Grabbed the messenger bag ex bae gave me two birthdays ago, that was now my designated Postmates bag, but that I’d never used when ex bae was still main. Checked that there was still Saran wrap in the Saran wrap roll.

That there were backup drink carriers.

That there was my emergency poncho. On the bottom, beneath my interior, Postmates Hot/Cold Bag™.

There were.

Would any liquids be spilled on this day?

Fuck no they wouldn’t.

Filled my empty smartwater bottle with water from the Brita and stashed it aside my Postmates Hot/Cold Bag™, inside the messenger bag.

Grabbed Ferrante’s The Story of a New Name: My Brilliant Friend Book 2 (2013), and stuck her, my notebook, a pencil, and a uni-ball in their designated ziplock.

Which I then positioned beneath my Postmates bag, above my folded poncho, to create a flat surface for the drink tray. And to furnish me with between-delivery entertainment.

Between-delivery Work.

The Work I’d do during ‘work’-breaks.

Wallet and phone inside a ziplock, inside my fanny pack; above them, Bluetooth speaker, also in a ziplock.

Ziplock in case it rained, which it looked like it was gonna.

Synthetic neon-yellow snapback on my head. Bike chain around my neck.

Good to go.

“Well—almost.”

Nabbed the shrooms, stuck em in the fanny pack, and hit it.

If one wanted consistent work, this job was trash.

Some hours one got up to five deliveries; others, none.

If one waited around, hunting for deliveries, one lost patience real quick.

One had to choose to be available, strategically stationed, on one’s own terms.

Find the most popping area. Sit. And wait.

Commit to already happening to want to be in the area that was most popping.

The area that was most popping, I’d assessed, was Rittenhouse.

Rittenhouse Square.

Benches, pillars, and grass upon which to sit, read, and write.

Reading and writing, sitting on benches or pillars or grass, then, was my job.

With occasional, reading-and-writing-encouraging bike excursions to break up the reading and writing.

Not too shabby! I reminded myself as I skrt-ed down Lancaster, picked up Market, crossed the Schuylkill, cut south at 22nd, and posted up on my designated pillar in the square.

Had I gotten a delivery immediately, I mighta been able to help myself.

But I was ten pages into Ferrante, and it was already 2 damn near.

Still no dings.

So I did what I’d been trying not to. What I knew I was inevitably gonna.

Made a melted fair-trade choco-bar sammie, shroomies in the middle, swiveling one time to ensure no one saw, and railed that shit.

Was at the part where things were getting spicy between Lenu and Nino.

Had me wet.

Artist bae, who’d read all four books, when I mentioned how lit Nino was, had said “Nino’s a fuccboi. Fuck Nino.”

“What?!” I’d said, not understanding.

But now I was curious.

Reading quickly.

I wanted to know how/why.