The year was 1990-something. It was a simpler time, a happier time; a time when America still meant something. People listened to Chumbawamba on objects called "compact discs." Kids played video games instead of rotting their brains with books about Hunger Games. In this climate of boundless optimism, I became a bicycle messenger.
Back then if you wanted a job or an apartment or an adulterous liaison you had to scan the classifieds in an actual paper newspaper. So I grabbed a copy of the Village Voice and found an ad that said something like "Bicycle Messengers Wanted—Must Have Own Bike." Not only did I have a bike, but I also knew how to ride it, so as far as I was concerned I was overqualified.
Nevertheless, the next morning my stomach felt like it could grind coffee beans as I headed over the Brooklyn Bridge and into Manhattan. I arrived at the address in the ad and clomped my way up the stairs, past a sweatshop, and into a big office where dispatchers barked orders into radios, and where a handful of prospective couriers and I would be officially orientated. Basically, orientation involved the following:
• There was talk about how easily I could die. (As a New York City cyclist, I already knew this.)