Workman's Compensation

At walking speed -eyes wandering across addresses, ignoring the road- my front wheel washes out on the black ice that forms at the intersection of an over-salted driveway and an unsalted street. I twist so that my backpack, loaded with sandwiches, works as a pillow, reducing the damage that my 160-pound body might do to the unfortunate slab of cement I land on. It is a good fall: nothing snaps off my bike or person but the streaks of grime on my coat are proof I hit the ground. I walk up to the door of my delivery with, perhaps, more limp than necessary and ring the bell.
“Jimmy John’s delivery,” I say, cradling my arm, “I’m sorry, I might’ve squished your sandwiches a bit ‘cause I fell on that ice right there.”
“Oh my God!” Says the delivery recipient, in her bathrobe, “Are you okay? I’m so sorry!”
“Nah, its okay, part of the job.”
“I can’t believe they make you bike in this weather, oh my God.”
“It’s not that bad. I’m used to it.”
“Seriously, oh my God.”
“Uh, six seventy-five, please.”
She gives me seven.
“Keep the change”
A quarter tip. Such an act of sympathy and generosity merits a showing of my thankfulness- I spit a lugie into her mailbox on my way back to the street, where my bike has been resting since the wipeout.
There is an art to crashing with style. My uniform can get ruined because it will be replaced for free. My deliveries can be squished because they will be remade. My body can be abused because if, God willing, I break an arm, its covered by workman’s comp, which means I get five hundred ducats a month for sitting in bed and reading magazines. However, the bike -worth it’s weight in cold cut meat and not covered by insurance- must be protected at all costs: parts are expensive and scratched paint looks bad.
I figured this out from my first crash as a deliveryman. I had just gotten off work and in my jubilation at having tipped out with $60 in six hours I took a tight corner going just shy of light speed. Leaning as far as I could, a petal struck cement, making a flash of sparks, and lifting the back wheel off the ground. My hands then bounced off the handlebars, forcing my genitals to slide off the front of the seat and onto the hard metal top bar of the bike frame. Foot dragging, I managed to keep from running into anything long enough to hit the breaks, keel over, and die. It sucked. The incident cost me a petal, put a gash in the handlebar tape, and knocked nuts loose all over the bike. If I had wanted to go to the hospital, it would have been out of my own pocket since I was clocked out of work. From this experience I learned that if I’m going to do anything ridiculous on my bike, I should do it on the clock.
I love dicking with cars: weaving trough traffic, squeezing past trucks in tight alleys, running red lights with a line of cars waiting. I think I do it out of resentment; I don’t like sharing the road with motorists any more than they do with me. I figured that if I get hit, the car would be blamed since pedestrians have right of way, and a bike is practically a pedestrian. The one hitch, in my experience, is the hit and run. In the event of a miscalculation, cars are good at taking impacts; bicyclists tend to break apart, and as long as nobody sees, the car can escape with a blemish-free driving record.
One time, traveling at a good clip, with a drunk, middle age woman in a green Camry a bike length ahead, I discovered that the coefficient of drag between a bike tire and an icy street is surprisingly small. I made this discovery when the woman I was following decided to slam on her brakes to nab a parking spot she’d just noticed. The following half-second I spend going over my handlebars was devoted to meditation on how easy it is to obtain a driving permit in this country.
Long story short, I landed on my backpack with minor injuries. The woman in the Camry looked back saw me sprawled across the ground, said something a drunk driver would say, then skedaddled faster than I can say, “Iowa plate JGH-816.”
The accident happened a block away from my delivery destination so I figured I’d finish the job before going home.
“What happened to you?” Said my tactful customer.
“Hit a car.”
“Ow. That sucks”
“Yep”
“What do I owe ya?”
“Twelve seventy-five”
“Here’s thirteen. Keep the change.”