to the office, on a shabby stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard in Westwood.
9:00 - I park in front of the broken meter in front of the base and go up to the office. Mike does not have change, so I run back down to the liquor store on the corner and break a twenty, run back up and exchange a ten and a twenty for my check, which I tear up and throw in the trash can. I also pick up the paycheck that had, I learned the day before, been sitting around for the better part of two weeks--my first day on the job was the last day of the pay period, so it was only for one day of work, and I was under the impression it would just be included in my next check. The way the system works is that drivers get two checks each payday, as 59% of our income is paid as a reimbursement, and is thus tax-free. This has something to do with our being independent contractors, but it's prety much Greek to me. Whatever the case, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I made about $75 for my first day, which is better than I thought, considering I only made six deliveries and spent much of the day confused. Anway, with that shit taken care of, the dispatcher tells me to drop off the package I'd picked up, so I do.
9:15 - A friendly parking attendent lets me park for free in the underground lot at the Beverly Hills Superior Courthouse "this one time," because I did what I always do and looked bewildered and just about ready to cry when he told me that there was no free parking for deliveries. I go upstairs and go through the typical courthouse rigamarole of emptying my pockets and taking off my belt for the x-ray machine, go through the metal detector, put my belt back on, and head upstairs to one of the courtrooms, which is locked. Folowing the instructions the were paged to me, I go up to the clerk area. There is a long wait while the woman in front of me fills out approximately five hundred million pages worth of documents. At onwe of the other counters, a young black man is literaly pleading his case to one of the clerks, talking about how some traffic ticket he got was an injustice. From what I could tell, he wasted a lot of time and energy in the process. While this is happening, a crazy old white woman comes in and stands behind me and says something indecipherable in a chatty, conversational way to someone who, as far as I could tell, was not there. Meanwhile, another young black man goes up to the counter next to the one where the guy is arguing his traffic ticket. The two apparently know each other, as the newcomer shouts over to him, "Hey, good to see you, Baby Face." At which the old woman says in a loud, sincere voice (and I should add that this is a small room), "Did you say that to me?" The guy who said it stares at her with the must baffled look I've ever seen, then breaks out laughing. I continue to stand and wait. Eventually, it's my turn. I hand over the envelope, the clerk stamps my sheet, and I leave.
10:00 - I've parked on the street a couple blocks from the courthouse. I recieved a page telling me to make a pick-up over at the Lifetime Network (I've been there many times these past couple weeks, and I stopped making jokes after the first time, when I asked the young, male receptionist if Meredith Baxter-Birney comes in a lot, to which he answered with a sincere but puzzled, "No, not that I know of." Also, in the little candy bowl at the reception desk there, they keep individually wrapped Velamints, which somehow seems perfect). Just as soon as I've written the details of the picl-u and delivery into my manifest sheet, a voice comes over the walky-talky telling me the order's been cacnelled, and to head on down to Culver City. As I make my way there, a page comes through telling me the specifics of the job. I use my time at red lights to check my map, and soon enough I am at Mobius Productions. A moderately atractive receptionist buzzes me in, and I tell her what I'm there for. She calls my contact person, who tells her to have me wait. While I wait, I try to chat with her. She is vaguely amenable to talikng with me. There is a poster for a recent Pierce Brosnan - Julianne Moore movie on the wall, which this company produced. She tells me she did not see it, but her mother liked it. Looking at the poster, I say that it looks awfully cute, in maybe not the nicest tone. She tells me it's about two rival lawyers who fall in love. "That sounds horrible," I say, unable to control myself. "Well, my mother liked it, and she doesn't like many movies," the girl counters weakly before picking up the phone and asking my contact if he thinks I just just leave. Feelng unwelcome, I sit down and flip through a copy of Variety. Soon, the receptionist tells me that my contact knows nothing about this package I'm there to pick up, so 'bye. I go outside, contact base, and am given a different name to mention. I wait to get buzzed back in, the receptionist talks to the contact again, and again, nothing. I call base back, the dispatcher utters a dirty word, then tells me he'll page me whht something else for Culver City.
