DC Messenger pt. 1

“Too much sanity may be madness - and maddest, to see life as it is and not as it should be”

-Some Spanish Guy

*ALARM* 

6am. God damn it. Time to roll off of the layered blankets on the floor. My bed. Pull on unwashed spandex; in DC only fags ride bikes in cut-offs.

Something about a fit dude in tight shorts back in the day. Like a woman showing cleavage, gals eyes are usually distracted. If you’ve got the package, it’s better than a stupid pick up line. We used to make fun of the baggy shorts dudes. You’re either gay, or likely have a Vienna Sausage poking out.

Down the stairs. Every morning it’s the same – creaking steps, and the sounds of hung over, grumbling roommates being awakened. Out the door with my bike. The alley reeks of urine and dead rats. Spring.

I call in ’89 mobile’. The radio is Police surplus from the 80’s. A heavy, plastic encased brick holstered on my bags’ strap. And down we go….

All the work begins on a mile strip of K St NW. A gauntlet of tall, unoriginal architecture packed to the gills with attorneys, lobbyists, and marketeers eager to feed off of the chaos happening on Capitol Hill. It’s a largely transient lot. Recent grads from privileged backgrounds make up the bulk of the suit and tie workforce; Recent grads full of misplaced superiority complexes wearing expensive, poorly fitted business costumes for low paying internships, or post-grad, entry level coffee fetchers. They’re all assholes.

*89. Pick up at Jew and Irish, Esq 1701 K*. 

Great, I have to take a shit anyway.

There’s no public restrooms in DC, and forget about a café letting you use theirs without purchase. I’m not paying for yuppie-priced brew just to take a dump. Ride over, lock up, and into the abyss. I show my ID at the security desk. One constant: the desks are manned by the laziest, tubs of goo with no better hobby than smelling their own farts and questioning your credentials.

For fucks sake, every messenger has their ID printed and laminated in the courier office. Hardly an official City or Federally issued ID. This can be done at home. Commonly is done at someone’s apartment to remain anonymous when you finally have to tell a corporate handjob to get fucked.

First pick in the morning, I have to remove my bike shoes because some rich cunt has complained about the marks cleats make in the lobby. Great. Shoes off and over to the elevator. As the doors are closing, I give a shout ‘Hold the door.’ The prick inside is pushing with angry energy the Close Door button. Insert hand, bumpers hit, doors open. 

‘Thanks, dick’, looking him square in his black soul.

It’s an uncomfortable ride to the 6th floor. The door opens to reception and it turns out he’s an attorney for the firm I’m picking up from. I’m asked to wait. It’s a RUSH filing to Superior Court, but needs one last signature. I ask to use the restroom and am told it’s for clients only. 

Bitch. 

The RUSH package emerges held by Mr. Dick himself. ‘See…you actually tried to keep me from picking your Rush delivery. What the fuck?’ By the time I get back on the sidewalk, before unlocking my bike, I get a call over my radio. 

*89*

’89, copy’

*You’re banned from 1701 K St NW, I’ll let the afternoon dispatch know*

I wanted to go back with this now desperate shit and deposit it in that motherfuckers’ office. 

Off I go.

I make a few more stops along the way. It’s always the same. Rude security, snarky receptionist with overwhelming perfume that would put a Hispanic waitress to shame. Amazingly, the busy city streets were the easy part.

Before bike lanes, there was room for everyone. Few honks or fingers, and with traffic signals every block, you were simply part of the flow. No one cared if you split lanes. Drivers were happy to let you through. It’s the pedestrians that were monsters. Zero awareness. A false sense of security that they were precious in the roadway, regardless of the light cycle. The cyclist - jaywalker collisions were the most prominent. Generally, self-important shitheads claiming right of way.  God forbid you collide with a woman. Then the hero’s swarm, eager to tell that courier what a piece of shit they think they are.

The Abercrombie & Fitch crowd don’t like messengers. Messengers bang the interns, not the flesh-sticks with pressed pants. It was a glorious time to be alive.

*89, proceed to the courthouse.  Call 10-8 when you’re clear. I have two dozen Congressional Records for pick up at the GPO*

Thanks, dick.

In peak season they were the size of phone books, back when such a thing existed. You weren't paid by the pound. 24 envelopes would be the same rate. But fuck it. It was nearly impossible to get fired from that job back then and I wouldn't have lasted anywhere else. And pre 9/11 made it great pay for a dude with a pink, spray painted mohawk. Hey, cheaper than hair dye and gel, man.

Modern couriers are fucking pussies.