He hadn't heard back from the office job.
Last year he had freelanced with them as a humor writer.
On Thursday, he reconnected with them.
"We're not hiring humor writers right now," the email said, "but you might be interested in applying for the details writer position."
He was very interested, and said so in his reply.
Monday began with a van job: two boxes and a three foot tall case picking up from a worldwide accounting firm and going to the Fairmont Hotel.
On Friday another delivery driver had delivered 22 boxes to the hotel, but three of them were not accounted for.
His pager beeped.
"TONY, THE PERSON IN REC AT FAIRMONT THAT SIGNED FOR 22 BOXES ON FRIDAY WAS SHERMAN, IF YOU COULD TAKE A LOOK AND SEE IF THERE ARE ANY BOXES IN THE REC ROOM WITH NUMBERS 16,17,18 AND LET ME KNOW."
People make fun of pagers.
He liked his pager.
It had a full qwerty keyboard and can send and receive emails.
And he didn't have to talk into it.
He never misread anything on his pager.
He never had to type "what?" on his pager.
He never stepped on anyone's sentences with his pager.
"ten4" he replied.
The page didn't go through.
"Unless you're with AT&T, you won't get any reception down here."
The loading dock guy.
"You're deep in the bowels."
The loading dock guy was looking to escape the small fluorescent hell of his cramped, paper riddled work closet, and gladly led him on a search party for these who cares accounting boxes.
They checked The Regal Room and The Crystal Room. All these important rooms contained were last week's Reader and nothing.
While combing the spacious Imperial Ballroom they both noticed a large roadie case.
On it was stenciled the words RAPE CONTROL.
Double and triple takes.
The ballroom was hosting a big college jobs summit thing for the worldwide accounting firm.
"No wonder they want those missing boxes so badly," he said.
"Evidence," the loading dock guy added.
They later learned that a nylon strap had covered a "D" in the stenciling.
So it should have said RAPED CONTROL.
No.
DRAPE CONTROL.
Still, he and the loading dock guy did "rape control" bits the whole way back to the bowels.
He drove around doing peanuts work.
He hated these shitty, worthless daily runs.
He didn't want to "keep busy".
Two hours in hot, frustrating, shitty, city traffic: $10.
He'd rather be reading or writing or working on music for $0.
He didn't recall his summers as a bike messenger being quite as miserable as this.
Maybe because he used to find an air conditioned place to wait out the slow days.
Or a bench in the shade for an afternoon nap.
There was no escape in the van.
The sun was always on.
His left arm was seven shades darker than his right arm.
He put in a Run DMC mix.
It was all stuff from the first two albums.
Pre-Aerosmith Run DMC.
He rapped along with it loudly.
Microphone master super rhyme maker
I get def as the others get faker
It's me DMC in the place to be
And I still got the same old harmony
His windows were down in Bridgeport.
Connected Daley underlings, douchey guidos, and working class blacks walked in the heat.
Some noticed the minivan blaring outdated, G-rated rhymes with a white weirdo yelling along.
In case you're wonderin' what all this means
We're funky fresh from Hollis, Queens
Some didn't.
He parked in a loading zone for the Wrigley Building.
On lower Hubbard across from the Billy Goat Tavern he could get free wi-fi.
Still no word from the writing job.
In ten years he had seen the messenger industry go from lucrative to pathetic.
He used to take pride in being a messenger.
Well, a bike messenger at least.
Traffic meant nothing.
He was in the best shape of his life.
Some people found him sexy.
He had a little money.
People don't use messengers as much as they once did.
There's a device named The Internet that takes care of document delivery needs.
It's free.
Last week his paycheck after work expenses was $275.
He is fifteen pounds heavier.
Ten years more miserable.
He missed bike messengering.
Or so he thought.
Maybe he missed that time in his life when riding a bike and spending his paychecks at the bar was enough to make him content.
He snickered.
Was he really just longing for fucking emptiness?
Verdict: Loss
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