10:35 - I pick up a package at Sony Studios. Nothing interesting happens. I am instructed to head to El Segundo, so I do, accidentally missing the ramp for the 405, but nonetheless able to reach my destination quickly and pleasantly, thanks to a fast-moving Culver Blvd. and a scenically delightful Vista del Mar, finally getting to see the ocean for the first time in the nearly three weeks I've had this job. I make my pick-up in this small, depressing talent management office I've been to several times already, and then immediately recieve two more pages for El Segundo. En route to the next pick-up, I witness the aftermath of a devestating collision between an 18-wheeler and a cargo van. I cannot say for sure what the details were, but I can say with some certainty that the van lost. I arrive at my next point, wrangle my way into the loading zone, and get a call telling me the delivery's been cancelled. So I go to the next place, Mattel, make my way through their Barbie-lined lobby, and go back to my car and get a tan through the sunroof while I await further orders. It is now noon, and I have had nothing to eat or drink all day except cigarettes.
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Okay, we're at the halfway point (time-wise, anyway), and I really ought to be trying to wind down so's I can get a good night's rest for tomorry. Join me next time, won't you? Please?
7:00 AM - Wake up, shave, shower, try to force myself to shit.
8:00 - Via walky-talky (or two-way telepager, or whatever it is the kids call them), I contact the office (or, as we call it, "base") and tell the dispatcher I'm ready to go. He tells me to contact him when I've reached Beverly Hills.
8:20 - I park on a residential block of El Camino, press the button on the side of the walky-talky, wait for the specific beep that let's me know I'm getting through, announce myself with a quick, "747 to base" (I am driver 747). "Go ahead, 747," replies Mike, the head dispatcher. "Just checking in from Beverly Hills," I tell him. "Oh," I add, "is it too late to give you cash and have you tear up that check I gave you the other day?" (I'd borrowed $30 on Monday so I could fill my tank, and in exchange had given them a post-dated check, which would have bounced had they tried to depositi it). He tells me he'll see if the check is still around, and to stand by, which means sit there for 10-15 minutes, then call again to remind him I exist. I say, "10-4," turn off the engine, and sit back and listen to Howard Stern try to get some British chick to show him her tits.
8:35 - Just as I'm about to call base, the walky-talky beeps and a message appears telling me that I have a message (besides the one telling me I have a message). The message instructs me to go to a law firm that serendipitously happens to be just two blocks from where I'm parked. I start the car and go half a block before the walkty-talky beeps and a voice says, "747." I pull over again. "Yeah, 747 here," I say into the thing. "Hey, cancel that order and head up to the office and I'll give you that check back." "10-4," I say, then pull back out into the street and continue driving north up El Camino. Another half black, and a thought crosses my mind. I try to page the office, but Dispatcher 1 is not available. I drive the next block and a half and park next to the building where I was originally supposed to make the pick-up. I try the office again, and this time get through. I tell the dispatcher I'm right at 120 S. El Camino if he still wants me to make the pick-up. He tells me to go ahead, so I do. It is a small, fairly old, fairly typical Beverly Hills office building (there are two kinds of office buildings in Beverly Hills--the high-profile type, and the type that looks like something from a '40s detective movie. This one is the latter). I find my quarry in the form of a manilla envelope taped to an office door, grab it, go back down to my car, and drive out to the office, on a shabby stretch of Santa Monica Boulevard in Westwood.
9:00 - I park in front of the broken meter in front of the base and go up to the office. Mike does not have change, so I run back down to the liquor store on the corner and break a twenty, run back up and exchange a ten and a twenty for my check, which I tear up and throw in the trash can. I also pick up the paycheck that had, I learned the day before, been sitting around for the better part of two weeks--my first day on the job was the last day of the pay period, so it was only for one day of work, and I was under the impression it would just be included in my next check. The way the system works is that drivers get two checks each payday, as 59% of our income is paid as a reimbursement, and is thus tax-free. This has something to do with our being independent contractors, but it's prety much Greek to me. Whatever the case, I was pleasantly surprised to see that I made about $75 for my first day, which is better than I thought, considering I only made six deliveries and spent much of the day confused. Anway, with that shit taken care of, the dispatcher tells me to drop off the package I'd picked up, so I do.
