Notes from the Gig Economy

Nobody can hear a scream in the vacuum of space, or so they say.

Figures the one place in the universe you can hear a scream is precisely where I'd get stuck.

I came down the dark stairwell that morning, well aware of how I smelled. The temperature that day topped out in the triple digits, and, though the stairwell was cooler than the rest of the building, the lack of air conditioning was apparent even there. I hadn’t changed my clothes in four days, still wearing the previously-white tank top that had been dyed vaguely yellow and brown with age and filth, and an ancient pair of jeans that, by that point, bore more duct tape than denim. For whatever reason, these two items of clothing held the scent of the dwindling bar of soap in my closet/bathroom better than others, so I was probably in a better position keep them on until I managed to get enough quarters to finally do my laundry.

The other tenets were clustered in a thick crowd in the front corridor of the building, some spilling out into the vestibule leading outside to the alley, some managing a space in the one utility closet with the busted door lock. As always, no one spoke, instead peering vulture-like into their phones and only breaking the silence with an occasional cough or belch. I pulled out my own phone to join the rest of them in the daily ritual.

“Hot one today, huh?” This, from Jeremy, standing at his usual spot near the stairwell, could have been predicted, though that did not make it less annoying. The quick flash of expression from virtually everyone in earshot let me know I was not the first of the group to get this particular greeting.

“Definitely.” I managed to respond with a smile. I, unfortunately, was already shoulder-to-shoulder with him, and saw little room to move elsewhere in the room.

“They say it’s going to be over 100 all week,” Jeremy continued. “Heat index over 110 in some places.”

“Yeah, I remember you telling me that a day or so ago,” I said. It was pure folly to assume he would take the hint, but I saw no other option.

“Might be a bit cooler next week,” he went on. “Say it will go down to the nineties, at least. But these extended forecasts can’t always be reliable, even with all this new technology…”

Jeremy was of a particular species that was undoubtedly found in more or less every such group, the one who, knowing what needs to be done but lacking the character to do it guiltlessly, attempts to perform the ritual of the most banal niceties, as if such casual conversation on topics as rudimentary as the weather would perform holy ablution on his soul for another day.

“I guess we have to take any kind of comfort where we can find it,” I said.

In unison every phone buzzed, and whatever vague conversation had been going on was immediately abandoned as every face and thumb went to their screens in a mad precision.

The alert was from Doordash.

“ORDER FOR TURKEY SANDWICH. ORANGE JUICE. GALLON MILK. DIET COKE. 12-PACK TOILET PAPER. PICK UP AT SAMUELSON’S, 445 E. BROADWAY. DROP OFF AT LAUREN KELLER, 8989 48TH STREET, #312. PAYMENT $27.64. TAP TO CONFIRM”

I made a half-hearted attempt to move my finger to the screen. Of course, the order was claimed before I even made contact, and a sudden frenzy of shoving and raised voices from across the room gave an indication as to who the winner was.

“Damn,” Jeremy said. This, like his weather forecasts, was more or less clockwork. “Old fingers too slow.” He managed a deliberate, joyless chuckle. “Well, there’s always next time.”

Whether or not he actually felt this eternal optimism, or if this was yet another ritual he felt the need to perform to himself, I never knew, nor cared to ask.

Abruptly, the frenzy on the other side of the room turned into a scuffle, and then an outright brawl. This was not uncommon, especially now towards the end of the month when evictions were immanent. No one was ever quite clear as to who would and would not be evicted. The legal situation was a complex labyrinth of laws that feature theoretical tenet protections combined with volumes more of loopholes for landlords to exploit, so complex and byzantine that most assumed they were designed more for the landlords to turn evictions into a kind of game rather than actually protect people from eviction itself. Our particular landlord, an acerbic Greek bodega-monger, seemed to have a cat-like penchant for toying with his hapless tenets, stringing along even those who were a year or more behind on rent and then deciding on which once to oust according to some internal logic or criteria known only to him. Often times he himself would make the gigs, sending out multiple orders for useless or obscene items, or booking Uber rides out to some random, out of the way locale on a pointless journey, and then deciding who to keep and who to evict based on whatever he felt like that particular day. Of course, those of us at the mercy of a capricious, sadistic landlord were still in a better spot than those who lived in the tenement houses owned by faceless private equity conglomerates, whose eviction decisions were based on a faceless, obscure bureaucracy devoid of any human spirit—sadistic or otherwise—whose Law was riddle and whose Judgement was final and merciless.

The fight had now accumulated several more people. Two women had managed to get each other in a mutual headlock, and someone threw a bottle of an ominous-looking yellow liquid. The wave of humanity crashed against me, and I glanced towards the exit in the little hope that I could make my way outside to avoid the pandemonium. Oftentimes, of course, two people would book the same gig simultaneously. Many assumed this was due to a glitch in the app software, but some of us had the suspicion that this was a deliberate feature, put in place by the ownership class to foster even more conflict between the masses of gig workers for their amusement.

