First Day

by Mike Jursic

Moving Target, Spring 1997, issue 23

The Friday before Thanksgiving was such a beautiful day. The leaves had all turned but it was sunny and warm enough that I was just wearing a tee-shirt and shorts. I made a bunch of phone calls to courier companies that had been recommended to me by the first group of couriers that I dared approach on the street and was turned down by all of them when I mentioned that I had experience in Vancouver (a lie). But finally the Messengers hired me. It was a job, I was happy, even despite the warnings given by the couriers about the uniform requirement of the company, and I was looking forward to starting on Tuesday morning. Monday night, it was still beautiful, and Craig, the guy I was staying with at the time, and I went out for a beer. We sat on the patio of the Sticky Wicket on Spadina and reflected how nice it would be to be outdoors all the time.

Later on that night, I was awakened by a loud crash that sounded like thunder. "'Couldn't be , I blearily told myself as I rolled over and went back to sleep. It was. I woke up to another, louder crack, as the alarm clock went off, and Craig and I had breakfast together, neither of us saying anything.

When we arrived at the office, we were greet ed by this morose looking man who introduced himself as Dave. He took five of us into this damp little room, and began to impart upon us his impressions of the ins and outs of the courier business. Don't miss any calls. John hates that. Write everything down. Call from every location, in case he has something there for you. Any questions so far? None? Okay, we'll plow on.", He started telling us this bizarre story about some guy "who didn‘t remem ber to call from the office that he'd just picked up in. He was kinda new, and none too smart, lemmee tell you. So he gets this piece on, it's goin to Agincourt or some god-awful place like that, and the next thing John hears from this guy is a phone-call from Agincourt telling him that the piece has been delivered, and what next. John tells him 'Son, you just rode twenty miles for your cut of five bucks. I don't have anything out there for you, so you'd better start bringing it back into the core.' The guy loses it, but what can he do? He‘s the one who made the mistake, he's the one who pays. Remember, you always pay for your mistakes in this business." Dave went on like this for about two hours, and didn‘t really have anything to say to us but repeated warnings. The way he made it sound, bike couriers had to be as fast as jet planes, as smart as rocket scientists: "This job's not for just anyone, you know. You folks were chosen."

Thus prepared, three of us left without ever starting work. He‘d scared them off with his talk, but Craig and I stayed on, got assigned numbers, and waited for someone to come into the office to show us the ropes. This tall, quiet sounding guy with a thatch of bleached hair an the top of his head came in all wet from the rain, smiling ingratiatingly around the office. Dave went over to him.

"Steve," he said, "This is...Mike?...Mike. Show him the ropes, eh?"

Thus dismissed, I began my first day as a bike courier in the big city. What Dave hadn‘t told us of were the practical details. He'd generalized so much that by the end of the two hours we'd spent in that damp room, far from having even a modicum of practical knowledge, all we had was a tremendous fear of fucking up.

Before Steve and I parted company, he gave me the best advice anyone gave me that day. "Man, you gotta loosen up. It's only a job." I started out on my own, trying unsuccessfuily to keep Steve‘s advice in mind. The day was awful. To this day,three years after, I don't recall a more miserable day (other than the four blizzards I worked through) than my first day. It was cold and it rained all day. I told myself about every ten minutes that I probably wouldn't finish out the week, but I was damned if I'd quit before the day was out.

By the end of the day, I‘d done about ten calls, and knocked the mirror off of the right side of a cab with my handle bar. He picked it up and scurried back to his cab, believing it to be his fault, mumbling Sorry, sorry", his tires squealing off (as much as tires can squeal in the pouring rain) down Bay Street.

I came into the office, my whole body, including the inside of my knapsack and all of the overnights there, was soaked to the bone. The overnight man, identified by a cheery looking badge that said NIALL", looked at the four envelopes I‘d laid down on the table, looked at me grimly, and said, deadpan, in an Irish brogue:

"They're soaked. We can't deliver 'em this way." "I'll go get John.

Of course, that was Dave. ‘Good old fire-and-brimstone, hell-to-pay Dave’, I remember sardonically thinking, as I waited there shivering, not knowing what to do with my hands, wondering if they would make me pay for the ru ined pieces before they fired me.

John came out, followed by Dave. His tie was undone, and there were sweat stains under the arms of his tan shirt, He was smoking, and telling Dave crossly that it had better be impor tant, because he was busy. Dave pointed at the packages and said pointing at me, These are his".

John looked at the packages. You could see that he was growing angry even looking at them. He looked at me, then back at the soaked pieces I‘d brought in. He laoked at Dave then at Niall, both of whom looked back and shrugged, then exchanged furtive, conspiratorial glances. John began to speak.

Where they goin‘?" Montreal,one and three for the core", said Niall "Dry ‘em off." "But ",began Dave, You!",John said sourly, looking intensely it me and pointing the two fingers that held the cigarette. I squirmed, avoided his glare for a second, collected myself, then looked him full in the eye knowing the axe would fall. "Helluva day out there.", he remarked casually.

Yes, sir, helluva day.", I agreed, sneaking a glance at the soiled papers on the table and noticing that Niall had tentatively found something else to do, but was, like Dave, keeping an ear open interestedly. I figured that being fired would save me the trouble of breaking the news that I would be quitting at the end of the week.

"Good work, son." John extended his hand, and I took it, "If you can work in this soup, you can work in anything. Eight o'clock tomorrow, eh?"

"Eight o'clock", I found my surprised self saying back to this man who was nothing like the monster Dave had described that morning, And John , I called to his receding back. He turned around to look. Have a good evening, eh?"

"You do the same, sir"

As I turned to walk out to my bike, I heard John's voice, distinctive, gravelly from all the cigarettes ...and for Christ's sakes, Dave, lighten up, would you?"

If you have comments or suggestions, email me at messvilleto@yahoo.com