9:15 - A friendly parking attendent lets me park for free in the underground lot at the Beverly Hills Superior Courthouse "this one time," because I did what I always do and looked bewildered and just about ready to cry when he told me that there was no free parking for deliveries. I go upstairs and go through the typical courthouse rigamarole of emptying my pockets and taking off my belt for the x-ray machine, go through the metal detector, put my belt back on, and head upstairs to one of the courtrooms, which is locked. Folowing the instructions the were paged to me, I go up to the clerk area. There is a long wait while the woman in front of me fills out approximately five hundred million pages worth of documents. At onwe of the other counters, a young black man is literaly pleading his case to one of the clerks, talking about how some traffic ticket he got was an injustice. From what I could tell, he wasted a lot of time and energy in the process. While this is happening, a crazy old white woman comes in and stands behind me and says something indecipherable in a chatty, conversational way to someone who, as far as I could tell, was not there. Meanwhile, another young black man goes up to the counter next to the one where the guy is arguing his traffic ticket. The two apparently know each other, as the newcomer shouts over to him, "Hey, good to see you, Baby Face." At which the old woman says in a loud, sincere voice (and I should add that this is a small room), "Did you say that to me?" The guy who said it stares at her with the must baffled look I've ever seen, then breaks out laughing. I continue to stand and wait. Eventually, it's my turn. I hand over the envelope, the clerk stamps my sheet, and I leave.
10:00 - I've parked on the street a couple blocks from the courthouse. I recieved a page telling me to make a pick-up over at the Lifetime Network (I've been there many times these past couple weeks, and I stopped making jokes after the first time, when I asked the young, male receptionist if Meredith Baxter-Birney comes in a lot, to which he answered with a sincere but puzzled, "No, not that I know of." Also, in the little candy bowl at the reception desk there, they keep individually wrapped Velamints, which somehow seems perfect). Just as soon as I've written the details of the picl-u and delivery into my manifest sheet, a voice comes over the walky-talky telling me the order's been cacnelled, and to head on down to Culver City. As I make my way there, a page comes through telling me the specifics of the job. I use my time at red lights to check my map, and soon enough I am at Mobius Productions. A moderately atractive receptionist buzzes me in, and I tell her what I'm there for. She calls my contact person, who tells her to have me wait. While I wait, I try to chat with her. She is vaguely amenable to talikng with me. There is a poster for a recent Pierce Brosnan - Julianne Moore movie on the wall, which this company produced. She tells me she did not see it, but her mother liked it. Looking at the poster, I say that it looks awfully cute, in maybe not the nicest tone. She tells me it's about two rival lawyers who fall in love. "That sounds horrible," I say, unable to control myself. "Well, my mother liked it, and she doesn't like many movies," the girl counters weakly before picking up the phone and asking my contact if he thinks I just just leave. Feelng unwelcome, I sit down and flip through a copy of Variety. Soon, the receptionist tells me that my contact knows nothing about this package I'm there to pick up, so 'bye. I go outside, contact base, and am given a different name to mention. I wait to get buzzed back in, the receptionist talks to the contact again, and again, nothing. I call base back, the dispatcher utters a dirty word, then tells me he'll page me whht something else for Culver City.
10:35 - I pick up a package at Sony Studios. Nothing interesting happens. I am instructed to head to El Segundo, so I do, accidentally missing the ramp for the 405, but nonetheless able to reach my destination quickly and pleasantly, thanks to a fast-moving Culver Blvd. and a scenically delightful Vista del Mar, finally getting to see the ocean for the first time in the nearly three weeks I've had this job. I make my pick-up in this small, depressing talent management office I've been to several times already, and then immediately recieve two more pages for El Segundo. En route to the next pick-up, I witness the aftermath of a devestating collision between an 18-wheeler and a cargo van. I cannot say for sure what the details were, but I can say with some certainty that the van lost. I arrive at my next point, wrangle my way into the loading zone, and get a call telling me the delivery's been cancelled. So I go to the next place, Mattel, make my way through their Barbie-lined lobby, and go back to my car and get a tan through the sunroof while I await further orders. It is now noon, and I have had nothing to eat or drink all day except cigarettes.
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Okay, we're at the halfway point (time-wise, anyway), and I really ought to be trying to wind down so's I can get a good night's rest for tomorry. Join me next time, won't you? Please?
posted by Rob at
12:09 AM
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