Around me the fight began to consume more and more people. The room filled with incoherent threats and profanities. I rubbed my brow, bored already, and trying to plan the rest of my day in terms of whatever meager income I could manage to find.

It was then that my phone buzzed again.

Acting on instinct, my thumb moved towards the screen while my brain bore no hope of claiming it. Then I felt my phone buzz again, in triumph it seemed. I looked blankly around the room. The fight had consumed everyone’s attention. I looked down. A white notification greeted my eyes.

“CONGRATULATIONS!” It read. “ORDER CLAIMED BY HANNAH GREENE. PAYMENT $500.00”

By that afternoon, I was certain it was a prank. The gig had sent me to a godforsaken corner of the city near the farthest reaches of the most wayward subway lines. My tiny scooter barely managed to make the trip to what appeared to be a bakery of sorts. By the time I got there, the proprietor was already in the process of closing up.

“Wait!” I managed to shout. The owner, an older man of a vaguely Eastern European visage, turn to look at me without any emotion.

“We closing now,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.”

“I, uh, I have an order…” I managed to sputter out.

He waved his hand impatiently. “No orders now. Almost sundown. The Sabbath.”

Yeah, this is definitely legit, my more acrimonious thoughts jeered. Still, the prospect of $500, however slim, couldn’t be abandoned so easily.

“It, uh, for…” I desperately scanned through the order confirmation in a panic. “Mr…Mr. J.M. Greeley…”

I had no idea what this was supposed to accomplish. But, amazingly, the elderly proprietor seemed to catch a spark of something like recognition on his face. Recognition, and maybe a hint of…happiness?

“Greeley?” He said, in a far-away tone. “Ah, yes…Wait here.” He disappeared into the back of his shop and returned after a moment with a plain white bakery box, tied up in a somewhat haphazard knot of twine.

“You give him that,” the man said. “Yes?”

I stared blankly. “But, uh, the order…”

“That what he order.” The man said. With that, he turned and went back into the store, closing the metal grate over the front door as he did.

Stupefied, I pulled out my phone and scrolled back through the order. As it said the last dozen or so times I read it, the order was merely listed as being for an “item,” with no further clarification.

“CONFIRM PICKUP” a notification impatiently buzzed. I tapped the CONFIRM icon.

“DROP OFF AT 7373 NORMANDY TERRANCE. CONFIRM.”

According to the map app, that was on the exact opposite side of the city. Oh joy.

It was already long passed sundown when I managed to get there. My scooter had broken down three times, but thankfully restarted long enough to get through rush hour traffic and the ravines of potholes dotting every street. The house was large, a seemingly old-money estate, though strangely barren and devoid of life. Almost like a fake mansion for an amusement park attraction. Or a haunted house.

Fully expecting to be murdered but long past the point of caring, I walked up to the ornate front door and rang the bell. Almost immediately, the door opened, revealing a lowly-lit passageway leading to what appeared to be a den.

“Come in,” a voice echoed from down the hall.

I had no strength left to resist, or even question.

The man who sat in the lounge chair was older, with a head of thick white hair, though with a face that seemed chiseled in granite, despite his symmetrical wrinkles. He didn’t look at me as I entered the lounge. Instead, he stared out the large window occupying the entire side of the room. From where I stood, I could see, suddenly, that the view from his house showed what looked like the entire city, its interconnected lights and shimmering crystals of the buildings, blending with stars that were somehow still visible even here.

“Uh, I have a delivery…for Mr. Greeley?”

He still didn’t look at me. As if it would help, I held up the box for him to see in the reflection of the window he was facing.

“You’ve been out all day,” he said. This wasn’t a question.

“Yes,” I managed. “I am very sorry. There was so much traffic…”

“This is your life now,” he continued, as if I hadn’t said anything. “Desperately jumping from gig to gig, trying to gather enough to survive another week. No stable jobs or housing or pension left to sustain you.”

I bit my lip.

“Open the box,” he said. “It’s for you.”

I was, by that point, too tired to do anything other than obey. Inside was a small but well-decorated chocolate cake, with creamy fudge roses and the words “CONGRATULATIONS!” in red, possibly cherry icing.

“A celebration,” he continued, “if you will. You’ll find silverware on the table.”

His reflection smiled at me.

“My name is James Marinus Greeley,” he continued. “You may have heard of me. You may have not. But I am the Chairman and CEO of Unitech. We oversee those apps you are all using. To live.”

I stepped closer. I realized them how pale he was. Then I saw the blood, seeping down he sleeves into the floor beneath the seat.

“Don’t worry,” he said weakly. “I’m dying anyway. Cancer, of the liver, though, not the heart. I prefer to be quick, like this. In that locket is the password to the computer on the desk over there. I updated my will. Whoever took the gig, they get everything. You only need log in and send it to my lawyers to be official. It’s yours. But, do remember…” He trailed off.

I had never in my life had a better cake, I decided.