Becoming a Postmates Driver
I recently found myself in Austin, Texas on a wet, jet-lagged morning, stumbling out of the crisp sheets of an Airbnb bungalow and racing to the 8am panel firmly slotted into my attendee schedule. The time: Halloween. The place: Austin Film Festival.
With minutes to spare, I found my place in the herd of badge-wielding zombies shuffling through the doors of an opulent church. Bumping shoulders and people watching, I waddled to the pews amidst dozens of zealous aspiring writers, desperate for the front rows of this World Building Panel with the confidence that a mere glance from Damon Lindelof would instill a career upon them. I sat ten rows back, notebook clutched and gaze set, somehow believing myself to be superior to this behavior when I, simply, am not.
I too am a diehard Lindelof fan (see: last month’s unhinged Lost think piece) and I too wanted to bask in the mastery that is his TV writing genius and adhere to any secret tricks of trade that might ricochet from his rehearsed spiel. I scribbled the date at the top of my page and focused. Damon was up there on a pedestal, Jesus on his cross perched just above. Light billowed in through the stained glass windows, and the vibe was holy.
Seated next to Damon was another man whose television writing abilities I lauded: Dan Erickson. The creator of Severance, my favorite show of 2022. This was great. This was educational. This was the jumper cables I’d needed for the car, dead and cold, I’d abandoned at the $6/gallon gas station months ago. As the D-Men (so sorry) went back and forth, droning on about the logistics and essence of world building, the importance of knowing our rules, and warning against the “Mystery Box” - the crowd animated with nods and eyes so wide I thought they might burst. I listened, and learned, and jotted, and cramped, and soon something revealed itself to me. Something that bulged my own eyes in a shock I couldn't shake.
Severance was Dan Erickson’s first gig. His first gig…I choked on a sip of water. I could recite Damon’s credits back to front and upside down like a spineless brown-noser with a hidden agenda, but Dan was an enigma. I was so blinded with amazement by his show, that I’d never thought to look further at the man, and thus dispel the myth, behind it.
He wrote an amazing script, check. That script then had amazing reworking help, check. He got very lucky, was placed in the right rooms at the right times with the right people, and then one day opened his eyes and walked through the door as a should-be staff writer acting as Showrunner. Check. Got it. Good for him.
It never happens like this. A ping of jealousy tipped into inspiration. Their voices grew muffled as I lost track and focus of anything beyond my chaotic and all too loud inner monologue, emphatically questioning the details of this man’s life, his background, how specifically this all unfolded for him.
“I was driving for Postmates.”
An answer jolted me to reality with the mark of a black Sharpie. My ask, received, with such high-velocity I could barely hang on. He was driving for Postmates. He was driving for Postmates? Did I hear that right? One step prior to being the creator and showrunner for one of the most well crafted, thoughtful and interesting shows I’d seen in years, he was riding around LA delivering food to lazy, hungry, poorly tipping Postmates customers. I might’ve even been one of them.
Suddenly, as if summoned by God Himself as the third party on this panel, my mission became clear. Time stood still as Dan’s words rang on repeat in my ears, alongside some irritating tinnitus.
I, Kelly Baldwin, would drive for Postmates. I would be just like Dan Erickson. I would be an overnight success.
Let it be clear that this girl knows she is delusional, desperately seeking a life raft of hope. But in moments like these it’s hard to drown out the sassy, animated alter ego in platforms on your shoulder, laying the yellow bricks on the road to follow to Oz. Sometimes you just have to give in to her.
I CAN DO THAT! I thought excitedly. Wayyyy too excitedly - like someone had just given my bare minimum bottom of the barrel scraps collection a double thumbs up and a pat on the back. Like I had received a gold-starred permission slip to be a failing, disgraced, loser. But! Dan Erickson wasn’t a failure, he wasn’t a loser, and this was his journey! He walked a real, solid-grounded dirt road that while not glamorous and shiny and yellow-bricked, did at least lead to one person’s - his - success. I could make it two.
I blacked out inside this fantasy and came to as a rapturous applause closed the panel. I glanced around, wondering if these little try hards would pick up what I was putting down. There was hope for us yet. I had pages of illegible scrawl in my lap with the one thought in my brain firmly set on the minute I’d punch in my keypad code, plop on my couch, and download the “Uber Driver” app. I would do it. I would work for Postmates. I would go full starving artist and ride, baby, ride.
2 weeks later, background check approved and app updated to the brim, I was ready to go. Career success path: unlocked. I clicked the app to Online. Green means go.
