No direction...............
Waking up to this generic alarm, rushing through my morning back stretches, slinging a Chrome messenger bag over my shoulder and biking a trail down Jersey City's Montgomery Street to the Grove Street PATH to steal a ride into Manhattan, delivering packages for fellow Millennials strolling barefoot in their laid-back offices and 6th floor penthouses I'll never afford in this lifetime.
Side Note: That was a long sentence. Lemme cut it down to 12 words. I am trapped in the bike delivery life. And I hate it.
How did it come to this? From being so high on my budding career to transporting envelopes and Blockheads fare through Park Avenue OVER AND OVER AGAIN 10 hours a day to make a living.
The turning point was that Friday evening last month..
That professional networking event at on Central Park North was supposed to be my revitalization-my entry into a salaried, full time position. The one which had been ducking me endlessly. It was always 50 paces ahead of me in this obstacle course, throwing dead-end internships in my path to slow me down.
The woman who was hosting the event and invited me was well trusted; she hired me as her intern at NewsOne-the place I proved myself as more that just a coffee getter. Exclusives, breaking news stories, investigative reports about city corruption-you name it-I did it.
She did great things there as a senior editor. For her effort, they gave her the reward of leaving her termination papers in the printer room in March for her to find, giving her barely a day's notice. Corporate America Gangsta. I knew I was next on the chopping block. And I was.
My constantly late payments, the poor accountability from other shot-callers there, she knew about all that. And when she started at Face 2 Face Africa, she said a position with my name on it was near.
Which is why I was almost speechless that night in that bar after she patted me and told one of her colleagues, "This is Hannington. He's a fantastic reporter, but he doesn't want to work for us because it's an unpaid position."
Wha?
"No, that wouldn't be an issue, I'd work with you for free." I lied to save face and avoid an awkward situation. Horrible move.
She looked at me and said, "Are you sure? Because I'll email you on Monday with the info." (Spoiler Note: she has yet to do so).
Those few seconds crushed my remaining resolve. That woman was one of my final hopes. And now, she sounded like I was selfish to want to escape that indie contractor status and start that W-4 writing life. Not to mention, she didn't tell me beforehand the job would be more free labor.
We'll always be cool, though; she gave me an opportunity to break out my skills, but there's gonna be disappointment in her lingering for sometime.
That done, I left HD in Effect to its own devices and settled into this current life for Uber Rush. I also settled for mediocrity. I wake up every weekday to work a job that gives me nothing fulfilling in return. My body kills more calories in 30 seconds of biking that most do in two minutes of P-90X.
I traded youthful ambition for endless 7-Eleven runs to keep my fast metabolism body full during my shifts. Hopes of writing for a living gave way to traversing NYC's moon road craters and death cabbies to keep eviction notices and debt liens off my persons. Chances of becoming a beat-reporter have devolved into balancing flower boxes on a basket off a 34-year-old road bike.
I'm existing just to exist. That's a fate almost as bad as death. Somehow, I have to pick up the pieces and try again. Even if it seems bleak, trying at this point will lead me to something that returns my purpose in life-which a delivery gig will never do. It's the only way I'm gonna escape from this abyss. Writing my ass off.
Sigh. Gotta get up and stop this constant start-stop steelo. Enough of this feeling sorry for myself shit. Thanks for hearing me out, folks. We're not sure what happens from here.
Credit for picture goes to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BcFaau5pQR4