On changing clothes
and delivering the goods
Mornings these days have not been the easiest.
When I was working as a tour guide, I’d bounce up from bed and sprint to work on my bicycle.
Lately, as a driver’s helper for a big global logistics company, I need a crowbar and paint remover to get up.
They aren’t there to pry me from the sheets. They’re there as a promise: if I have to keep doing this terrible work, I can drink the paint remover and smash myself in the face with the crowbar.
In reality it’s not the work that’s driving me nuts. I like hanging out with Ricky and booting around the countryside.
It’s the irrational rules made by petty, mental midget managers that grind me down.
We could have been finished an hour earlier today, but we were told:
If you finish your work early and you’re trying to get off the roads because they’re icy, don’t think we’ll give you “special privileges.” You’ll have to go help the other drivers in town.
Ricky spat the words from his mouth.
Lech Walesa and his Solidarity Movement is not something delivery drivers are keen to imitate.
The union talks a big talk about “solidarity.” Sure, solidarity helped defeat the dirty communist bastards… but at the same time, here in Nova Scotia we’ve never had to line up for bread, so fuck that shit.
The most difficult part of leaving every day is knowing what to wear.
Right?
My delivery-boy costume feels like more forced compliance. Only this time the rules aren’t made by my employer. When it comes to delivery fashion, I answer to a more demanding taskmaster: the weather.
Each day I’m like some trashy Insta “It Girl” getting ready to meet my adoring masses.
Only my adoring masses are work-from-home bums who greet me in pyjamas.
But they don’t bring me down. I’m an It Girl with a bad back and a worse attitude.
Just like them, I fuss over what to wear and how to wear it.
Just like them, no one really gives a shit.
But unlike some vain trophy doll, the clothes I’m looking at are purely functional.
One outfit is for the ride there—typically a dark, heavy parka to keep warm in the truck while the heater isn’t working.
Once I start running packages up to houses though, wearing too many clothes turns into sweat. Sweat turns into chill. And eventually you’re cold in a way no parka can tame.
So I arrive at work each day with layers of merino wool, technical fleece, and a puffy down-filled vest. Caps. Toques. A buff for my neck.
“You ready to go yet, princess?”
Ricky hates my costume changes.
Just put that long, luxurious, silky hair back into your man bun and shut your mouth, Rick. I need another minute.
There are days that I really want to kick Ricky square in the nuts.
And the other days?
Those are called weekends.
One of our first stops daily is a car dealership in New Minas.
“Okie dokie darlin’, you get yourself all pretty and I’ll deliver the packages.”
Ricky doesn’t have much patience for my costume changes.
Well if you only helped me get my clothes on, it wouldn’t take so long.
Ricky met this suggestion with the kind of stare that could turn plums into prunes.
“I’ll be right back.”
Ricky went into the dealership.
Quicker than you can say The World On Time—which is hilarious, because nothing about this operation is ever on time—I completed my costume change and made my way inside to help carry packages out.
That’s when I overheard them talking.
It was Ricky and the parts manager—talking about me like I was a broken forklift.
“Where’s your helper, Rick?”
“Him? Back in the truck getting changed. It’s really cold today so he’s putting away his parka and pulling out his tiara.”
“Holy shit. I thought he was supposed to be doing the work and you were just driving the truck.”
Ricky couldn’t argue with that.
The parts manager leaned in like he was about to share a stock tip.
“Does he actually help you at all?”
Ricky shrugged. “Here at Global Logistics Inc, they like to hire… special people.”
“Oh my god. Are you serious? Where the hell do they find these guys for ya?”
Ricky just shook his head. “I dunno, man. But he won’t be with me much longer. He’ll have his ‘work experience’ and I’ll have my sanity back.”
The two of them nodded along, congratulating themselves on the nobility of “helping” people integrate into the mainstream world.
What the fuck was that about?
I grilled Ricky when he got back to the truck.
“What?” he said. “You’re a fucking idiot.”
Ricky had a point.
“I know I’m a mess,” I said, “but the whole ‘where do they find you guys’ was a bit much, all things considered.”
Ricky paused like he was doing math.
“Well I sure as hell wasn’t going to tell them you used to be my therapist.”
Again, Ricky had a point.
“But I thought you said they first thought I was your supervisor. Making sure you didn’t screw up too much.”
Ricky shook his head.
“Look buddy… they just think you’re a little special. If they thought you were management, they’d know you were a complete idiot. I was looking after you, bud.”
And the more I learn about this global logistics company, the more that sentiment makes sense.
Stay sneaky you dinguses.