My first trip was (shockingly I know) a nightmare. I was routed to the nearby Panera Bread where I was forced to park in a complicated, five story parking structure and locate a back entrance that took 20 minutes longer than if I’d just walked there. Voice quivering, I scrounged up the courage to say “postmates pickup?” to the nearest employee - who waved me with a scowl to a flimsy white bag and an unsealed lemonade for my taking. Now what? I thought. I fumbled through the app, not a single clear instruction in sight, and clicked the only thing I could find to click. Instead of a delivery address for Lacey’s lemonade, a new order popped onto my screen. “Ramone’s order from Urth Caffe will be ready in 10 minutes.” Panic and dread prickled my forehead. Could I really be this incompetent that I couldn’t even figure out a food delivery?? I grew more and more lost and I charged back to my car, willing the app to reveal itself to me. To let me in on the joke. Where was order #1? Had I accidentally canceled it? Had this all been for nothing? Who is Ramone? Already emotionally exhausted by this process, I knew I wouldn’t be long for this world.
All I could do was go to Urth and pile more food into my passenger seat. With another button click and a quick prayer that a third order stayed away, I was finally given a location. A school in Larchmont. I rang the front gate for five minutes before a lady finally greeted me, eyes narrowed, knowing. Once the food was exchanged I begrudgingly snapped a photo of her holding it, because The App yelled at me that in order to get my payment I needed proof of delivery. Really awkward.
From there I was forced into the depths of Hollywood to deliver Ramone’s sandwich. His delivery instructions specifically told me to enter his building code and bring the food inside, and for 10 minutes I tried and failed to get that code to work, because literally nothing is easy. I messaged him, and messaged him, and finally just left it. Disgruntled is an understatement.
I drove 45 minutes home, emo and scream-singing “Not Ready To Make Nice” by The Chicks. I had made no more than $15 in this whole ordeal - Larchmont lady not even leaving a tip - and was spent. Gas alone would cost more than this. I got home and tried to write, to seek inspiration to create as Dan Erickson created - but was far too distracted with self-pity and shame.
But Dan Erickson was no quitter (I assumed), so neither would I be. The next morning I took myself online - trying to not get wrapped into becoming Ex Machina - and waited with bated breath. PING! PING! It screamed at me. 10. 9. 8. My god the pressure. 7. 6. 5. To accept or not to accept! I forced myself to click YES and leap with faith to another potential demise. The order was for a drink at my local Starbucks - easy enough. Delivery was about 20 minutes away - not terrible. I made $12. Fine. I was feeling good, too good, and on my drive home I got cocky and thought I’d accept just one more. Boy had I made a fateful error.
I was tasked with picking up a pizza from the heart of Beverly Hills, during lunch hour. Absolutely no parking in a 5 mile radius, I hazarded in the red as I ran in for the order and…oh, what’s that? The pizza isn’t ready? Nice. For 20 minutes I ran back and forth between the shop and my car, narrowly avoiding a ticket and dripping in ridiculous no-seasons LA sweat. Finally I secured the pizza and when I went to retrieve my delivery address - another order intercepted. WHAT IS THIS SYSTEM, POSTMATES? Now the “just one more” became two against my will and I’d simply had enough.
Let’s double time this, shall we? I got the second order (had to wait there too), delivered to a building I needed 3 separate codes to access in addition to a special code from the customer to verify delivery (which he failed to give me until I had waited and pinged him for 10 more minutes), finally got the address for the pizza which was (of course) deep in downtown LA, so I traversed through rush hour freeways and no parking streets into a chain locked warehouse where frustration turned to fear turned to laugher when 3 full hours had passed from the moment I’d said “just one more”. No more. There were no more.
I applaud Dan Erickson, and I am not Dan Erickson. Being a Postmates driver is not my route to success, is not my meal ticket, and is not even a good source of passive income considering the amount you spend on gas, the uncertainty of tips, and the sheer amount of time it all takes. But while I may not, physically, pursue a career in food delivery - I will take away this.
Being a Postmates driver is a state of mind. It’s an act of service. It’s a freedom. It’s a release of all inhibitions, a living with arms wide open. Sometimes it might feel like a loss, like a bottom, a terribly frustrating regret, and sometimes it might feel just right. A movement, a doing, a means to a greater end. There’s a time and a place for everything.
As a Postmates driver, you are in the service of delivery for a customer. You are servicing their hunger, their desire. There is a purpose. A transaction. I give you food, and you consume it.
As a writer, I am in service of words. Of creation. Of story. It’s a different type of service but a service nonetheless. I give you words, and hopefully, you read them. I give my words to the page, and I am free.
We are all just being. Existing. Wanting. Eating. We are all just trying, and there is no right way to do anything. There is no one size fits all life path. If there is, I’m not following it. Taking the winding scenic route is much more interesting. To the next aspiring writer, actor, artist, Dan Erickson, who may deliver Hoy Ka pad see ew and yellow curry (no onions) to my door - I see you. I am not you, but I am with you. You’ve got a tip in me, friend.