Gurriers (50 page)

There has been a lot of discussion about this particular crash since, mostly revolving around why I came off so lightly injury wise, with the queries about hitting the car just right in the crumple
zone to cushion the blow and being knocked out making my body go limp preventing my bones from being broken (I personally think that the armour in my jacket just did a great job). I am amazed that I wasn’t seriously injured and I can’t fully explain why no matter how much I think about it, so I’m content just to thank my lucky stars and believe that fate has me lined up for greatness of some sort in the future.

The courier community is a small one, which spans the entire city and everybody talks about crashes, so it wasn’t long before information got back to me about what happened around me as I lay unconscious on the road. The Gizzard had a yap with somebody on Baggot Street who saw the aftermath. Apparently he arrived on the scene just as the ambulance was pulling away. He said that you could actually make out the shape of me in the car bodywork, with a much deeper dent beside me where the bike had totalled the car. Vinno heard two couriers talking about the crash in a queue for sandwiches at lunch time on the following Tuesday. One of these couriers said that some monks had come out of the Carmelite Monastery on the corner of Newtown Park Avenue and the Stillorgan Road – right beside the crash – and were praying over my unconscious form while the ambulance was on its way. He also heard them mention that the driver of the car was an American tourist in a rented car who had been very badly shaken by the whole affair. I’d love to get a chance to apologise to that man for the black mark I put on his holiday. As for the monks, I’m not sure whether they do the last rites or if that can only be done by priests, but it intrigues me to imagine that I could be one of the very few walking talking people on this planet to receive these prayers. I smile whenever I think about that.

After the crash, as is customary, the remains of the bike was brought to the nearest Garda station – Blackrock in this case – under the supervision of the first garda to arrive at the scene -Garda Connelly, a very young man from somewhere in the west of the country judging by his accent. I know what his accent sounds like because, by a remarkable coincidence, Garda Connelly happened to be stationed at the front desk of Blackrock
Garda station the next afternoon when I called around to collect what was left of my poor machine. I only spent one night in hospital for observation due to the head injury.

I know that Gardaí are extensively trained to be better than any situation that they might happen on and they do usually get the last word, by hook or by crook, in any dealings with the general public, so you can imagine my delight with the dumb-founded Garda Connelly’s reaction to me, as I skipped into the station to get my keys, with Vinno and Pat Murphy post–morteming the bike in the car park, waiting for the all clear from me to load it into Pat’s van and off to The Gem Workshop with it for repairs. I have never before or since seen a Garda so stuck for words and I have to say that I revelled in it a bit.

“Howya.” I always tried to sound extra friendly when talking to Gardaí, but ended up feeling as if I sounded extra fake. He looked up from the ledger he was writing in (as they always are) and gave me a customary stern ‘I’m-a-serious-dude’ glare from under heavy set dark eyebrows.

“Good afternoon.”

“I’m here to collect the crashed bike outside.”

Upon hearing my non–criminal purpose for being there, he seemed to warm slightly to me. “That was a nasty one. I was at the scene myself.”

“Oh?”

I was fighting against a grin when Garda Connelly banged the appropriate ledger for vehicle reclamation on the counter between us.

“Right, now, who owns the vehicle?”

“I do.”

“Who was driving it yesterday?”

“I was.”

He looked up from the page he had been preparing to enter my details on.

He was beginning to put two and two together as he stared amazedly at me. “Who crashed it?” His voice was thickly louder with confusion.

“I did.”

“Wh – wh- who was t-taken away in the ambulance?”

“Me!” As I said this, I gave a small curtsey with my arms open wide as if to say “Da dah!”

Open mouthed, he fished the key out of a box under the counter and handed it to me without saying another word. He never even asked me my name.

“Thanks very much.” With that, I cheerily turned on my heel and half walked, half danced out of Blackrock Garda station, whistling a tuneless upbeat melody, despite the fact that this manner of movement was actually causing me quite a bit of pain down my right hand side.

It felt good to be alive that day!

The bike needed new forks after the crash, but the frame wasn’t bent - probably because I got the machine a good bit sideways before impact, the same reason that I escaped with such minor injuries I’m sure. The lads in the Gem did a great job fixing it up for me, and it only took a week. Vinno gave me a loan of his CG125 to work on for that week, so I didn’t even miss any time off work.

One of the great things for me about becoming a courier was the way that I was so readily accepted by all of the lads. It took very little time and effort for me to feel as if I was a part of this wild bunch, albeit at the bottom of the ladder as far as earnings was concerned.

I remember clearly a drizzly afternoon late in September. I came in from Blanchardstown, bringing three jobs into the base with me: two for low road south and one for Crumlin.

The only courier in the base room was a young clean-looking stranger whom I deduced must own the CB 250 that I had parked beside. I was delighted to see a new courier in Lightning, mentally pushing myself up a step on the ladder and occupying my previous position with the newcomer. I delivered a curt nod
to him on my way to the hatch which was returned with what I perceived to be a nervous smile.

Poor kid! I thought to myself remembering my own first experience starting off which felt like a hell of a lot longer than six weeks ago. I decided that I’d be extra nice to him what with him being the first courier ever to be below me in the pecking order and all.

I left the Crumlin bound job with Aidan who dispatched a pick-up on Merrion Square to me going to Blackrock. I asked him if it was fresh and when he assured me that it was just in, I told him I was going to have a quick smoke before heading around for it. His grunted reply, though negative, was not forbidding so I sat at the table with the new kid and offered him a smoke. To my surprise he plucked up the courage from somewhere to accept it.

