Getting paid for what I like to do puts things in perspective.
It makes the daily nuisances of delivery work seem silly.
Earlier this week I had a moment with K. Harris.
She works in the mailroom of Draft-FCB, an ad agency.
For years she's been salty and unpleasant.
When I arrived to deliver 3 portfolios, she was immediately annoyed that she had to put her phone conversation on hold.
"Who are those for?" she scowled.
My hands were full. I couldn't see the name tags.
Her desk was covered in papers.
"Draft," I answered.
She raised her voice.
"I KNOW! BUT WHO ARE THEY FOR!?"
I plopped them on her littered desk. One of them was embroidered with a woman's name.
"Kitty," I fake guessed.
"YEAH, BUT WHO ARE THESE FOR?"
We stared at each other with contempt.
Yes, I could have checked the name tags before I walked into that room.
But she has also been in that mailroom for years.
She knows how to read a name tag, too.
She's a big girl now.
I fumbled for the name tag and read the name.
I tossed my manifest on her desk for her to sign.
"Number 2, please."
She stared at me hard.
She wanted to punch me.
I wanted to punch her.
I'm all for equality.
"What. What's that look?" I probed.
"That's what I'm trying to figure out," she snapped back.
Whatever that means.
I decided to clear the air.
"You're always in a bad mood. Good luck with your life."
I let that moment upset me for a while until it vanished in the concentration and fun of Second City rehearsal.
But today I did not have the luxury of a Second City rehearsal.
Or Bitter Tears, or Nurse Novels, or Tijuana Hercules.
Today I was a delivery driver only.
This time I was delivering four portfolios to Cramer Krasselt, another ad agency.
I parked in a space in the loading dock.
While getting the portfolios together, the dock security guard walked over and motioned for me to move my car to another spot 20 feet over. This seemed silly and I made the mistake of rolling my eyes. He gave me the "Oh no you didn't" look. I prepared myself for the awesomeness I was about to endure.
I signed the delivery log and proceeded to the security office.
"How can I help you today, sir?"
I told him I was delivering the portfolios.
"Are you making a delivery or installing equipment?"
He eyed the portfolios suspiciously like a bad actor.
I laughed at his acting, and assured him that I was delivering the portfolios.
"I need to see an ID."
I gave him my driver's license.
"You signed the wrong sheet. I'm going to have to ask you to sign in on the correct sheet."
I did not bother to point out that every other messenger had also signed "the wrong sheet" and that nobody had signed "the correct sheet." Obviously we were well into his awesome game of trying to hold me up. I laughed and happily signed the sheet.
"Are you okay?"
I told him I was great.
"Now I need to see an ID."
I pointed to the ID I had already given him.
"Are you sure you're okay?"
I told him I could do this all day.
He held me up some more regarding which floor I was going to, and I laughed and laughed some more.
Once on the elevator I wondered what his life is lacking. He must be masking some sort of pain. I wanted to ask him on my way out. But I didn't. I just smiled at him with a pinch of homosexuality and he looked annoyed while returning my ID.
Unfortunately, the smiling and laughing ended there.
I let the incident fester in mind.
The day wore on.
I felt surrounded by anger in an ugly city of assholes.
And the day wore on.
I had these hateful thoughts:
* Just because you think you're hot doesn't mean you can drink your Starbucks in the middle of the fucking street, you female asshole.
* Your shitty asshole driving is gonna to make your rear view mirror Jesus vomit
* That FCB mailroom girl needs to taste her own blood in her mouth
It can get dark and wrong in the van sometimes.
Rush Limbaugh! The Musical will not run forever.
When it ends the daily nuisances of delivery work may seem daunting.