![]() There’s also a bracing feeling of independence that attends piloting my own van, a tingle of anticipation before finding out my route for the day. As Amazon reaches maximum ubiquity in our lives (“Alexa, play Led Zeppelin”), as online shopping turns malls into mausoleums, it’s been illuminating to see exactly how a package makes the final leg of its journey. It’s been healthy for me, a fair-haired Anglo-Saxon with a Roman numeral in my name (John Austin Murphy III), to be a minority in my workplace, and in some of the neighborhoods where I deliver. There’s a certain novelty, after decades at a legacy media company-Time Inc.-in playing for the team that’s winning big, that’s not considered a dinosaur, even if that team is paying me $17 an hour (plus OT!). ![]() That said, my moments of chagrin are far outnumbered by the upsides of the job, which include windfall connections with grateful strangers. Let’s face it, when you’re a college-educated 57-year-old slinging parcels for a living, something in your life has not gone according to plan. I decided to tell them, if asked, that I consult for Amazon, which is loosely true: I spend my days consulting a Rabbit, the handheld Android device loaded with the app that tells me where my next stop is, how many packages are coming off the van, and how hopelessly behind I’ve fallen. I didn’t feel like admitting to casual acquaintances, or even to some good friends, that I drive a van for Amazon. Holiday parties were right around the corner, and I needed a cover story.
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