One thing that seemed unusual about my first day back at the sandwich shop is that it wasn’t weird at all. It was just work. I still remembered the menu, went back to weaving through cars and pedestrians and knew all the streets and addresses. My old coworkers seemed happy to see me: Vicky, Rosa, Dominique, Cedric…Vicky took the opportunity to rub in the fact that she predicted my return before I left. Several of my coworkers asked me why I came back. “Because I missed you!” It was the truth, if a little playful and patronizing.
Today reminded me that a few months ago, before I got bored and bitter, I really did enjoy delivering sandwiches on my bike in center Charlotte. So I’m starting this project in part to keep myself engaged while performing work that can feel mundane.
Uptown felt charming today, if a little sterile. It seemed important–tall buildings and families milling around and luxury cars cruising between stoplights. It feels familiar, but I know it’s bigger than me. Maybe I’m too cynical about this city. I can’t help thinking there are only two genres of people Uptown: the ones busy with jobs to do and the ones busy spending money on boring bougie things. It seems like a city this size should have a hell of a lot more culture, more diversity. I have no illusion of Charlotte as a cool city. But even the interesting and diverse areas are miles from the small legoblock grid of bank buildings pretentiously branded “Uptown.” So rather than giving up, I’m on a hunt for stories of human behavior. I’ll post some snippet of interaction or observation for every shift I work.
On today’s shift, I came across a group of three traveling kids outside an apartment building I was delivering to. “Watch my bike for a minute?” I chirped trustingly. “Sure,” answered the one closest to me. He wore a thick canvas jacket covered in patches. Dark hair crept from beneath a dark beanie. His face was shadowed with a stubbly dark beard. He was quiet and relaxed. His companions took a break from their music. The man in the middle of the bunch stooped, holding a guitar and staring at the ground. He was older than the first, maybe late twenties, and rugged. He wore Carhart overalls, fingerless gloves and boots.
A girl with boyish red hair sat farthest from me. She faced away, toward the nearby intersection. She clutched a weathered cherry mandolin against her red flannel shirt.
I wondered if I’d been naïve as I approached the concierge desk inside. Would they see me as a sellout, someone to steal from without compunction? Inside I saw a friend who owns a sign shop. He was installing a tall banner in the lobby. The lady at the security desk commented on my particular customer’s fondness for takeout and surprising, slight build. Nikki, her bank card read Nicole, was slender, but not petite like I’d imagined. She was my height, and fit, with symmetrical features. She was wearing sweatpants and dark brown hair in a loose ponytail when she finally answered the door. “I’m so sorry, I went out last night and didn’t have any cash in my purse,” she said softly. She handed me a card. and I called the store, read off the number and gave her a makeshift credit slip to fill out. She wrote a generous tip and disappeared behind the door.
Outside I saw the crusties sitting half asleep by my bike, waiting for something interesting to happen: nightfall or a companion’s arrival maybe. The girl crouched towards the intersection, arms wrapping round her knees. She looked down, looked left. Her uniform was punk, loud and outlandish. Her face was just pale and passive. I grabbed my handlebars and hop-stepped forward. “Thanks dude.” “No problem.”