First Day

by Mike Jursic

Moving Target, Spring 1997, issue 23

The Friday before Thanksgiving was such a beautiful day. The leaveshad all turned but it was sunny and warm enough that I was just wearinga tee-shirt and shorts. I made a bunch of phone calls to courier companiesthat had been recommended to me by the first group of couriers that I daredapproach on the street and was turned down by all of them when I mentionedthat I had experience in Vancouver (a lie). But finally the Messengershired me. It was a job, I was happy, even despite the warnings given bythe couriers about the uniform requirement of the company, and I was lookingforward 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 abeer. We sat on the patio of the Sticky Wicket on Spadina and reflectedhow nice it would be to be outdoors all the time.

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

When we arrived at the office, we were greet ed by this morose lookingman who introduced himself as Dave. He took five of us into this damp littleroom, and began to impart upon us his impressions of the ins and outs ofthe courier business. Don't miss any calls. John hates that. Write everythingdown. Call from every location, in case he has something there for you.Any questions so far? None? Okay, we'll plow on.", He started tellingus this bizarre story about some guy "who didn‘t remem ber to callfrom the office that he'd just picked up in. He was kinda new, and nonetoo smart, lemmee tell you. So he gets this piece on, it's goin to Agincourtor some god-awful place like that, and the next thing John hears from thisguy is a phone-call from Agincourt telling him that the piece has beendelivered, and what next. John tells him 'Son, you just rode twenty milesfor your cut of five bucks. I don't have anything out there for you, soyou'd better start bringing it back into the core.' The guy loses it, butwhat 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." Davewent on like this for about two hours, and didn‘t really have anythingto say to us but repeated warnings. The way he made it sound, bike couriershad to be as fast as jet planes, as smart as rocket scientists: "Thisjob's not for just anyone, you know. You folks were chosen."

Thus prepared, three of us left without ever starting work. He‘d scaredthem 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. Thistall, quiet sounding guy with a thatch of bleached hair an the top of hishead 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 theropes, 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 generalizedso 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 atremendous fear of fucking up.

Before Steve and I parted company, he gave me the best advice anyonegave 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 inmind. The day was awful. To this day,three years after, I don't recalla more miserable day (other than the four blizzards I worked through) thanmy first day. It was cold and it rained all day. I told myself about everyten minutes that I probably wouldn't finish out the week, but I was damnedif I'd quit before the day was out.

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

I came into the office, my whole body, including the inside of my knapsackand all of the overnights there, was soaked to the bone. The overnightman, identified by a cheery looking badge that said NIALL", lookedat 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'llgo get John.

Of course, that was Dave. ‘Good old fire-and-brimstone, hell-to-payDave’, I remember sardonically thinking, as I waited there shivering, notknowing what to do with my hands, wondering if they would make me pay forthe ru ined pieces before they fired me.

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

John looked at the packages. You could see that he was growing angryeven looking at them. He looked at me, then back at the soaked pieces I‘dbrought in. He laoked at Dave then at Niall, both of whom looked back andshrugged, then exchanged furtive, conspiratorial glances. John began tospeak.

Where they goin‘?" Montreal,one and three for the core", saidNiall "Dry ‘em off." "But ",began Dave, You!",Johnsaid sourly, looking intensely it me and pointing the two fingers thatheld the cigarette. I squirmed, avoided his glare for a second, collectedmyself, then looked him full in the eye knowing the axe would fall. "Helluvaday out there.", he remarked casually.

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

"Good work, son." John extended his hand, and I took it, "Ifyou 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 tothis 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. Havea 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, lightenup, would you?"

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