“You wouldn’t want to let Bollicky Balls get under your skin, man; he’s abrupt as fuck and he won’t make any bones about tellin’ ye exactly where you’re going wrong, but if you keep your nose clean and don’t try to bullshit him you should find yourself getting juicy runs in no time. I’m only here six weeks and I’m making double what I did when I started! It’s not too tough once you get the hang of it if you stay on the right side of that lad there.”

I was almost reluctant to hear Vinno’s bike pull up outside, enjoying talking to the new kid as I was, but I incorporated his arrival into my speech. “Here’s a man that will tell you better than me, our Number One, Vinno.”

I turned in my chair to face the door that Vinno would be coming through all ready to introduce him to the new scared kid so that he might help him in a similar way to the way he had helped me on my first day.

I was surprised by the way Vinno’s face lit up under the raised and balanced helmet and then sickened when he spoke. “Jaysus, Fourteen Jim, back from oblivion! How the fuck are ye?”

My gaze could do nothing but delve into the ashtray, as Vinno strode at double time across the room to shake hands with his apparent old comrade that had just sat there and let me prattle on at him like a gobshite.

“I see you’ve met our new kid, Sean, also known as Shy Boy thanks to Fatso there.”

“I think he thought he wasn’t the new kid anymore!”

“You could’ve stopped me at any time.” I said.

“Yes I could.”

I forced my mouth to take the shape of a smile, put out the cigarette that I wasn’t nearly finished with and busied myself getting ready to depart while the other two continued their conversation as if I wasn’t there.

“So is Aidan all right with ye after the way you left the last time, man?”

“Not a bother, Vinno, all water under the bridge. Startin’ from scratch again - a clean sheet.”

I left the base without another word to either of them. That afternoon I got reported for snatching a parcel off some old bitch’s reception desk and storming out of the building with it before she had completed writing the details in her courier log book.

Fucking dragon and her slow motion handwriting!

Despite sending me into a foul mood for the afternoon, the episode with Fourteen Jim taught me a valuable lesson about both jumping to conclusions and having a condescending attitude towards other couriers.

To this day I recall the episode in any situation that I deem there to be any danger of me treating anybody unfairly or making illogical character judgements about people.

I believe that keeping that particular episode close to my heart and fresh in my memory has helped to make me a better and more just person!

Not all couriers were accepted into the fold, though. Just because you drove a motorbike all day with a radio perched on your shoulder, didn’t mean that you were automatically somebody cool that had many friends and much back-up. A lot of couriers (and attempted couriers) had problems fitting in with their workmates for a variety of reasons.

In my opinion, the most prominent among these reasons is
shyness. New couriers (particularly brand new couriers) seemed to fall only too easily into the silence trap. When thrown into a group of strangers, behaving as couriers do, it is a lot easier to sit quietly and absorb than to risk ridicule and react to whatever is going on.

Fourteen Jim was the first new addition that I had come across (apparently somebody that I never met joined a couple of weeks after me that only lasted a day and a half) but, with the busiest season of the year looming, the new faces started to appear in the base far more regularly after that as the powers that be did their best to expand their workforce in preparation for the Christmas rush.

I was, of course, considerably less forthcoming with advice and helpfulness after the Fourteen Jim episode, who, incidentally was gone before Christmas after another run in with Aidan. I often found myself at a silent table in the canteen if a new guy happened to be there with him too shy to speak and me not bothered. By this stage I looked more like a courier also. I only shaved twice a week and my hair was longer than ever in my life (leading to me being occasionally called “Blondie” by my follically challenged comrades) and my fancy expensive jacket and leathers had worn to a typically bedraggled state due to being worn full time and only being washed by rain. Also, I was just as loud and animated as the others. Anybody new and shy was much more obviously so to me because I was one of the ones they were shy about.

Another reason that all couriers didn’t always fit in with all of their workmates was greed. Couriers in Lightning were paid for the work that they did, plus a small bonus for coming in on time every day. That meant that every docket you managed to get your number on increased your wages. To a lot of couriers - the greedy ones - that meant that the more jobs you could “rob” off your colleagues (persuade the base controller to despatch the job to you instead of whoever he originally intended), the more money you could make. This wasn’t much of an issue when I began in Lightning with all of the job-robbing being done over the air where everybody could hear it, but when couriers started to equip themselves with mobile phones, the issue multiplied exponentially. Sometimes after a silent spell over the air, Aidan would come on and simply say, “stand by there for a phone call” deliberately not letting anybody know who he was ringing or why. For such reasons of paranoia as well as the obvious communication benefits, couriers were the first profession in Dublin to become 100% mobile. Every courier in the city had a mobile phone by the summer of 1998.

Another reason some couriers didn’t quite blend in was craziness. In a job that requires no education or qualifications the only filter possible to root out the crazies is the base controller’s judgement (or maybe the base manager - it depends on who does the hiring). Pressure impairs judgement and a base controller or manager that is interviewing a potential courier is always under pressure to get things done smoother.

Craziness is not always that obvious in an interview situation. Being a courier is very tough on the nerves for a variety of reasons and any crazy or even near crazy people who do “have a go” at becoming couriers always end up being much, much worse than before very quickly. For these reasons, and perhaps for several unmentioned and less significant ones, a lot of freaks and crazies end up as couriers.

The most memorable of these that I ever met was one that came aboard Lightning at the beginning of November 1997. His name was Niall and, because he obviously wasn’t quite with the programme, he was given the number 99. Ninety-nine Niall sounds silly enough but that’s not the way most people remember him. Most people remember Niall by the cruel nickname that was inflicted on him one wet lunchtime.