When I turned 30-years-old I became a bike messenger just a little bit for the hell of it. I didn’t feel like drinking alcohol any more, so I simply rode my bicycle for many hours on many cups of coffee. I would keep that mischievous approach to sobriety for nine and a half years, all through earning a masters degree in English and becoming a university teacher.
I remember the look on my radio dispatchers face when he saw me wobble up the stairs to reach in under the thick plexi-glass and take the portable radio to fit snugly into a sewn slot on my shoulder, on an expensive messenger bag that I had just bought. He visibly smirked. As did others when they saw me squirrel off on a dilapidated rusty one speed bike. But sure enough though the winter winds carried me swiftly. My number was 341 and I called in to base–my young, hip, and smart dispatcher, Roger, probably 20-years-old or so. I delivered the first one pretty quickly.
“341 to base. All clean,” I cackled over the radio, shocked I could figure out how to use the thing.
“341? That you?” a curious Roger responded.
“Yeah. All clean.” This meant I had picked up and dropped off the one package.
He paused and then gave me three packages to pick up. The first run he just gave me one to see if I would ever return. This time he staggered the pick ups close by in address just to see how quickly I could move. Also, he was an excellent dispatcher–calm and friendly even though sometimes he would have a hundred tags staring at him and ten bicyclists waiting to move into action.
Ten minutes later I checked in.
“341 to base,” I chortled, trying to catch my breathe.
“341?! Is that you?” Roger said, honestly surprised.
“Yes, sir,” I responded. He played casual and told me to drop them off. But my next call in he was ready. This time he gave me a load of tags and my speed, it turned out, wasn’t a fluke. I could ride.
I remember those days as the most carefree of my life. Adrenalin always pumping and yet I could watch people: cheating couples on a clandestine coffee break, pin-striped business executives stressed and cagey–male or female, administrative folks watching the clock intensely and happy for a break to chat with the messenger.
And, of course, I grew to love the city even more. So many side streets, obscure cafes, high-end bistros, and skyscrapers. I remember once delivering a package to the 39th floor in the TransAmerica Building. This was pre-911, so anyone could travel that high. I hear that today you can only make it to the 25th. I took the first elevator to this level and then had to cross a hallway to a different elevator to travel the remaining floors. Walking into that office and handing the package to the female executive sitting behind a massive polished cherry wood desk, I remember how small she looked with so much ocean and free fall space behind her.
Every morning a truly motley crew would say good morning to their dispatcher and grab a radio, each side grumbling about the early 7 a.m. hour. And off we went into the cool weather and day’s adventures. I began that job in the rain, which continued to fall the first month I worked. Still, I earned around $425 a week after taxes. Actually turns out that Aero Messenger service forgot to pay their employee taxes and so they eventually went under.
I remember the rain so well and actually thought about those bicycling days when I walked to my car through the pouring rain this morning. When I began as a bike messenger, I also started the tradition to volunteer on Thanksgiving day. I haven’t gone every year, but pretty close, so today I strolled into St. Martin de Porres on Potrero Street in San Francisco to reserve a volunteer spot. This special day brings out the folks who only volunteer one day a year, so you need to make a reservation just as you would if dining at a fine restaurant. Usually we serve any where from 300 to 500 free turkey meals to all walks of people.
For example, today I saw someone who I remember from my bike messenger days. When we rode together he looked like Forest Gump except with blond hair, freckles, and crystal clear blue eyes. He had a reputation as a steady rider–not too fast, not too slow but super reliable, never flaking out or losing a package. That would happen since messengers are not the most sober lot. But this guy was so clean cut you could bounce a quarter off his tightly ironed oxford shirt buttoned to the top. I would guess his age around 25-years-old at the time.
This morning he wore a faded brown wool suit without a tie and penny loafers. Oily stains were visible on several spots. For a second I thought I saw a shadow of recognition in his eyes when he stared at me by accident. But perhaps not because his eyes quickly clouded over no longer looking crystal clear or blue, and he retraced his steps as if he couldn’t remember which direction to go. His skin looked worn down by sun and outside weather. Yet he retained the same Leave-it-to-Beaver haircut, smoothly pressed and cleanly parted to the side. He hadn’t gained a pound of weight.
How strange the trajectory of a life. A day is so long and a year is so short. Where had his years gone to? Fourteen years is not a short period of time and yet here he was again, looking altogether different and still the same. Maybe I will hear his story when I return next Thursday. For that I would give thanks on Thanksgiving as I count my blessings especially that I still love to ride a bicycle although now just for pleasure not intensity. Gratitude probably mellows you a touch.
