JOBS 1, 2 , 3

Job 1 and 2: Bike/Car Courier with Postmates and Caviar.

(Sign up for Postmates with referral code scottravent at gmail dot com. Earn ~25/hr on a flexible schedule with bike, car or on foot)

1. Over the course of January 2015- August 2016 this spoke and word poet, adjusted his seat, inflated his tires, and humbly worked as a bike courier for Postmates and Caviar delivering food and goods to people and businesses around NYC. Of the over 500 deliveries completed, not many people know that I would also occasionally write undercover poetry for unsuspecting consumers on the backs of receipts and notecards. I would then slip the missives into the bags in hopes of giving the customer some needed nourishment for the soul with that extra side of surprise.

Job 3. From April 2015- August 2016 I put the course before the cart, treat or trickery, started restaurant hopping, ace venturing under table cover, into the world of Mystery Shopping. I wined and dined at 25 of the finest and weighed and paid it forward to friends and family in ways I could never have afforded on my own. During this time, I smoked my first cigar, inhaled the holiest of guacamoles, sampled succulent sushi, repeatedly ordered the seafood platter, convinced vegetarians to try the steak, had six varieties of cheesecake, and wasted a few alcoholic drinks in lieu of getting wasted. For any other meals, which wasn’t very many, I would occasionally cook myself or gobble up free protein bars and slurp down shakes between breaks on stage from fruit stand fire.
More often than not, I’d get wrapped up in riveting conversation and miss a manager’s meanderings or forget to mark down a mishap, but I was not looking to bust anyone trying to make an honest dollar, I wanted to gift my friends (and me) a solid meal and create other opportunities for myself to write and carefully observe human behavior.
After the fill, I’d fill out 3-4 hour reports and be reimbursed a few weeks later. So in this case, the reward came first, the hard work second, yet, I particularly enjoyed the portions where I could elaborately depict decor; waxing poetic on ornate candelabras, lighting up the page singing the praises of swinging chandeliers, turning phrases about how well servers turned tables, how food runners Usain Bolted to kitchen and back,  pumping irony into descriptions of the quickness with which jacked hosts and hostesses lifted waits, and commenting on the buttery subtleties of side dishes and devilish decadence of most desserts. But there was only so much you could say about courses coming out on time, a missing fork, bartenders handling cash, and restroom garbage cans overflowing with trash.
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