[LEMONS] 5.29.2002
The Principle of the thing
"Everyone has a dream job that they'd take if money was no object. Mine is to be a bike messenger" -- mth,10-31-2001Not long after I moved to California, I was standing in front of the Mother Jones' office on Market Street, smoking a cigarette and watching the street. I saw a pickup truck delivery guy zoom past a bike messenger, cut in front of him, and then brake hard and move towards the curb. The action nearly hit the messenger, smashing him between the truck and the curb. It sent him tumbling over his bars, as he avoided getting hit. The driver got out of the car, and looked back at the carnage. Immediately, another messenger came up from behind, and smacked the pickup truck driver a fresh one in the nose. There was a minor scuffle, lots of yelling, and then it was done. I was incredibly impressed. Not by the fighing, but by the fact that the messengers were willing to fight for each other.
In October, I thought messenger work didn't pay enough. Today, I need the money. I'm broke. Make that Broke. I need earn some money in a big way.
Let me reiterate that, just in case it wasn't clear: I. Need. Money.
So a month or so ago, when I saw an ad that a messenger serive was hiring, I jumped at the chance and filled out an application. I heard back on Friday. "Can you come in three days next week?" Sure. Hell yeah. Will it lead to any permanent positions there? "It could, yes."
I was tremendously excited. Bring the pain. Bring the work. I detest sitting around and turning pasty and flaccid. I like labor, always have. Plus, there are few things I enjoy more than the Market Street thrill-ride. It reminds me I'm alive. It tests me. I pass. I win.
So naturally, I was pumped about the gig. I told all my friends. I dropped my bike off at the shop and got it tuned up. I envisioned myself whizzing through the streets, pedaling hard up hills, possibly whacking a taxi with my Krypotonite as I rode by. In fact, it seemed like such a helluva thing to do I even pitched Slate on it to see if I could write it up as a Diary.
And then, yesterday, the messenger service called. "I just want to explain the situation a bit more. You see, the reason we need people coming in is because our workers might strike, and we need backup if they do. Is that a problem?" I paused. I swallowed. I thought for a second. I really want this job, I really want to do it. Fucking shit I can taste it I want it so badly. And besides, come on, I need money in big way. I mean, really need it. And most messengers are just kids, right? They probably don't have families, right? No that's not a problem.
This is how I feel, maybe it's not true, but it's what I think. Most people are weak. Incredibly so. Most people don't have the courage of their convictions; they say one thing and do another. Hypocrites and ethical wimps. They're unworthy of respect from themselves or others. Certainly from me. Moral failures, concerned only with themselves. Concerned only with making a buck, rather than ethics and their duty to their fellow man. I don't want to be one of those people, those people are sad and die without meaning. I've always told myself that I won't be one of those people. That I will have the courage of my convictions, that I will do the hard things, the unpopular things. The things that I don't want to do, but that need to be done, or just should be. It's where I derive most of my self-worth. But sometimes. Sometimes, you have to do what you have to do, right?
This is something I really want. This is something that I need, for the money. This is what I've been trying to break into for several months now. Besides, the strike angle just makes it that much more likely that I can sell the story to Slate. And so I called her back a few hours later. And I told her. I'm sorry. I can't do it. That's not something I feel comfortable getting in the middle of. Sorry I didn't tell you sooner.
So I Still. Need. Money. But I have my self-respect. Plenty of it.
- l i n k -
