Replying to
Alistair, who said...
Mark,
your post brought back some memories for me. Trying to get a bit of justice when someone in a car does you wrong. Now that I'm a civillian it doesn't happen as much but from time to time you just have to do what's right and it's meant to be, the lights and the traffic will conspire to let you catch up and "have a word or two". Below is a piece from the now defunct D.C zine, Mobile City. Mike Manogue was a good guy who knew how to get a bit of justice on the street. Enjoy.
CARRY ON, MEN
MIKE MANOGUE
Why are you a courier? I don't know how many times I've been asked that. I started with Metro Messenger on Feb. 14, 1987. I was 19 years old and I thought "They're gonna pay me to ride my motorcycle? Cool."
In the ten years I've been in the business a lot has happened to me. I've gotten married, divorced, become a junkie, gotten clean, had a son, tried to kill myself yet still found a reason to keep on living.
10 years. Most of my "adult" life either being a bike dispatcher or riding my motorcycle around, like I am presently. Let me tell you why.
Out in Va. I wander into some office and hand my delivery to the woman at the front desk. My helmet's still on, with the visor up. I'm wearing my old leather jacket with the studs and iron cross on it.
She looks startled by my appearance. "Is that a bomb?" she laughs uneasily.
I examine the thick envelope in my hands. An envelope I know to be full of legal documents. I shrug, "I don't know".
I begin to shake the package vigorously up and down next to my ear, like a hyperactive child on Xmas morning. I slam the envelope down on the counter. Whap! Again WHAP! WHAP!
The woman has propelled herself and her chair back against the far wall. She looks at me in horror.
I give her my best crazy grin. "Ahhh, if it was a bomb it would have gone off by now. Don't you think?"
She refuses to sign my manifest.
One of the car drivers at my company gets arrested. 5 deliveries are locked in his car at 12th & F St. We obtain the keys and I'm sent to unlock the car, retrieve the envelopes and deliver them. However none of the keys I've been given work. I call the office and am told, "I don't care how you do it, but get those packages." Using a piece of curb I find lying about I smash out the window and get the envelopes. When I tell the company what I've done, they pay me a bonus.
I'm coming down the steps of the Pentagon, boots, braces, black leather jacket. Behind me is a colonel. Two majors climbing up towards me pause to salute the colonel over my shoulder. I smartly return their salutes with a crisp, "Carry on, men." They do not seem amused.
Standing by at Conn. & K one afternoon, I see a cab come weaving down the street. On the hood is an irate bike messenger who is methodically smashing out the windshield with a lock. The cab doesn't stop and I watch it careen out of sight, my heart bursting with pride.
I'm making a P/u at the federal courthouse in Alexandria. On my way out I notice a police Harley-Davidson parked out front. The night stick is in its holder on the rear of the bike. I pull it free put it in my bag and run for my motorcycle. I ride back into D.C. giggling like a school girl.
There are plenty of stories like these. Anyone who's been on the street for any length of time has a few just like them. That's why I'm a courier. Sure I like the money and the freedom but both of those take a back seat to all the crazy shit you get to see and do.